Fic for xthursdaynext: Things on Fire, Things That Fall (3/3)
Part 1 Part 2
Things on Fire, Things That Fall (3/3)
Holmes wakes gradually, aware that his eyes are watering. He smells smoke. Someone needs to open the damper on the chimney. Mrs Hudson can do it when she comes in. It seems no pressing matter, and he is rather comfortable lying - no, sitting - sitting here, and actually, no, he realises with a frown, he isn’t comfortable at all.
There is a sharp pain in his hand, something cold and hard pressed up the length of his back, and his head aches dully. He opens his eyes.
Oh. The warehouse is on fire.
He turns his head slowly to the right and discovers the source of the pain to his hand. Watson is repeatedly pressing the heel of his boot into it, speaking as he does so. “Holmes. Holmes. Holmes? Holmes, wake up.”
Holmes cannot see his hand, nor the heel of Watson’s boot, as his wrists are tied behind him, but it seems a logical assessment.
“Holmes?”
“All right, all right,” he murmurs blearily, squinting against the malevolent streaks of orange firelight.
Already the ceiling is a whirling inferno, the beams crackling insidiously. The air is heavy with rolling clouds of smoke. Watson slides down the iron pole to rest beside him, coughing fitfully.
“They drenched the place in oil,” says Watson, catching his breath. “It’s intended to look like an accidental fire. Please tell me you still have that knife handy.”
“In my pocket, if you can reach,” Holmes says, surveying the damage. Winscott is as of yet untouched, though flames lick perilously close to his feet. Charred bits of papers - his files, his documents - float through the air like burnt leaves. Holmes feels Watson digging in the pocket of his peacoat but registers it only dimly, as though in a dream, the same way he registers the splintering crackle of the spitting fire as it consumes the desk.
“Got it,” says Watson, and begins blindly hacking at the bonds. Holmes tugs his hands as far apart as he can to pull the rope taut. The first few ineffectual swipes of the knife do little more damage than would a finger plucking a violin string. But then he feels the rope fraying, a satisfying give as the blade connects fully.
Holmes ignores the bite of the rope against his wrist and pulls until it snaps. The break jars his mind back into life. “We have to get Winscott out,” he informs Watson, rising quickly and taking the knife.
“How?” asks Watson. “For that matter, how are we to get ourselves out? The stairway is blocked.”
A glance confirms it. Holmes couldn’t see while bound, for he was facing the other way, but the singed and still-burning carcass of a ceiling beam obstructs the way.
“There is a way. You won’t like it,” he tells Watson.
“Why am I not surprised?” Watson says, exhaling loudly. The exhale turns exultant as his wrists are freed. “Where is this unpleasant escape route, and please don’t tell me we’re jumping out the window.”
“Then I shan’t tell you, Watson. But there is little danger, only the Thames below.”
The fire snakes across oily streaks on the floor, inching dangerously close to Winscott. Holmes stamps out the nearest flames and tries pushing the chair, but it will not budge. An experimental tug proves his earlier theory that one man could not have borne this weight alone. Holmes awkwardly topples the deceased out of his chair and onto the floor, cringing at the contact. “Help me with this, if you’d be so kind,” he pants, lifting an arm and yanking. Instantly Watson is heaving alongside.
“Ah, Holmes?”
“Yes?”
“Were you serious? Earlier?”
There can be no doubt as to what Watson alludes, and Holmes finds his already increased heartbeat further frenzied by the question. “Absolutely,” he murmurs uncomfortably, pausing in his exertions to get a grip under Winscott’s arm. “Come, Watson, heave him up to the sill.”
“It’s just-” Watson says, breathlessly, pushing desperately at the bulky body. “Just- I may have over-reacted earlier.”
Winscott balances on the sill and Holmes holds him there, eyeing the flames warily, and attempting to regain some semblance of normal breathing. The topic of conversation isn’t helping. “Oh?”
“Yes. I had rather foolishly assumed I knew the cause for your actions, and that your sole motivation was... well, to come further between myself and Mary.”
The corpse slips from Holmes’ grasp, but he quickly regains his hold. “Oh. Ah. Really? That’s... We need to give him a proper shove here, Watson, or else someone will have a terrible mess to clean up come morning.”
Watson makes a face. “And I thought there was only the Thames below?”
“Well, the Thames and just a little, inconsequential cobbled walkway. Still, best to be safe.”
“Of course.” They position Winscott’s legs over the sill. “On three?”
“On three. Oh, and Watson? That was a ludicrous assumption. One.”
“I’m glad you think so.”
“Two. I assure you, Miss Morstan was the furthest thing from my mind. Three.”
They shove mightily and moments later, a satisfying splash is heard.
“That’s done, then. Pray he is polite enough to float. Now, doctors or detectives first?”
“Just go! I’ve had to beat flames off my trousers twice already.”
Holmes clambers out the window, startled yet again by the severity of the wind. He blinks against it, shuffling along the ledge. “Watson, should I fail to make it through this, I want you to know--”
“Holmes, I swear upon all that is holy, if you don’t move --”
“Fair enough,” says Holmes, and jumps.
He grits his teeth against the instant unbearable lurch, the hideous flip-flop of his insides. Worse still is the icy slap of the water when he hits it, the force and chill more than enough to steal his breath away. There is nothing but black before his open eyes and for a moment he cannot tell which way is up, or how far down he is, or even if he has survived. Shock numbs him utterly. But the thought of Watson falling into the same inky cesspool and experiencing the same braces him, and he is prepared to be the stronger of the two if necessary. After all, Watson would not be here had he not come for Holmes.
A little warmth returns to him at the thought.
The glass mosaic surface is shattered by Watson’s rise back to the surface. He sputters and curses and Holmes laughs in relief. Not far off is the body. They retrieve it together and wordlessly drag it to the quay.
“What now?” asks Watson.
“We take him to Scotland Yard.”
“And how do you propose we do that?” Watson sits shivering in the pale moonlight, delicate rivulets of water streaming down his face. Holmes has the strange sudden desire to lean forward and lick, to lap the moisture from Watson’s face. Head wound, he reminds himself, blinking and bewildered. It must be the head wound.
Definitely the head wound. That water is disgusting.
The not-too-distant rattle of carriage wheels greets his ears and he is up and running, ignoring both the questions Watson shouts after him and the unpleasant squelch of his shoes. A short sprint to the bridge brings him in sight of the approaching carriage. Mercifully, it is unengaged.
Though the driver lifts a coal-coloured brow at Holmes’ sodden state, he says nothing. Neither does he seem much perturbed at having to wait for Holmes’ “friends” to join him.
Holmes returns to Watson and the late Winscott, bearing this good news. Despite the former’s protestations that Holmes has finally gone completely mad, they each manage to get an arm under Winscott and heave him up. They drag him to the carriage as if he were merely asleep, or unconscious from too much drink.
“The key to carrying such exploits off successfully, Watson,” Holmes explains in hushed tones en route, “is to act as if what we’re doing is the most plausible thing in the world. I once dragged twelve live chickens through the Adelphi, and so great was my conviction that the bystanders behaved as if nothing at all was amiss.”
“It seems to me more likely they thought you deranged, and feared attack should they draw your attention,” grunts Watson.
“Ah. That, too, is a possibility.”
Be it their conviction or mere apathy on part of the driver, they manage to load the body without any trouble. Possibly it is too cold and the hour too late for him to be much concerned by their affairs. The extra half-crown Holmes slipped him might also have gone some way in dissuading his interest.
After the three of them are reasonably settled, Holmes taps the roof and the cabbie stirs the horses, whisking them away as requested, toward Scotland Yard. The streets are deserted and the horses eager. Holmes cannot make out the time from his pocket-watch in the scant light cast by the the outside carriage lamps. The bells of Big Ben sound seconds later, informing him it is midnight.
The silence that follows is not awkward, though he is acutely aware of Watson’s nearness. The press of Watson’s arm and leg at his side is comforting - and would be even more so were Watson not wracked with tiny tremors from the cold.
“Watson, I am sorry to have inadvertently dragged you along on such an errand, but know that I am unfailingly grateful for your assistance. I promise to somehow repay the gesture.” He places his hand on Watson’s knee as he speaks, a chaste gesture of thanks.
Surprisingly warm fingers curl over his. “I shall hold you to that.”
Anticipation, delicious and sweet, winds its way through him. He swallows, squeezes Watson’s hand, then rises and raps loudly on the ceiling of the carriage. The clatter of horse hooves on cobbles slows and then dies as the carriage comes to a stop.
“Holmes, what are you doing?”
Holmes opens the door and leans through the aperture, addressing the driver. “A stop at 221 Baker Street first, if you don’t mind.”
• • •
It is nearly four when Holmes returns, and he feels every minute he has spent in soaking clothes like the grip of death. His fingers tremble as he turns the key. Watson was deposited at the Baker Street address earlier, much to his surprise but apparent relief, while Holmes continued the journey to the Yard. How much more pleasantly the hours in between might have passed had he simply left the corpse in the carriage and requested the indifferent cabbie deliver his friend to Scotland Yard as a gift, courtesy of Sherlock Holmes, he does not care to dwell upon.
It had been an option, but the fools likely would’ve botched the post-mortem, had they performed one at all. Obvious death by bullet wound, indeed. Warmth may elude him, but satisfaction he has in spades. The threads of the case, though tangled, are nearly all within his hands. Only one or two small trifles remain to be sorted, and they can wait until morning.
The lamps are low, the fire dying. Watson is nestled on the settee beneath a woollen blanket, dozing peacefully. Holmes smiles to himself. He stands before the hearth after prodding the flames back into life. Warmth floods through him like relief.
A bath is in order. He washes himself hurriedly, eager to be dry again. After vigorously towelling off and wringing the excess of moisture from his hair, he dons a clean nightshirt, followed by his tatty mouse-coloured dressing gown. He feels decidedly human and less like a poor imitation of a sponge as he returns to the sitting room, intent on spending the remaining hours before dawn curled up in the armchair with a pipe, tending the fire and watching Watson sleep.
Watson, however, is awake. He stands before the fire, his back to the room, silhouetted by an amber glow and throwing behind him a long shadow. He casts a look over his shoulder at Holmes and smiles. “Have you been back long? I didn’t hear you return.”
Watson wears a borrowed nightshirt as well as Holmes’ over-sized blue dressing gown. A nameless feeling, both predatory and possessive, seeps into Holmes at the realisation. He stares silently, taking an unsteady breath, then remembers he has been posed a question.
“Not terribly. Are you warm enough, at long last?”
Watson nods in response, turning back to the fire.
“The warehouse was destroyed,” Holmes informs him, drawing closer to the hearth.
“And Winscott?”
“The post-mortem examination corroborated my suspicions quite nicely.”
“Which were?”
“Come, Watson, all this morbidity before bedtime? You’ll have nightmares.” At the vexed look which Watson gives him, he feels compelled to add, “Should you accompany me on a visit to the Winscott residence tomorrow, I shall be more than pleased to elucidate. Still yet there is one matter with which my mind is not thoroughly at ease, but nothing can be done about it before breakfast.”
Watson’s eyes have been trailing over his face the entire time, and feels himself growing hot beneath the scrutiny. “Your bandage needs to be changed,” says the doctor, and it is, Holmes insists to himself, only a minor disappointment that Watson’s attention was drawn out of consideration rather than some baser interest.
Then Watson places a heavy hand on his shoulder, pushing Holmes down onto his knees and causing lust to race through his bloodstream like venom, his pulse increasing. Yet Watson behaves as if this were perfectly ordinary behaviour for a doctor and retrieves bandages, dressing, and antiseptic from the table.
Holmes sinks onto the tiger-skin rug, watching Watson, illumined by firelight, do the same. Watson pauses before proceeding. An inevitability seems to hover over them. Holmes wonders if it has always been there.
Silently, Watson removes the damp bandage. Holmes’ eyes drop to the rug, to the medical supplies incongruously littering the surface: sensible, clean. There is a longing within him the likes of which he has never known. But patience, he has heard, is a virtue.
The night seems still and empty around them. Endless. The sting of the antiseptic serves only to sharpen his senses. Each feather-light touch of Watson’s fingertips feels indelibly marked onto his skin. The dressing is applied with utmost care, and then the bandage. Then a single finger, exceedingly tender, tilts Holmes’ face up to meet Watson’s gaze.
Moments or minutes are lost in open study, meticulous assessment, eyes on faces, reading the quiet stories they tell. Watson’s countenance fairly sings of devotion, were Holmes not already aware of it, but writ there too is something altogether stronger, overwhelming, and desperate, and worn around the edges from years of necessary concealment.
“Are you still cold?” Watson asks softly, his voice barely louder than the fire. “You’re shivering.”
“With good reason. I am terrified,” Holmes murmurs glibly, but the tone is false and the words ring true.
Watson draws Holmes’ hand to his cheek, eyes closing. His lips, dry and gentle, press a kiss to the back. His eyes meets Holmes’, something dark and mercurial flashing within them, before turning his attentions to the inside of Holmes’ wrist, where a kiss is placed that is decidedly less chaste, and far wetter.
Holmes inhales sharply, skin tingling at the touch.
“I apologise, Holmes. I have wanted this far too long to let some little thing like terror stand in the way.” His voice is somehow voluptuous, all curves and hidden softness, and the effect is akin to a drug.
Lust and want and fear create a heady cocktail, and Holmes is rendered nearly insensible as Watson stretches, cat-like, across the rug to meet him.
“Why hide it?” Holmes murmurs, his hand rising to curl through Watson’s hair as if of its own accord, as if desire had rendered him but a puppet.
“I believed you uninterested in romance, Holmes. You were so adamant,” Watson whispers, his lips brushing Holmes’ cheek. “You professed no need of love, of physical affection. I could not bear the thought of rejection. Better to remain a friend at arm’s length than nothing at all.”
Holmes is dimly aware of being eased back onto the rug. His eyes close at the gentle brush of fingertips across his lips as Watson crawls atop him. “I... I am beginning to see the error of my thinking,” he replies drunkenly, arousal winding through him. His hips crave contact. His hands slide over Watson’s shoulders, fisting in the fabric of the dressing gown.
It seems an eternity of waiting before Watson’s mouth collides against his and his mind shatters, all coherent thought strewn like so much jetsam in a maelstrom. An explosion of white bursts behind tightly-closed eyelids, and he is rendered immobile by Watson’s tongue, wet and velvet and perfect. He clings with frantic abandon, hands greedy, lips insistent.
The hair at the nape of Watson’s neck is softest, for here - just under the ear, beneath delicate skin, is the rapid-fire pulse of his heartbeat. And finally, pressure, unapologetic, as their bodies align. Muscle and bone and sinew, the sharp curve of Watson’s hips - Holmes’ hands are nimble and find their way quickly beneath layers of fabric to caress bare skin. Watson’s breath hitches and he pushes against Holmes bodily, fervently.
Holmes hooks a leg over his and they move as a beautifully obscene machine, undulating, oscillating, pistoning wildly. A tension coils inside him - the building charge to a galvanising shock. Watson pants against his neck unsteadily, hand fumbling beneath the cloth of his nightshirt. Holmes groans at the hardness he feels echoing his own, at the mere thought of being touched; he seems to be lifting off the floor, reaching - reaching - reaching -
Watson’s fingers close around him. With a strangled cry he finds his bliss. Watson moves against him still, trembling with exertion or want. When Holmes’ ardent hands find him, his entire body goes rigid, goes still, as if focussing solely on Holmes’ sweat-slick fingertips. Then, with the keenest of gasps he spends against Holmes’ stomach, relinquishing control and collapsing as if boneless against him.
They lie comfortably entwined, sharing exhausted kisses and occasional sighs for a while afterward. Holmes is aware of never having felt so comfortable close to another, or of having ever held anything so tightly. Watson fetches the blanket from the settee and they drift off to sleep where they are, firelight warm on their faces as the first vestiges of dawn stream in through the window from outside.
• • •
Watson is dressed when Holmes wakes, towering over him and looking down with a wry smile. “You are planning on getting up at some point today, I presume?”
Holmes blinks and sits up, stretching. “Of course. Hm. What time is it?” Tea and toast are on the sideboard, he notices, and he wonders idly if Mrs Hudson brought it before or after Watson removed himself from Holmes’ embrace. He rather hopes after. Had she caught them, her expression would have been most entertaining; it is a sad thought he might have missed it.
“Nearly ten. Why are you smiling like that?”
“Oh, no reason. I say, is that the morning paper?”
“It is,” Watson replies, passing it to him. “Are you looking for something in particular?”
Holmes’ eyes scan the front page. He scratches his head absently, peering through the succeeding pages. “Perhaps. It was not my intention to have slept so late. ‘pon my word, Watson, you exhausted me thoroughly.” He tosses the paper carelessly aside and rises, increasingly aware of the hollow rumble in his stomach.
The high spots of colour that appear on the doctor’s cheek are most gratifying, and most becoming. “I took the liberty of raiding your wardrobe. It was not so surprising to have found enough of my own clothes there to suffice,” says Watson, dropping into his chair. “I even found a shirt that you had not yet managed to stain, though it is hopelessly wrinkled. How it came to be under your pillow escapes me.”
“Truly a mystery,” says Holmes, suddenly fascinated by the toast.
“I have a patient today,” Watson says whole minutes later, breaking the companionable silence that has fallen between them.
“That’s inconvenient.” Holmes frowns into his cup.
“It’s only the one, Holmes. I’ll be finished no later than noon,” he replies.
“Then I shall call for you at half past. That is assuming, of course, that you would like to be present when I put this little puzzle of ours to bed.”
Watson’s face is perfectly straight, but his eyes twinkle mischievously. “If you absolutely insist,” he says languidly, standing. “Though I would not much object if you put me to bed instead.”
Holmes chokes quietly on his tea.
“Something the matter, Holmes?”
He clears his throat. “Of course not.”
“Half twelve, then.”
“Yes.”
“Oh, Holmes - I forgot to tell you yesterday evening, in all the confusion...” Watson pauses behind Holmes’ chair, hands a comforting weight on his shoulders.
“Yes?”
Without warning, Watson tips the chair back; when Holmes turns his head to protest, a gossamer-fine kiss, light and delicate, is placed against his parted lips. He does not realise his eyes have closed until his lids lift gradually again. Watson regards him earnestly, serenely, absurdly close, eyes strangely bright. There is not a word in all the English language fit to describe that particular shade of blue. “I love you, too,” he says simply, then pushes the chair aright and walks out the door.
Holmes allows himself a moment to smile idiotically before forcing his face into a scowl, as if to be certain he is still able.
• • •
“Mr Holmes! Dr Watson, was it? Do come in, do come in,” Mrs Winscott cries warmly. The change in her demeanour from their previous visit is staggering. She pushes past the startled butler in her hurry to welcome them. Her eyes are red-rimmed, face blotchy with the aftermath of tears.
“Have we, I wonder, got the wrong address?” Holmes asks Watson sotto voce.
“Mrs Sullivan is in the drawing room. I am sure she’ll be just as pleased to see you as I am. Would you like any refreshments?”
“No, thank you. We merely came to clear up a few matters.”
Her lips tighten, and just as quickly relax as she leans forward, speaking in more private tones. “I am pleased to hear so, Mr Holmes, as I have learned some distressing news.”
This development is unexpected. He purses his lips. “Oh? What news might that be?”
“I feel it may be best to tell my tale of woe with Mrs Sullivan present. She is owed the truth, after all.”
“I have no doubt. How very kind of you.” He smirks at Watson, whose face shows suspicion but no sign of having deduced the facts of the matter.
Mrs Sullivan greets them as warmly yet tearfully as before. They are soon seated comfortably in plush armchairs. Mrs Winscott does not join them. There is something serpentine in her manner as she glides around the room, an almost palpable tension just beneath her composed exterior.
She pauses before the mantel, lightly caressing a small ivory statuette of an elephant. “Poor dear Charles,” she sighs. “How he loved this. A client brought it from India.”
“You said you had distressing news,” says Holmes, caring little for the aside.
The lady takes a seat before them, regal posture framed by a wicker-back chair. “I am afraid so,” she says mournfully. “It seems Mr Winscott met his end at the hands of an old friend of the family.” Ignoring Mrs Sullivan’s gasp, she continues. “He has confessed it to me just this morning. He came during breakfast, before Mrs Sullivan rose.”
“Have you informed the police?” asks Watson, tone neutral. Holmes fights the urge to smile. Watson suspects her terribly.
“No, I wished to consult with you first, Mr Holmes.” She folds her hands neatly in her lap, her gaze pleading.
“I see. You wished I should further waste your time before you allow the regular police to apprehend your husband’s murderer.”
Watson mutters something under his breath. It might have been Oh, Lord, not again.
Holmes leans back in his chair, surveying her coolly. “Please, continue.”
Mrs Sullivan, cheeks tinged pink with embarrassment, leans forward to interject, “I am sure she didn’t mean it quite like that. The last time you were here, Mr Holmes, we were both fairly beside ourselves with grief.”
“She speaks the truth,” Mrs Winscott insists. “For my unforgivable rudeness before, Mr Holmes, I can only apologise. I am sure you must have formed some theory regarding my husband’s disappearance, Mr Holmes; I merely wished to see if it fitted with what I have learned.”
This is something closer to the truth. He urges her to continue.
“My husband has - had - a friend he met through his business, a Mr Ezekiel Lee. Over the course of three years, Mr Lee has been so often in our home that he has grown to be a dear friend of the family. A fine man, I thought, but there was always something sinister about him.”
“Very,” agrees Mrs Sullivan, frowning. “I have never much liked him.”
The slight look of irritation as she regards her sister-in-law is only on Mrs Winscott’s face for a moment, but it is a moment too long to miss Holmes’ notice.
“You see, Mr Holmes, his business has not done nearly so well as my husband’s, and I believe Mr Lee has frequently sought his advice. It is out of jealousy, then, that I suspect that Mr Lee murdered my husband.”
Mrs Sullivan’s gasp is a pitiful thing, wounded and faint, and her hand comes to cover her mouth. “Then Charles truly... No, no, please, say it isn’t true.” Her eyes glisten with unspent tears. Watson is by her in an instant, offering his handkerchief.
“I am afraid so, Anna. He told me this morning. The guilt had overwhelmed him completely.” Mrs Winscott shakes her head sadly.
“That’s rather a large confession to make over breakfast,” Holmes murmurs, unperturbed. “My apologies for the interruption. Pray continue.”
Mrs Winscott seems shaken by his composure. Though she continues, the words fall flat and lack conviction. Still, she soldiers on with her tale. “He said he came through the window, surprising my husband, and shot him in cold blood.”
Holmes steeples his fingers beneath his chin. “And then?”
“What do you mean?”
“The body, Mrs Winscott. What did he do with the body? You checked the room after hearing the shot, did you not?”
“He... Well, he didn’t tell me that part.”
“Would you like me to tell you, then?”
For the first time since Holmes and Watson have arrived, something of Mrs Winscott’s genuine emotion shows on her face, taut and frozen. She is afraid. “Of course,” she whispers.
“Mr Lee carelessly failed to inform you where Mr Winscott was concealed whilst you were looking for him. He was in the wardrobe. Yet I don’t believe Mr Lee did shoot your husband - he is rather a portly man, and his feet were too small to have made those prints on the trellis and sideboard, even if he could have climbed it.”
“I am repeating only what he told me.”
“It is, Mrs Winscott, a very curious thing that he should have told you all this whilst being locked up. You look surprised. I take it then he did not mention during this tete-a-tete that he was apprehended by Scotland Yard some time around six this morning?”
Mrs Sullivan has been weeping quietly, face in her hands, but now looks up at Holmes, then at Mrs Winscott.
“It seems rude to continue telling such stories, Mrs Winscott, when I’m sure Mrs Sullivan is eager to hear the truth. Shall you tell her what happened, or shall she hear it from the lips of a stranger?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Mrs Winscott says shakily, her face ashen and waxy. She is terrified.
“Very well. Mrs Sullivan, some of what your sister-in-law says is true. Mr Winscott was indeed shot in his bedroom at the request of Mr Lee, and his body concealed temporarily. But that was not what killed your brother.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Mr Winscott was already dead. He never sleeps in the daytime, you said, and I have no doubt that under normal circumstances that is true. Yet he had removed his shoes, his watch was wound, and he was lying in bed: that, very probably, is why the vase was broken. The intruder entered through that window simply because it was the only window accessible by climbing, thanks to the placement of that trellis. No doubt he was startled to find Mr Winscott, who never sleeps in the day. The vase breaks. Yet Mr Winscott does not stir! The fiend cannot believe his luck. So he pulls the trigger and hides in the wardrobe.”
Mrs Winscott watches him with an expression akin to revulsion creeping over her face. Her hands clutch the arms of chair desperately, as if she fears being thrown from it.
“Shall I continue?” he asks, not waiting for a response. “You and Mrs Sullivan inspect the room, finding nothing. Then - at Mrs Sullivan’s request - you come to me. The intruder waits in the closet. And at this point I must ask for confirmation, I fear - have any of your servants gone missing since Mr Winscott’s disappearance?”
“Yancy,” Mrs Sullivan replies softly. “He was Charles’s valet. We thought perhaps... shock. Or grief. I suppose it wasn’t?” Her mouth hardens.
“I am afraid not. He is presently in Mr Lee’s employ, having no doubt performed the task assigned to him well enough. To have transported Mr Winscott from his room, down the stairs, and then off the grounds would have required not only an extra pair of hands but someone with knowledge of the routines of the other servants.”
“I see,” she says dully. She casts a weak smile at Watson, who pats her hand before returning to his own chair. “What happened next, Mr Holmes?”
“Winscott’s body was taken to his warehouse, which was set afire in hopes of making his death look accidental. Unfortunately for Mr Lee, I am terribly clever and happen to be an excellent pickpocket, so I was able to come across this.” He takes from his pocket the slip of paper bearing the address to Winscott's warehouse and hands it to her. “I was there when he burned the warehouse, as was Watson. We managed to retrieve your brother’s body, which is now in the possession of Scotland Yard. At my insistence, a post-mortem examination was performed which revealed the true cause of death. Solid metallic oxide was found adhering to the membranous lining of his stomach - as is indicative of arsenic poisoning. You put it in the tea, I expect. Is that right?” he asks Mrs Winscott.
At this, Mrs Sullivan’s eyes widen. “Arsenic!” Her gaze turns hateful as she casts it toward Mrs Winscott. “How could you? He loved you, you beast!”
“I-I didn’t!” Mrs Winscott protests, rising, as if anticipating an attack. From the murderous look on Mrs Sullivan’s face, it isn’t unwise of her. "I... It wasn't..." Her eyes roam from face to face fretfully. And then she sinks back into her chair, lips quivering.
"But why, for God's sake, Nora?" cries Mrs Sullivan.
Holmes replies, rather than give her another opportunity to lie. “Possibly for insurance money, but let us not be hasty. There was one matter on which I was yet unclear,” Holmes says, “and that was why Mr Lee - as you say, Mrs Winscott, a friend - might do such a thing. I paid a visit to him myself this morning, yet he wouldn’t be compelled to talk. You have inadvertently cleared it up yourself with your intimate knowledge of his crime. Tell me, how long had you been having an affair?”
Mrs Sullivan, overwhelmed by the war between grief and rage being fought so visibly on her round face, can bear the betrayal no longer. She crumples, body wracked with sobs. "You have taken him from me, and for what?" she whimpers. Watson rises to approach but she stills him with a lifted hand. "No, please. I need to hear this."
"I..." begins Mrs Winscott, but it seems she has nothing to say after all.
"Do you deny the affair?" asks Holmes, raising a brow.
"No." Mrs Winscott will not meet his eyes. "He - he wasn't like Charles. I don't expect you to understand."
"He planned this murder without your knowledge. So that you might be free. Did you plan to run away together? How romantic. Perhaps you should have told him of your own plans, of the insurance money - which you could not collect without a body. This tale of a confession over breakfast is nothing more than an attempt at retribution. That is it, isn't it? I hate to be corrected, but it really is in your best interests to do so if I'm wrong."
“Mr Holmes, you don’t know what it was like,” Mrs Winscott moans. “Have mercy, I beg of you! Show some sympathy, please!”
“Oh, I think not. However, Inspector Lestrade should be waiting just outside. Cast your entreaties in his direction; perhaps you will receive more profitable results.”
• • •
“That was a nasty business,” Watson says thoughtfully as they rattle back toward Baker St. “Poor Mrs Sullivan."
"Better she knows the truth than have a little something extra added to her tea come morning."
"I suppose you're right. In any case, you did an admirable job of clearing it up, I must say. I have just one question: how did you know they were having an affair?”
“It seemed unlikely he should reveal his method of murder were they not close, nor indeed at all had he not done it for her.”
“A rather grisly gift.”
“Indeed.”
“Holmes... speaking of affairs, I think--”
“Say no more, Watson,” Holmes replies, feeling his stomach twist into a knot. “It is a delicate situation. Though I can’t say I’m pleased at the prospect of... sharing... I suppose it is the only way.”
“That wasn’t what I was going to say.”
“You aren’t jilting me already? Watson, if you do, I swear to you that I shall blackmail you with a vengeance the likes of which has never before been seen.”
Watson blinks, then chuckles. “I shall keep that in mind. Yet that wasn’t it, either. I merely thought, well, perhaps I was too hasty in my decision to quit our old rooms.” He looks away, out the window, quickly.
“You’d like to return?” asks Holmes, a sudden effervescence replacing the knot.
“Yes. If you’ll have me back.”
“I have told you, Watson. You’re always welcome there.”
“Ah. Good. And really, there’s no rush to be getting married, is there? I’m still reasonably young, and I could focus more on building my practice.”
“Of course. But what of your devotion to Miss Morstan?” Holmes asks, directing his attention to a spot on the seat before them.
“That is easily enough remedied. She told me if I left the opera early that she wished never to see me again.”
“I see. I applaud your priorities but mourn your loss.”
“I suppose you win some, lose some,” says Watson with a sigh. Holmes feels fingers slip between his, nesting, making a home.
“An admirable motto,” he replies with a smile.
fin.
Things on Fire, Things That Fall (3/3)
Holmes wakes gradually, aware that his eyes are watering. He smells smoke. Someone needs to open the damper on the chimney. Mrs Hudson can do it when she comes in. It seems no pressing matter, and he is rather comfortable lying - no, sitting - sitting here, and actually, no, he realises with a frown, he isn’t comfortable at all.
There is a sharp pain in his hand, something cold and hard pressed up the length of his back, and his head aches dully. He opens his eyes.
Oh. The warehouse is on fire.
He turns his head slowly to the right and discovers the source of the pain to his hand. Watson is repeatedly pressing the heel of his boot into it, speaking as he does so. “Holmes. Holmes. Holmes? Holmes, wake up.”
Holmes cannot see his hand, nor the heel of Watson’s boot, as his wrists are tied behind him, but it seems a logical assessment.
“Holmes?”
“All right, all right,” he murmurs blearily, squinting against the malevolent streaks of orange firelight.
Already the ceiling is a whirling inferno, the beams crackling insidiously. The air is heavy with rolling clouds of smoke. Watson slides down the iron pole to rest beside him, coughing fitfully.
“They drenched the place in oil,” says Watson, catching his breath. “It’s intended to look like an accidental fire. Please tell me you still have that knife handy.”
“In my pocket, if you can reach,” Holmes says, surveying the damage. Winscott is as of yet untouched, though flames lick perilously close to his feet. Charred bits of papers - his files, his documents - float through the air like burnt leaves. Holmes feels Watson digging in the pocket of his peacoat but registers it only dimly, as though in a dream, the same way he registers the splintering crackle of the spitting fire as it consumes the desk.
“Got it,” says Watson, and begins blindly hacking at the bonds. Holmes tugs his hands as far apart as he can to pull the rope taut. The first few ineffectual swipes of the knife do little more damage than would a finger plucking a violin string. But then he feels the rope fraying, a satisfying give as the blade connects fully.
Holmes ignores the bite of the rope against his wrist and pulls until it snaps. The break jars his mind back into life. “We have to get Winscott out,” he informs Watson, rising quickly and taking the knife.
“How?” asks Watson. “For that matter, how are we to get ourselves out? The stairway is blocked.”
A glance confirms it. Holmes couldn’t see while bound, for he was facing the other way, but the singed and still-burning carcass of a ceiling beam obstructs the way.
“There is a way. You won’t like it,” he tells Watson.
“Why am I not surprised?” Watson says, exhaling loudly. The exhale turns exultant as his wrists are freed. “Where is this unpleasant escape route, and please don’t tell me we’re jumping out the window.”
“Then I shan’t tell you, Watson. But there is little danger, only the Thames below.”
The fire snakes across oily streaks on the floor, inching dangerously close to Winscott. Holmes stamps out the nearest flames and tries pushing the chair, but it will not budge. An experimental tug proves his earlier theory that one man could not have borne this weight alone. Holmes awkwardly topples the deceased out of his chair and onto the floor, cringing at the contact. “Help me with this, if you’d be so kind,” he pants, lifting an arm and yanking. Instantly Watson is heaving alongside.
“Ah, Holmes?”
“Yes?”
“Were you serious? Earlier?”
There can be no doubt as to what Watson alludes, and Holmes finds his already increased heartbeat further frenzied by the question. “Absolutely,” he murmurs uncomfortably, pausing in his exertions to get a grip under Winscott’s arm. “Come, Watson, heave him up to the sill.”
“It’s just-” Watson says, breathlessly, pushing desperately at the bulky body. “Just- I may have over-reacted earlier.”
Winscott balances on the sill and Holmes holds him there, eyeing the flames warily, and attempting to regain some semblance of normal breathing. The topic of conversation isn’t helping. “Oh?”
“Yes. I had rather foolishly assumed I knew the cause for your actions, and that your sole motivation was... well, to come further between myself and Mary.”
The corpse slips from Holmes’ grasp, but he quickly regains his hold. “Oh. Ah. Really? That’s... We need to give him a proper shove here, Watson, or else someone will have a terrible mess to clean up come morning.”
Watson makes a face. “And I thought there was only the Thames below?”
“Well, the Thames and just a little, inconsequential cobbled walkway. Still, best to be safe.”
“Of course.” They position Winscott’s legs over the sill. “On three?”
“On three. Oh, and Watson? That was a ludicrous assumption. One.”
“I’m glad you think so.”
“Two. I assure you, Miss Morstan was the furthest thing from my mind. Three.”
They shove mightily and moments later, a satisfying splash is heard.
“That’s done, then. Pray he is polite enough to float. Now, doctors or detectives first?”
“Just go! I’ve had to beat flames off my trousers twice already.”
Holmes clambers out the window, startled yet again by the severity of the wind. He blinks against it, shuffling along the ledge. “Watson, should I fail to make it through this, I want you to know--”
“Holmes, I swear upon all that is holy, if you don’t move --”
“Fair enough,” says Holmes, and jumps.
He grits his teeth against the instant unbearable lurch, the hideous flip-flop of his insides. Worse still is the icy slap of the water when he hits it, the force and chill more than enough to steal his breath away. There is nothing but black before his open eyes and for a moment he cannot tell which way is up, or how far down he is, or even if he has survived. Shock numbs him utterly. But the thought of Watson falling into the same inky cesspool and experiencing the same braces him, and he is prepared to be the stronger of the two if necessary. After all, Watson would not be here had he not come for Holmes.
A little warmth returns to him at the thought.
The glass mosaic surface is shattered by Watson’s rise back to the surface. He sputters and curses and Holmes laughs in relief. Not far off is the body. They retrieve it together and wordlessly drag it to the quay.
“What now?” asks Watson.
“We take him to Scotland Yard.”
“And how do you propose we do that?” Watson sits shivering in the pale moonlight, delicate rivulets of water streaming down his face. Holmes has the strange sudden desire to lean forward and lick, to lap the moisture from Watson’s face. Head wound, he reminds himself, blinking and bewildered. It must be the head wound.
Definitely the head wound. That water is disgusting.
The not-too-distant rattle of carriage wheels greets his ears and he is up and running, ignoring both the questions Watson shouts after him and the unpleasant squelch of his shoes. A short sprint to the bridge brings him in sight of the approaching carriage. Mercifully, it is unengaged.
Though the driver lifts a coal-coloured brow at Holmes’ sodden state, he says nothing. Neither does he seem much perturbed at having to wait for Holmes’ “friends” to join him.
Holmes returns to Watson and the late Winscott, bearing this good news. Despite the former’s protestations that Holmes has finally gone completely mad, they each manage to get an arm under Winscott and heave him up. They drag him to the carriage as if he were merely asleep, or unconscious from too much drink.
“The key to carrying such exploits off successfully, Watson,” Holmes explains in hushed tones en route, “is to act as if what we’re doing is the most plausible thing in the world. I once dragged twelve live chickens through the Adelphi, and so great was my conviction that the bystanders behaved as if nothing at all was amiss.”
“It seems to me more likely they thought you deranged, and feared attack should they draw your attention,” grunts Watson.
“Ah. That, too, is a possibility.”
Be it their conviction or mere apathy on part of the driver, they manage to load the body without any trouble. Possibly it is too cold and the hour too late for him to be much concerned by their affairs. The extra half-crown Holmes slipped him might also have gone some way in dissuading his interest.
After the three of them are reasonably settled, Holmes taps the roof and the cabbie stirs the horses, whisking them away as requested, toward Scotland Yard. The streets are deserted and the horses eager. Holmes cannot make out the time from his pocket-watch in the scant light cast by the the outside carriage lamps. The bells of Big Ben sound seconds later, informing him it is midnight.
The silence that follows is not awkward, though he is acutely aware of Watson’s nearness. The press of Watson’s arm and leg at his side is comforting - and would be even more so were Watson not wracked with tiny tremors from the cold.
“Watson, I am sorry to have inadvertently dragged you along on such an errand, but know that I am unfailingly grateful for your assistance. I promise to somehow repay the gesture.” He places his hand on Watson’s knee as he speaks, a chaste gesture of thanks.
Surprisingly warm fingers curl over his. “I shall hold you to that.”
Anticipation, delicious and sweet, winds its way through him. He swallows, squeezes Watson’s hand, then rises and raps loudly on the ceiling of the carriage. The clatter of horse hooves on cobbles slows and then dies as the carriage comes to a stop.
“Holmes, what are you doing?”
Holmes opens the door and leans through the aperture, addressing the driver. “A stop at 221 Baker Street first, if you don’t mind.”
• • •
It is nearly four when Holmes returns, and he feels every minute he has spent in soaking clothes like the grip of death. His fingers tremble as he turns the key. Watson was deposited at the Baker Street address earlier, much to his surprise but apparent relief, while Holmes continued the journey to the Yard. How much more pleasantly the hours in between might have passed had he simply left the corpse in the carriage and requested the indifferent cabbie deliver his friend to Scotland Yard as a gift, courtesy of Sherlock Holmes, he does not care to dwell upon.
It had been an option, but the fools likely would’ve botched the post-mortem, had they performed one at all. Obvious death by bullet wound, indeed. Warmth may elude him, but satisfaction he has in spades. The threads of the case, though tangled, are nearly all within his hands. Only one or two small trifles remain to be sorted, and they can wait until morning.
The lamps are low, the fire dying. Watson is nestled on the settee beneath a woollen blanket, dozing peacefully. Holmes smiles to himself. He stands before the hearth after prodding the flames back into life. Warmth floods through him like relief.
A bath is in order. He washes himself hurriedly, eager to be dry again. After vigorously towelling off and wringing the excess of moisture from his hair, he dons a clean nightshirt, followed by his tatty mouse-coloured dressing gown. He feels decidedly human and less like a poor imitation of a sponge as he returns to the sitting room, intent on spending the remaining hours before dawn curled up in the armchair with a pipe, tending the fire and watching Watson sleep.
Watson, however, is awake. He stands before the fire, his back to the room, silhouetted by an amber glow and throwing behind him a long shadow. He casts a look over his shoulder at Holmes and smiles. “Have you been back long? I didn’t hear you return.”
Watson wears a borrowed nightshirt as well as Holmes’ over-sized blue dressing gown. A nameless feeling, both predatory and possessive, seeps into Holmes at the realisation. He stares silently, taking an unsteady breath, then remembers he has been posed a question.
“Not terribly. Are you warm enough, at long last?”
Watson nods in response, turning back to the fire.
“The warehouse was destroyed,” Holmes informs him, drawing closer to the hearth.
“And Winscott?”
“The post-mortem examination corroborated my suspicions quite nicely.”
“Which were?”
“Come, Watson, all this morbidity before bedtime? You’ll have nightmares.” At the vexed look which Watson gives him, he feels compelled to add, “Should you accompany me on a visit to the Winscott residence tomorrow, I shall be more than pleased to elucidate. Still yet there is one matter with which my mind is not thoroughly at ease, but nothing can be done about it before breakfast.”
Watson’s eyes have been trailing over his face the entire time, and feels himself growing hot beneath the scrutiny. “Your bandage needs to be changed,” says the doctor, and it is, Holmes insists to himself, only a minor disappointment that Watson’s attention was drawn out of consideration rather than some baser interest.
Then Watson places a heavy hand on his shoulder, pushing Holmes down onto his knees and causing lust to race through his bloodstream like venom, his pulse increasing. Yet Watson behaves as if this were perfectly ordinary behaviour for a doctor and retrieves bandages, dressing, and antiseptic from the table.
Holmes sinks onto the tiger-skin rug, watching Watson, illumined by firelight, do the same. Watson pauses before proceeding. An inevitability seems to hover over them. Holmes wonders if it has always been there.
Silently, Watson removes the damp bandage. Holmes’ eyes drop to the rug, to the medical supplies incongruously littering the surface: sensible, clean. There is a longing within him the likes of which he has never known. But patience, he has heard, is a virtue.
The night seems still and empty around them. Endless. The sting of the antiseptic serves only to sharpen his senses. Each feather-light touch of Watson’s fingertips feels indelibly marked onto his skin. The dressing is applied with utmost care, and then the bandage. Then a single finger, exceedingly tender, tilts Holmes’ face up to meet Watson’s gaze.
Moments or minutes are lost in open study, meticulous assessment, eyes on faces, reading the quiet stories they tell. Watson’s countenance fairly sings of devotion, were Holmes not already aware of it, but writ there too is something altogether stronger, overwhelming, and desperate, and worn around the edges from years of necessary concealment.
“Are you still cold?” Watson asks softly, his voice barely louder than the fire. “You’re shivering.”
“With good reason. I am terrified,” Holmes murmurs glibly, but the tone is false and the words ring true.
Watson draws Holmes’ hand to his cheek, eyes closing. His lips, dry and gentle, press a kiss to the back. His eyes meets Holmes’, something dark and mercurial flashing within them, before turning his attentions to the inside of Holmes’ wrist, where a kiss is placed that is decidedly less chaste, and far wetter.
Holmes inhales sharply, skin tingling at the touch.
“I apologise, Holmes. I have wanted this far too long to let some little thing like terror stand in the way.” His voice is somehow voluptuous, all curves and hidden softness, and the effect is akin to a drug.
Lust and want and fear create a heady cocktail, and Holmes is rendered nearly insensible as Watson stretches, cat-like, across the rug to meet him.
“Why hide it?” Holmes murmurs, his hand rising to curl through Watson’s hair as if of its own accord, as if desire had rendered him but a puppet.
“I believed you uninterested in romance, Holmes. You were so adamant,” Watson whispers, his lips brushing Holmes’ cheek. “You professed no need of love, of physical affection. I could not bear the thought of rejection. Better to remain a friend at arm’s length than nothing at all.”
Holmes is dimly aware of being eased back onto the rug. His eyes close at the gentle brush of fingertips across his lips as Watson crawls atop him. “I... I am beginning to see the error of my thinking,” he replies drunkenly, arousal winding through him. His hips crave contact. His hands slide over Watson’s shoulders, fisting in the fabric of the dressing gown.
It seems an eternity of waiting before Watson’s mouth collides against his and his mind shatters, all coherent thought strewn like so much jetsam in a maelstrom. An explosion of white bursts behind tightly-closed eyelids, and he is rendered immobile by Watson’s tongue, wet and velvet and perfect. He clings with frantic abandon, hands greedy, lips insistent.
The hair at the nape of Watson’s neck is softest, for here - just under the ear, beneath delicate skin, is the rapid-fire pulse of his heartbeat. And finally, pressure, unapologetic, as their bodies align. Muscle and bone and sinew, the sharp curve of Watson’s hips - Holmes’ hands are nimble and find their way quickly beneath layers of fabric to caress bare skin. Watson’s breath hitches and he pushes against Holmes bodily, fervently.
Holmes hooks a leg over his and they move as a beautifully obscene machine, undulating, oscillating, pistoning wildly. A tension coils inside him - the building charge to a galvanising shock. Watson pants against his neck unsteadily, hand fumbling beneath the cloth of his nightshirt. Holmes groans at the hardness he feels echoing his own, at the mere thought of being touched; he seems to be lifting off the floor, reaching - reaching - reaching -
Watson’s fingers close around him. With a strangled cry he finds his bliss. Watson moves against him still, trembling with exertion or want. When Holmes’ ardent hands find him, his entire body goes rigid, goes still, as if focussing solely on Holmes’ sweat-slick fingertips. Then, with the keenest of gasps he spends against Holmes’ stomach, relinquishing control and collapsing as if boneless against him.
They lie comfortably entwined, sharing exhausted kisses and occasional sighs for a while afterward. Holmes is aware of never having felt so comfortable close to another, or of having ever held anything so tightly. Watson fetches the blanket from the settee and they drift off to sleep where they are, firelight warm on their faces as the first vestiges of dawn stream in through the window from outside.
• • •
Watson is dressed when Holmes wakes, towering over him and looking down with a wry smile. “You are planning on getting up at some point today, I presume?”
Holmes blinks and sits up, stretching. “Of course. Hm. What time is it?” Tea and toast are on the sideboard, he notices, and he wonders idly if Mrs Hudson brought it before or after Watson removed himself from Holmes’ embrace. He rather hopes after. Had she caught them, her expression would have been most entertaining; it is a sad thought he might have missed it.
“Nearly ten. Why are you smiling like that?”
“Oh, no reason. I say, is that the morning paper?”
“It is,” Watson replies, passing it to him. “Are you looking for something in particular?”
Holmes’ eyes scan the front page. He scratches his head absently, peering through the succeeding pages. “Perhaps. It was not my intention to have slept so late. ‘pon my word, Watson, you exhausted me thoroughly.” He tosses the paper carelessly aside and rises, increasingly aware of the hollow rumble in his stomach.
The high spots of colour that appear on the doctor’s cheek are most gratifying, and most becoming. “I took the liberty of raiding your wardrobe. It was not so surprising to have found enough of my own clothes there to suffice,” says Watson, dropping into his chair. “I even found a shirt that you had not yet managed to stain, though it is hopelessly wrinkled. How it came to be under your pillow escapes me.”
“Truly a mystery,” says Holmes, suddenly fascinated by the toast.
“I have a patient today,” Watson says whole minutes later, breaking the companionable silence that has fallen between them.
“That’s inconvenient.” Holmes frowns into his cup.
“It’s only the one, Holmes. I’ll be finished no later than noon,” he replies.
“Then I shall call for you at half past. That is assuming, of course, that you would like to be present when I put this little puzzle of ours to bed.”
Watson’s face is perfectly straight, but his eyes twinkle mischievously. “If you absolutely insist,” he says languidly, standing. “Though I would not much object if you put me to bed instead.”
Holmes chokes quietly on his tea.
“Something the matter, Holmes?”
He clears his throat. “Of course not.”
“Half twelve, then.”
“Yes.”
“Oh, Holmes - I forgot to tell you yesterday evening, in all the confusion...” Watson pauses behind Holmes’ chair, hands a comforting weight on his shoulders.
“Yes?”
Without warning, Watson tips the chair back; when Holmes turns his head to protest, a gossamer-fine kiss, light and delicate, is placed against his parted lips. He does not realise his eyes have closed until his lids lift gradually again. Watson regards him earnestly, serenely, absurdly close, eyes strangely bright. There is not a word in all the English language fit to describe that particular shade of blue. “I love you, too,” he says simply, then pushes the chair aright and walks out the door.
Holmes allows himself a moment to smile idiotically before forcing his face into a scowl, as if to be certain he is still able.
• • •
“Mr Holmes! Dr Watson, was it? Do come in, do come in,” Mrs Winscott cries warmly. The change in her demeanour from their previous visit is staggering. She pushes past the startled butler in her hurry to welcome them. Her eyes are red-rimmed, face blotchy with the aftermath of tears.
“Have we, I wonder, got the wrong address?” Holmes asks Watson sotto voce.
“Mrs Sullivan is in the drawing room. I am sure she’ll be just as pleased to see you as I am. Would you like any refreshments?”
“No, thank you. We merely came to clear up a few matters.”
Her lips tighten, and just as quickly relax as she leans forward, speaking in more private tones. “I am pleased to hear so, Mr Holmes, as I have learned some distressing news.”
This development is unexpected. He purses his lips. “Oh? What news might that be?”
“I feel it may be best to tell my tale of woe with Mrs Sullivan present. She is owed the truth, after all.”
“I have no doubt. How very kind of you.” He smirks at Watson, whose face shows suspicion but no sign of having deduced the facts of the matter.
Mrs Sullivan greets them as warmly yet tearfully as before. They are soon seated comfortably in plush armchairs. Mrs Winscott does not join them. There is something serpentine in her manner as she glides around the room, an almost palpable tension just beneath her composed exterior.
She pauses before the mantel, lightly caressing a small ivory statuette of an elephant. “Poor dear Charles,” she sighs. “How he loved this. A client brought it from India.”
“You said you had distressing news,” says Holmes, caring little for the aside.
The lady takes a seat before them, regal posture framed by a wicker-back chair. “I am afraid so,” she says mournfully. “It seems Mr Winscott met his end at the hands of an old friend of the family.” Ignoring Mrs Sullivan’s gasp, she continues. “He has confessed it to me just this morning. He came during breakfast, before Mrs Sullivan rose.”
“Have you informed the police?” asks Watson, tone neutral. Holmes fights the urge to smile. Watson suspects her terribly.
“No, I wished to consult with you first, Mr Holmes.” She folds her hands neatly in her lap, her gaze pleading.
“I see. You wished I should further waste your time before you allow the regular police to apprehend your husband’s murderer.”
Watson mutters something under his breath. It might have been Oh, Lord, not again.
Holmes leans back in his chair, surveying her coolly. “Please, continue.”
Mrs Sullivan, cheeks tinged pink with embarrassment, leans forward to interject, “I am sure she didn’t mean it quite like that. The last time you were here, Mr Holmes, we were both fairly beside ourselves with grief.”
“She speaks the truth,” Mrs Winscott insists. “For my unforgivable rudeness before, Mr Holmes, I can only apologise. I am sure you must have formed some theory regarding my husband’s disappearance, Mr Holmes; I merely wished to see if it fitted with what I have learned.”
This is something closer to the truth. He urges her to continue.
“My husband has - had - a friend he met through his business, a Mr Ezekiel Lee. Over the course of three years, Mr Lee has been so often in our home that he has grown to be a dear friend of the family. A fine man, I thought, but there was always something sinister about him.”
“Very,” agrees Mrs Sullivan, frowning. “I have never much liked him.”
The slight look of irritation as she regards her sister-in-law is only on Mrs Winscott’s face for a moment, but it is a moment too long to miss Holmes’ notice.
“You see, Mr Holmes, his business has not done nearly so well as my husband’s, and I believe Mr Lee has frequently sought his advice. It is out of jealousy, then, that I suspect that Mr Lee murdered my husband.”
Mrs Sullivan’s gasp is a pitiful thing, wounded and faint, and her hand comes to cover her mouth. “Then Charles truly... No, no, please, say it isn’t true.” Her eyes glisten with unspent tears. Watson is by her in an instant, offering his handkerchief.
“I am afraid so, Anna. He told me this morning. The guilt had overwhelmed him completely.” Mrs Winscott shakes her head sadly.
“That’s rather a large confession to make over breakfast,” Holmes murmurs, unperturbed. “My apologies for the interruption. Pray continue.”
Mrs Winscott seems shaken by his composure. Though she continues, the words fall flat and lack conviction. Still, she soldiers on with her tale. “He said he came through the window, surprising my husband, and shot him in cold blood.”
Holmes steeples his fingers beneath his chin. “And then?”
“What do you mean?”
“The body, Mrs Winscott. What did he do with the body? You checked the room after hearing the shot, did you not?”
“He... Well, he didn’t tell me that part.”
“Would you like me to tell you, then?”
For the first time since Holmes and Watson have arrived, something of Mrs Winscott’s genuine emotion shows on her face, taut and frozen. She is afraid. “Of course,” she whispers.
“Mr Lee carelessly failed to inform you where Mr Winscott was concealed whilst you were looking for him. He was in the wardrobe. Yet I don’t believe Mr Lee did shoot your husband - he is rather a portly man, and his feet were too small to have made those prints on the trellis and sideboard, even if he could have climbed it.”
“I am repeating only what he told me.”
“It is, Mrs Winscott, a very curious thing that he should have told you all this whilst being locked up. You look surprised. I take it then he did not mention during this tete-a-tete that he was apprehended by Scotland Yard some time around six this morning?”
Mrs Sullivan has been weeping quietly, face in her hands, but now looks up at Holmes, then at Mrs Winscott.
“It seems rude to continue telling such stories, Mrs Winscott, when I’m sure Mrs Sullivan is eager to hear the truth. Shall you tell her what happened, or shall she hear it from the lips of a stranger?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Mrs Winscott says shakily, her face ashen and waxy. She is terrified.
“Very well. Mrs Sullivan, some of what your sister-in-law says is true. Mr Winscott was indeed shot in his bedroom at the request of Mr Lee, and his body concealed temporarily. But that was not what killed your brother.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Mr Winscott was already dead. He never sleeps in the daytime, you said, and I have no doubt that under normal circumstances that is true. Yet he had removed his shoes, his watch was wound, and he was lying in bed: that, very probably, is why the vase was broken. The intruder entered through that window simply because it was the only window accessible by climbing, thanks to the placement of that trellis. No doubt he was startled to find Mr Winscott, who never sleeps in the day. The vase breaks. Yet Mr Winscott does not stir! The fiend cannot believe his luck. So he pulls the trigger and hides in the wardrobe.”
Mrs Winscott watches him with an expression akin to revulsion creeping over her face. Her hands clutch the arms of chair desperately, as if she fears being thrown from it.
“Shall I continue?” he asks, not waiting for a response. “You and Mrs Sullivan inspect the room, finding nothing. Then - at Mrs Sullivan’s request - you come to me. The intruder waits in the closet. And at this point I must ask for confirmation, I fear - have any of your servants gone missing since Mr Winscott’s disappearance?”
“Yancy,” Mrs Sullivan replies softly. “He was Charles’s valet. We thought perhaps... shock. Or grief. I suppose it wasn’t?” Her mouth hardens.
“I am afraid not. He is presently in Mr Lee’s employ, having no doubt performed the task assigned to him well enough. To have transported Mr Winscott from his room, down the stairs, and then off the grounds would have required not only an extra pair of hands but someone with knowledge of the routines of the other servants.”
“I see,” she says dully. She casts a weak smile at Watson, who pats her hand before returning to his own chair. “What happened next, Mr Holmes?”
“Winscott’s body was taken to his warehouse, which was set afire in hopes of making his death look accidental. Unfortunately for Mr Lee, I am terribly clever and happen to be an excellent pickpocket, so I was able to come across this.” He takes from his pocket the slip of paper bearing the address to Winscott's warehouse and hands it to her. “I was there when he burned the warehouse, as was Watson. We managed to retrieve your brother’s body, which is now in the possession of Scotland Yard. At my insistence, a post-mortem examination was performed which revealed the true cause of death. Solid metallic oxide was found adhering to the membranous lining of his stomach - as is indicative of arsenic poisoning. You put it in the tea, I expect. Is that right?” he asks Mrs Winscott.
At this, Mrs Sullivan’s eyes widen. “Arsenic!” Her gaze turns hateful as she casts it toward Mrs Winscott. “How could you? He loved you, you beast!”
“I-I didn’t!” Mrs Winscott protests, rising, as if anticipating an attack. From the murderous look on Mrs Sullivan’s face, it isn’t unwise of her. "I... It wasn't..." Her eyes roam from face to face fretfully. And then she sinks back into her chair, lips quivering.
"But why, for God's sake, Nora?" cries Mrs Sullivan.
Holmes replies, rather than give her another opportunity to lie. “Possibly for insurance money, but let us not be hasty. There was one matter on which I was yet unclear,” Holmes says, “and that was why Mr Lee - as you say, Mrs Winscott, a friend - might do such a thing. I paid a visit to him myself this morning, yet he wouldn’t be compelled to talk. You have inadvertently cleared it up yourself with your intimate knowledge of his crime. Tell me, how long had you been having an affair?”
Mrs Sullivan, overwhelmed by the war between grief and rage being fought so visibly on her round face, can bear the betrayal no longer. She crumples, body wracked with sobs. "You have taken him from me, and for what?" she whimpers. Watson rises to approach but she stills him with a lifted hand. "No, please. I need to hear this."
"I..." begins Mrs Winscott, but it seems she has nothing to say after all.
"Do you deny the affair?" asks Holmes, raising a brow.
"No." Mrs Winscott will not meet his eyes. "He - he wasn't like Charles. I don't expect you to understand."
"He planned this murder without your knowledge. So that you might be free. Did you plan to run away together? How romantic. Perhaps you should have told him of your own plans, of the insurance money - which you could not collect without a body. This tale of a confession over breakfast is nothing more than an attempt at retribution. That is it, isn't it? I hate to be corrected, but it really is in your best interests to do so if I'm wrong."
“Mr Holmes, you don’t know what it was like,” Mrs Winscott moans. “Have mercy, I beg of you! Show some sympathy, please!”
“Oh, I think not. However, Inspector Lestrade should be waiting just outside. Cast your entreaties in his direction; perhaps you will receive more profitable results.”
• • •
“That was a nasty business,” Watson says thoughtfully as they rattle back toward Baker St. “Poor Mrs Sullivan."
"Better she knows the truth than have a little something extra added to her tea come morning."
"I suppose you're right. In any case, you did an admirable job of clearing it up, I must say. I have just one question: how did you know they were having an affair?”
“It seemed unlikely he should reveal his method of murder were they not close, nor indeed at all had he not done it for her.”
“A rather grisly gift.”
“Indeed.”
“Holmes... speaking of affairs, I think--”
“Say no more, Watson,” Holmes replies, feeling his stomach twist into a knot. “It is a delicate situation. Though I can’t say I’m pleased at the prospect of... sharing... I suppose it is the only way.”
“That wasn’t what I was going to say.”
“You aren’t jilting me already? Watson, if you do, I swear to you that I shall blackmail you with a vengeance the likes of which has never before been seen.”
Watson blinks, then chuckles. “I shall keep that in mind. Yet that wasn’t it, either. I merely thought, well, perhaps I was too hasty in my decision to quit our old rooms.” He looks away, out the window, quickly.
“You’d like to return?” asks Holmes, a sudden effervescence replacing the knot.
“Yes. If you’ll have me back.”
“I have told you, Watson. You’re always welcome there.”
“Ah. Good. And really, there’s no rush to be getting married, is there? I’m still reasonably young, and I could focus more on building my practice.”
“Of course. But what of your devotion to Miss Morstan?” Holmes asks, directing his attention to a spot on the seat before them.
“That is easily enough remedied. She told me if I left the opera early that she wished never to see me again.”
“I see. I applaud your priorities but mourn your loss.”
“I suppose you win some, lose some,” says Watson with a sigh. Holmes feels fingers slip between his, nesting, making a home.
“An admirable motto,” he replies with a smile.
fin.