FIC: Mark Me Well (A Study In Emerald, PG)
Title: Mark Me Well
Fandom: A Study in Emerald
Rating/Warnings: PG/ bloody murder
Wordcount: 3,433
Summary: Assassination, theatre, and domestic spats -- never let it be said that Dr John Watson has nothing to write about.
Notes: Written for
llwyden for Yuletide.
Mark Me Well
John sits heavily down on the bed and breathes out in relief, the pain in his leg receding. His heart, having been racing for the past half hour, has begun to calm at the sight of his bags packed and in order by the door. Wind from the open window blows chill around him, and he shivers slightly; his coat burns in the fireplace, stained irredeemably with royal blood. It was a mistake no one caught, but a mistake nonetheless. Holmes is angry with him for it as well. He won't say, but he's pacing to and fro in the other room, muttering to himself along with the discourse in his head, intelligible only to himself. From the whistling of the past minute or so, Holmes put tea on promptly forgot about it.
John could go take it off the fire and have tea. Holmes might not even pay him notice at all. But the thought of standing up again, even with his cane, makes his leg ache in anticipation. He pulls the journal from his bag instead and turns to the first blank page. Now is as good a time as any to finish recording the deed.
We left the rented rooms in the early morning...
---
John Watson, MD is not a tall man. He cranes his neck to meet Holmes' face and resents that half a foot again. Holmes' face storms, otherwise unreadable. "A mark, Watson," he says, closing the door behind him.
"Oh?" says John, even though he knows by now that Holmes will draw it out to its most dramatic. He is to the core an actor, even if he only takes that guise now in the hunt. Everything must be done with theatrics or not at all. It's both endearing and endlessly frustrating -- but then again, so is almost everything else about the man. He'll explain everything eventually, at least. It's no good being dramatic without a reveal to the audience at the end.
"An opportunity to strike a great blow to Her Majesty." Holmes takes two long-legged strides and stares into the fireplace of their most recent quarters. "If you are not afraid of seeing blood on your own hands once again."
"Were that the case, I should not have joined the military." John crosses his arms. "This is a far better cause to spill blood for."
"You are a dedicated man, Watson," Holmes says, only slightly mocking. "We have in London a royal visitor. The Queen's own nephew come from Germany, here for the bracing air -- the welcome of his aunt -- the gambling and the whoring."
"A mark indeed," mutters John. He sits back in one of the armchairs. "Is it too soon to ask your plan?"
"Trapping him will be easy," Holmes says, waving a hand. They have done it before -- the royal family all have one great weakness which is all too easy to exploit, and they bleed same as any human. John keeps his old surgeon kit around for multiple reasons, but this is the foremost. It's somewhat odd, considering how detached Holmes can be and how self-suficient he believes himself to be, that he never takes a mark alone. But John has killed every one. "No," Holmes continues, "the difficult part will be reaching him."
He stares into the fireplace, lapsing into silence. John contemplates a cup of tea, but the kettle is out of reach and he has been on his feet for much of the day. His leg protests.
"That play you wrote," Holmes says presently, turning back around toward John, "You did finish it, I assume."
John casts about for a moment, and then remembers: a poor piece of work, packed into his trunk as he couldn't bear to part with it, having spent so long labouring at it. He stands up carefully and and fetches it, all wrapped up in twine. "It will not impress you, or your actor friends," John says, sitting back down. "I fear the irony in it will be lost upon most and it will read as earnest."
"All the better," Holmes replies, with a small smile. "I do not intend to put on a subversive show this time."
Holmes' stint in the theatre must have been an impressive one, for he is forever calling in favours and meeting with old actor friends. Odd enough that it should prove so useful, since acting has never been the most lucrative of professions. John never much cared for the theatre, as it is rarely subtle and often slapstick and crude, or garish and overdecorated. But writing a play was a challenge that kept him occupied for a long and uneventful winter. It also rather impressed Holmes, which is never an easy feat to accomplish.
It is fairly easy to guess why he wants the manuscript. "You're gambling on the Prince coming to your show? Of all shows?"
"He is, I suspect, and egotistical man. He will want to appear refined in his tastes. The playhouse I am thinking of will suit his needs, and it should not be difficult to ensure that our advertising reaches his ears."
Holmes turns abruptly back to the fireplace and after a moment takes out his pipe and lights it. The conversation, it would seem, is over.
---
They move into new lodgings for this new hunt, not too far from Drury Lane. A patient of John's offers them rooms in his inn, free of charge, and meals twice daily. It is not a lucrative business, being a Restorationist , but it does place one in a community only too willing to assist each other in whatever means necessary to promote the cause. They rarely go hungry or sleep roofless while on the hunt, or even between marks.
The new place is small but clean, without any overpowering identifying scent in the air, enough for their purposes. The walls of the larger sitting-room have been papered in an inoffensive blue, and those of the smaller bedroom whitewashed, providing a stark contrast in light between the two. (This could very well be the reason Holmes opted to sleep on the couch and not the tiny mattress in the bedroom.) Of furniture there is little -- in the smaller room a desk, chair, and dresser, and in the red-papered room the sofa, a table, and an empty shelf by the fireplace.
Holmes leaves him there most mornings, off to rehearsal, and the rooms are mostly quiet. A few times a day other Restorationalists stop by with communication too sensitive for the post or just to chat. Occasionally his services as a physician are called upon. He is one of only a few in London, called upon most often for hunting wounds and rarely illness, preferred for his military experience and political inclinations to more respectable practitioners.
They have a month -- as much time as could be managed, given the flightiness of the target. Compared to previous hunts, it seems almost leisurely -- though the amount of time they spend working separately may help there. And yet the time passes quickly, so that opening night is upon them long before John would have expected. Holmes assures him that the Prince will be there, though with no explanation as to how he knows or why this should be so certain. He shakes his head when John offers to come along, saying that there will be no point, they might as well not both be seen there.
John decides not to argue, and instead waits for a time and goes anyway. He's had enough of Holmes telling him what not to do.
The first two acts he had not read ahead of time, and he can appreciate the skill of Holmes' friends, if not the medium itself. The last act he enjoys, although it is somewhat painful to hear just how poorly he wrote it: seeing other people acting out his words is somehow special nonetheless.
His first thought had been to head home immediately afterward, but feeling a bit bold, he instead turns into the alley behind the building to find the backstage door. The woman guarding it appears to recognise him, for she smiles and moves aside to let him by. He finds a set of stairs, and at the top a small dressing room. The brief look of surprise on Holmes' face is worth the expression of annoyance that immediately follows -- and then the disguise resumes.
"Ah, the good Doctor! I trust you enjoyed our show?"
One of the other actors looks up at the word 'doctor' -- has Holmes been talking about him? It seems counterproductive to the plan, or at the very least useless. But then, Holmes always has a reason for doing the things he does. "I quite enjoyed it," John says, not quite lying. "The acting was impressive, and the set construction inspired. Tell me, whose idea was that pulley system?"
"You're speaking to him," says the actor who'd looked up, having pulled on a shirt. "Our Mr Vernet is quite the genius. In fact, so much a genius, he's got a whole line of fans out in the hall. Will you be going to greet them?"
"It would be a poor showing not to," Holmes replies with a wink at John, and swoops off. The other actor glances about briefly and then leans in close.
"I know what and who you are," he whispers, and John freezes. "Not to worry. I won't tell a soul. In fact, I support you. And I'm curious to know why a skilled huntsman like yourself allows him to push you around like a simple soldier. You are better than that, friend."
His face is honest, the sort of face one wants to trust instantaneously. John knows better, of course. But there's nothing off about this man yet, no reason to end the conversation -- certainly no reason to anger him. "We work more efficiently together than apart. And he is a master of the hunt -- I'm honoured to work with him."
"He should be honoured to work with you." The actor shakes his head. Then he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a card. "When your hunt is finished, you can find me here. If you'd like to branch out. I've got a mark I would greatly appreciate your advice or assistance with."
John reaches out for it almost without thinking, and the actor smiles briefly. "Ask for Jacque, they know me by that name. You will see the symbol on their door." He takes John's hand and shakes it once, then melts back into the crowd of dressing actors. John blinks, and puts the card slowly into his pocket.
There are footsteps on the stairs, and John turns around to see what must be Prince Franz Drago of Germany enter the room. He's instantly recogniseable, not because he's left off his human form, but because everything about him is wrong. The joints of the arms, the attachments of the head and neck, the alignment of the eyes -- everything is slightly off kilter, in a manner possibly suggesting tentacles. He gazes into the room, eyes flicking back and forth as if looking for someone.
"Your Highness," says John, swallowing revulsion, managing some kind of bow. He hates it -- hates himself for making even a mockery of obedience -- but not enough to endanger the hunt.
The Prince's eyes dart toward him, staring for a moment. "You do not have the look of a man who attends the theatre regularly," the Prince tells him. "Not a part of the crew. Did you write this script?" He hisses and scrapes his sibilants and spits out his hard consonants like gristle.
John almost denies it, but he has never been an accomplished liar when his lies have not been prepared ahead of time. "I did," he says, and the Prince's face lights up.
"You describe our shared history marvelously," he proclaims. "Down to the foolish nature of stubborn souls. Oh, but that's not a topic for common conversation. Bring me the actors! I must congratulate them."
Fortunately for John, the actors have overheard this exchange, and are already gathering warily around. Holmes, among them, shoots John a displeased glare, lost within the very realistic fawning of the crowd. The room fills with chatter again, and John takes a few good deep breaths. The Prince won't live long. He can be tolerated temporarily.
"I will be back to see this masterful piece again," the Prince is declaring.
"Not I," John puts in, in case it should be noticed that he has fallen silent. "Once is enough to hear my own words spoken back at me."
The Prince laughs at that, clapping him on the shoulder; John barely represses his wince of disgust. Holmes' eyes narrow; he shakes his head ever so slightly.
--
"What were you thinking?" Holmes demands, back at the rooms. "He's seen you now! He'll recognise you!"
John, sprawled on a chair while his bad leg throbs, is about done for the night. "There's no harm done, is there? He won't see me again until we trap him -- perhaps not even then."
"It should not matter at all, whether he sees you," Holmes snaps, and flops down into the other chair.
There is some silence, and then John chances, "But have you managed to speak to him?"
"I at least was successful," Holmes says. "He expressed great interest in what wares I might have to offer. After the matinee performance Sunday next, we have arranged for him to accompany me to our agreed location, where you will dispatch him. So long as you follow instructions, there should be no deviation from this plan. Do not come to the theatre again. I was forced to create a story for you, and you cannot accidentally contradict it through ignorance."
They do not speak again that night.
Holmes does not spend much daytime at all in their shared rooms, and John takes pains to keep out of his way when he is about. Their verbal exchanges are short and curt. It hurts, but not enough for John to lay aside his anger just yet. It's clear that he will once again be the one to give in, but not yet. Instead he fingers the card from Jacque and imagines what it would be to work with someone who defers to him, or at least sees and treats him as an equal. It wouldn't be Holmes, of course, but maybe it could be better.
He brings it with him, in his pocket, as he leaves Sunday afternoon for the house in Shoreditch, and runs his fingers along the long side all the underground ride there.Then he drops it in his doctor's bag and steps out into the evening light again, walks into the house to wait. His nerves begin buzzing as they always do toward the end of the chase. It's nearly done. Another message sent.
It is only a half hour before the sound of hooves and wheels signal the approach of Holmes and their mark. John pulls out his longest scalpel, sharpened only this morning to a fine glint, and takes his weight from the wall. Then the door opens and Holmes and Prince Franz Drago of Bohemia walk in.
The Prince is tall and affable as before, but his smile is hungry and his eyes dart around the room, not spying John in his search for Holmes' bait. He reaches his long neck out as if offering it up to John's scalpel. So greedy for the promised feast he is that he doesn't even think to fear a trap -- why should he? It would be mad to oppose the royal family.
John strikes quickly, severing both main arteries, as Holmes shoves the creature into the room. Foaming green blood spatters against the floor, onto the walls, violently exiting its lifeless body. The smells of sulfur and something far more stomach-turning fill the room. It only takes a few minutes for the body to bleed out.
Holmes breathes out smoke and steps delicately into the room. "And now the signature," he says, though not at all to John. "They must know exactly who committed this act." He taps out his pipe in the empty fireplace, and then without so much as a grimace dips the first two fingers of his right hand into a nearby streak of ichor and proceeds to write, on the wall, Rache. Having thus signed his canvas, he steps back into the doorway to survey his work.
"Another success," John says, cautiously. Holmes turns his head and gives him a look of utter scorn.
"Though not for your help."
To dispute this would only invite more insult; Holmes will not be convinced of his own flaws where he doesn't see them. John looks away instead, sets about packing up his kit, wiping the viridian from his longest scalpel and replacing it among its fellows. His hands shake slightly, now that the time for steadiness is over. He still hasn't become accustomed to cold-blooded murder, nor voluntarily standing in the presence of royal blood.
"The cab awaits," Holmes says, and turns on his heel, obviously unconcerned as to whether John follows.
---
Thus the matter of Prince Franz Drago was resolved. But another weight lay heavy on my shoulders, for Holmes remained thoroughly and inexplicably disgusted with me all the way to our temporary lodgings. I resolved to discover the heart of the matter
John lifts the pen and stares at the last word written, in case it happens to spawn another sentence. In truth, talking to Holmes again is the last thing he wants to do, but they can ill afford resentment between them in their line of work. Another concession, then. Holmes demands all and offers little, but since he informed John of this when they began their association it seems foolish to complain only now. Overall, it's a sacrifice of pride worth making to continue to apologise for everything and do as requested. He won't regret having done it, as loath as he is to admit it now.
With a great sigh, he pushes himself to stand and limps back into the other room, where Holmes still paces to and fro. "Holmes," John says, and he looks up. "This is foolish. I'm sorry I ignored what you said to me. It achieved nothing."
"I've told you before," Holmes says, "I need to be able to rely on you to do exactly as I say."
"I was mistaken." John keeps his voice calm, despite his irritation, and folds his arms so as not to give himself away with gesticulation. "I've apologised. Our hunt was successful, there's one less false god in the world, and I don't see where the problem lies. Enlighten me, Holmes."
Holmes sighs out loud, pointedly. "The problem lies in the fact that I will now have to consider the possibility of this occurring again and plan around it. You are largely a predictable man, Watson. This is why we work so well together. This is also why your unexpected actions are an issue."
"But this is hardly the first time I have taken actions you never dictated," John says. "Holmes, if we are to work together we need to work together. Not as superior and inferior. Not at odds."
For a long moment, Holmes says nothing, paused in his pacing. "I suppose you will be going to see Jacque, then."
John must be making an odd face, the way he can feel it twisting in surprise. It really shouldn't be surprising that Holmes knew about the card, though. Holmes misses very little -- and also snoops shamelessly.
It might have been enjoyable to torment him with it for a while, but in the end -- why? The point of this exchange is reconciliation, not getting revenge. John at least will be mature about this. "Holmes, if I wanted to leave our arrangement, I would have done so an age ago." He shakes his head.
"Oh," says Holmes, and then he composes himself. "Well, in that case, Miss Adler's notified me of another opportunity for when things have died down here -- in France this time, if you're up for crossing the Channel. It's a good thing you've packed, we'll be wanting to relocate in a few days -- the Warren, I suspect, will do us nicely. Oh, and Watson?"
John, who has already begun to retreat into his room, smiling and shaking his head, pauses and looks back.
"Thank you," Holmes says, as if it pains him, like stretching a seldom-used muscle.
"You're most welcome," John says.
Fandom: A Study in Emerald
Rating/Warnings: PG/ bloody murder
Wordcount: 3,433
Summary: Assassination, theatre, and domestic spats -- never let it be said that Dr John Watson has nothing to write about.
Notes: Written for
llwyden for Yuletide.
Mark Me Well
John sits heavily down on the bed and breathes out in relief, the pain in his leg receding. His heart, having been racing for the past half hour, has begun to calm at the sight of his bags packed and in order by the door. Wind from the open window blows chill around him, and he shivers slightly; his coat burns in the fireplace, stained irredeemably with royal blood. It was a mistake no one caught, but a mistake nonetheless. Holmes is angry with him for it as well. He won't say, but he's pacing to and fro in the other room, muttering to himself along with the discourse in his head, intelligible only to himself. From the whistling of the past minute or so, Holmes put tea on promptly forgot about it.
John could go take it off the fire and have tea. Holmes might not even pay him notice at all. But the thought of standing up again, even with his cane, makes his leg ache in anticipation. He pulls the journal from his bag instead and turns to the first blank page. Now is as good a time as any to finish recording the deed.
We left the rented rooms in the early morning...
---
John Watson, MD is not a tall man. He cranes his neck to meet Holmes' face and resents that half a foot again. Holmes' face storms, otherwise unreadable. "A mark, Watson," he says, closing the door behind him.
"Oh?" says John, even though he knows by now that Holmes will draw it out to its most dramatic. He is to the core an actor, even if he only takes that guise now in the hunt. Everything must be done with theatrics or not at all. It's both endearing and endlessly frustrating -- but then again, so is almost everything else about the man. He'll explain everything eventually, at least. It's no good being dramatic without a reveal to the audience at the end.
"An opportunity to strike a great blow to Her Majesty." Holmes takes two long-legged strides and stares into the fireplace of their most recent quarters. "If you are not afraid of seeing blood on your own hands once again."
"Were that the case, I should not have joined the military." John crosses his arms. "This is a far better cause to spill blood for."
"You are a dedicated man, Watson," Holmes says, only slightly mocking. "We have in London a royal visitor. The Queen's own nephew come from Germany, here for the bracing air -- the welcome of his aunt -- the gambling and the whoring."
"A mark indeed," mutters John. He sits back in one of the armchairs. "Is it too soon to ask your plan?"
"Trapping him will be easy," Holmes says, waving a hand. They have done it before -- the royal family all have one great weakness which is all too easy to exploit, and they bleed same as any human. John keeps his old surgeon kit around for multiple reasons, but this is the foremost. It's somewhat odd, considering how detached Holmes can be and how self-suficient he believes himself to be, that he never takes a mark alone. But John has killed every one. "No," Holmes continues, "the difficult part will be reaching him."
He stares into the fireplace, lapsing into silence. John contemplates a cup of tea, but the kettle is out of reach and he has been on his feet for much of the day. His leg protests.
"That play you wrote," Holmes says presently, turning back around toward John, "You did finish it, I assume."
John casts about for a moment, and then remembers: a poor piece of work, packed into his trunk as he couldn't bear to part with it, having spent so long labouring at it. He stands up carefully and and fetches it, all wrapped up in twine. "It will not impress you, or your actor friends," John says, sitting back down. "I fear the irony in it will be lost upon most and it will read as earnest."
"All the better," Holmes replies, with a small smile. "I do not intend to put on a subversive show this time."
Holmes' stint in the theatre must have been an impressive one, for he is forever calling in favours and meeting with old actor friends. Odd enough that it should prove so useful, since acting has never been the most lucrative of professions. John never much cared for the theatre, as it is rarely subtle and often slapstick and crude, or garish and overdecorated. But writing a play was a challenge that kept him occupied for a long and uneventful winter. It also rather impressed Holmes, which is never an easy feat to accomplish.
It is fairly easy to guess why he wants the manuscript. "You're gambling on the Prince coming to your show? Of all shows?"
"He is, I suspect, and egotistical man. He will want to appear refined in his tastes. The playhouse I am thinking of will suit his needs, and it should not be difficult to ensure that our advertising reaches his ears."
Holmes turns abruptly back to the fireplace and after a moment takes out his pipe and lights it. The conversation, it would seem, is over.
---
They move into new lodgings for this new hunt, not too far from Drury Lane. A patient of John's offers them rooms in his inn, free of charge, and meals twice daily. It is not a lucrative business, being a Restorationist , but it does place one in a community only too willing to assist each other in whatever means necessary to promote the cause. They rarely go hungry or sleep roofless while on the hunt, or even between marks.
The new place is small but clean, without any overpowering identifying scent in the air, enough for their purposes. The walls of the larger sitting-room have been papered in an inoffensive blue, and those of the smaller bedroom whitewashed, providing a stark contrast in light between the two. (This could very well be the reason Holmes opted to sleep on the couch and not the tiny mattress in the bedroom.) Of furniture there is little -- in the smaller room a desk, chair, and dresser, and in the red-papered room the sofa, a table, and an empty shelf by the fireplace.
Holmes leaves him there most mornings, off to rehearsal, and the rooms are mostly quiet. A few times a day other Restorationalists stop by with communication too sensitive for the post or just to chat. Occasionally his services as a physician are called upon. He is one of only a few in London, called upon most often for hunting wounds and rarely illness, preferred for his military experience and political inclinations to more respectable practitioners.
They have a month -- as much time as could be managed, given the flightiness of the target. Compared to previous hunts, it seems almost leisurely -- though the amount of time they spend working separately may help there. And yet the time passes quickly, so that opening night is upon them long before John would have expected. Holmes assures him that the Prince will be there, though with no explanation as to how he knows or why this should be so certain. He shakes his head when John offers to come along, saying that there will be no point, they might as well not both be seen there.
John decides not to argue, and instead waits for a time and goes anyway. He's had enough of Holmes telling him what not to do.
The first two acts he had not read ahead of time, and he can appreciate the skill of Holmes' friends, if not the medium itself. The last act he enjoys, although it is somewhat painful to hear just how poorly he wrote it: seeing other people acting out his words is somehow special nonetheless.
His first thought had been to head home immediately afterward, but feeling a bit bold, he instead turns into the alley behind the building to find the backstage door. The woman guarding it appears to recognise him, for she smiles and moves aside to let him by. He finds a set of stairs, and at the top a small dressing room. The brief look of surprise on Holmes' face is worth the expression of annoyance that immediately follows -- and then the disguise resumes.
"Ah, the good Doctor! I trust you enjoyed our show?"
One of the other actors looks up at the word 'doctor' -- has Holmes been talking about him? It seems counterproductive to the plan, or at the very least useless. But then, Holmes always has a reason for doing the things he does. "I quite enjoyed it," John says, not quite lying. "The acting was impressive, and the set construction inspired. Tell me, whose idea was that pulley system?"
"You're speaking to him," says the actor who'd looked up, having pulled on a shirt. "Our Mr Vernet is quite the genius. In fact, so much a genius, he's got a whole line of fans out in the hall. Will you be going to greet them?"
"It would be a poor showing not to," Holmes replies with a wink at John, and swoops off. The other actor glances about briefly and then leans in close.
"I know what and who you are," he whispers, and John freezes. "Not to worry. I won't tell a soul. In fact, I support you. And I'm curious to know why a skilled huntsman like yourself allows him to push you around like a simple soldier. You are better than that, friend."
His face is honest, the sort of face one wants to trust instantaneously. John knows better, of course. But there's nothing off about this man yet, no reason to end the conversation -- certainly no reason to anger him. "We work more efficiently together than apart. And he is a master of the hunt -- I'm honoured to work with him."
"He should be honoured to work with you." The actor shakes his head. Then he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a card. "When your hunt is finished, you can find me here. If you'd like to branch out. I've got a mark I would greatly appreciate your advice or assistance with."
John reaches out for it almost without thinking, and the actor smiles briefly. "Ask for Jacque, they know me by that name. You will see the symbol on their door." He takes John's hand and shakes it once, then melts back into the crowd of dressing actors. John blinks, and puts the card slowly into his pocket.
There are footsteps on the stairs, and John turns around to see what must be Prince Franz Drago of Germany enter the room. He's instantly recogniseable, not because he's left off his human form, but because everything about him is wrong. The joints of the arms, the attachments of the head and neck, the alignment of the eyes -- everything is slightly off kilter, in a manner possibly suggesting tentacles. He gazes into the room, eyes flicking back and forth as if looking for someone.
"Your Highness," says John, swallowing revulsion, managing some kind of bow. He hates it -- hates himself for making even a mockery of obedience -- but not enough to endanger the hunt.
The Prince's eyes dart toward him, staring for a moment. "You do not have the look of a man who attends the theatre regularly," the Prince tells him. "Not a part of the crew. Did you write this script?" He hisses and scrapes his sibilants and spits out his hard consonants like gristle.
John almost denies it, but he has never been an accomplished liar when his lies have not been prepared ahead of time. "I did," he says, and the Prince's face lights up.
"You describe our shared history marvelously," he proclaims. "Down to the foolish nature of stubborn souls. Oh, but that's not a topic for common conversation. Bring me the actors! I must congratulate them."
Fortunately for John, the actors have overheard this exchange, and are already gathering warily around. Holmes, among them, shoots John a displeased glare, lost within the very realistic fawning of the crowd. The room fills with chatter again, and John takes a few good deep breaths. The Prince won't live long. He can be tolerated temporarily.
"I will be back to see this masterful piece again," the Prince is declaring.
"Not I," John puts in, in case it should be noticed that he has fallen silent. "Once is enough to hear my own words spoken back at me."
The Prince laughs at that, clapping him on the shoulder; John barely represses his wince of disgust. Holmes' eyes narrow; he shakes his head ever so slightly.
--
"What were you thinking?" Holmes demands, back at the rooms. "He's seen you now! He'll recognise you!"
John, sprawled on a chair while his bad leg throbs, is about done for the night. "There's no harm done, is there? He won't see me again until we trap him -- perhaps not even then."
"It should not matter at all, whether he sees you," Holmes snaps, and flops down into the other chair.
There is some silence, and then John chances, "But have you managed to speak to him?"
"I at least was successful," Holmes says. "He expressed great interest in what wares I might have to offer. After the matinee performance Sunday next, we have arranged for him to accompany me to our agreed location, where you will dispatch him. So long as you follow instructions, there should be no deviation from this plan. Do not come to the theatre again. I was forced to create a story for you, and you cannot accidentally contradict it through ignorance."
They do not speak again that night.
Holmes does not spend much daytime at all in their shared rooms, and John takes pains to keep out of his way when he is about. Their verbal exchanges are short and curt. It hurts, but not enough for John to lay aside his anger just yet. It's clear that he will once again be the one to give in, but not yet. Instead he fingers the card from Jacque and imagines what it would be to work with someone who defers to him, or at least sees and treats him as an equal. It wouldn't be Holmes, of course, but maybe it could be better.
He brings it with him, in his pocket, as he leaves Sunday afternoon for the house in Shoreditch, and runs his fingers along the long side all the underground ride there.Then he drops it in his doctor's bag and steps out into the evening light again, walks into the house to wait. His nerves begin buzzing as they always do toward the end of the chase. It's nearly done. Another message sent.
It is only a half hour before the sound of hooves and wheels signal the approach of Holmes and their mark. John pulls out his longest scalpel, sharpened only this morning to a fine glint, and takes his weight from the wall. Then the door opens and Holmes and Prince Franz Drago of Bohemia walk in.
The Prince is tall and affable as before, but his smile is hungry and his eyes dart around the room, not spying John in his search for Holmes' bait. He reaches his long neck out as if offering it up to John's scalpel. So greedy for the promised feast he is that he doesn't even think to fear a trap -- why should he? It would be mad to oppose the royal family.
John strikes quickly, severing both main arteries, as Holmes shoves the creature into the room. Foaming green blood spatters against the floor, onto the walls, violently exiting its lifeless body. The smells of sulfur and something far more stomach-turning fill the room. It only takes a few minutes for the body to bleed out.
Holmes breathes out smoke and steps delicately into the room. "And now the signature," he says, though not at all to John. "They must know exactly who committed this act." He taps out his pipe in the empty fireplace, and then without so much as a grimace dips the first two fingers of his right hand into a nearby streak of ichor and proceeds to write, on the wall, Rache. Having thus signed his canvas, he steps back into the doorway to survey his work.
"Another success," John says, cautiously. Holmes turns his head and gives him a look of utter scorn.
"Though not for your help."
To dispute this would only invite more insult; Holmes will not be convinced of his own flaws where he doesn't see them. John looks away instead, sets about packing up his kit, wiping the viridian from his longest scalpel and replacing it among its fellows. His hands shake slightly, now that the time for steadiness is over. He still hasn't become accustomed to cold-blooded murder, nor voluntarily standing in the presence of royal blood.
"The cab awaits," Holmes says, and turns on his heel, obviously unconcerned as to whether John follows.
---
Thus the matter of Prince Franz Drago was resolved. But another weight lay heavy on my shoulders, for Holmes remained thoroughly and inexplicably disgusted with me all the way to our temporary lodgings. I resolved to discover the heart of the matter
John lifts the pen and stares at the last word written, in case it happens to spawn another sentence. In truth, talking to Holmes again is the last thing he wants to do, but they can ill afford resentment between them in their line of work. Another concession, then. Holmes demands all and offers little, but since he informed John of this when they began their association it seems foolish to complain only now. Overall, it's a sacrifice of pride worth making to continue to apologise for everything and do as requested. He won't regret having done it, as loath as he is to admit it now.
With a great sigh, he pushes himself to stand and limps back into the other room, where Holmes still paces to and fro. "Holmes," John says, and he looks up. "This is foolish. I'm sorry I ignored what you said to me. It achieved nothing."
"I've told you before," Holmes says, "I need to be able to rely on you to do exactly as I say."
"I was mistaken." John keeps his voice calm, despite his irritation, and folds his arms so as not to give himself away with gesticulation. "I've apologised. Our hunt was successful, there's one less false god in the world, and I don't see where the problem lies. Enlighten me, Holmes."
Holmes sighs out loud, pointedly. "The problem lies in the fact that I will now have to consider the possibility of this occurring again and plan around it. You are largely a predictable man, Watson. This is why we work so well together. This is also why your unexpected actions are an issue."
"But this is hardly the first time I have taken actions you never dictated," John says. "Holmes, if we are to work together we need to work together. Not as superior and inferior. Not at odds."
For a long moment, Holmes says nothing, paused in his pacing. "I suppose you will be going to see Jacque, then."
John must be making an odd face, the way he can feel it twisting in surprise. It really shouldn't be surprising that Holmes knew about the card, though. Holmes misses very little -- and also snoops shamelessly.
It might have been enjoyable to torment him with it for a while, but in the end -- why? The point of this exchange is reconciliation, not getting revenge. John at least will be mature about this. "Holmes, if I wanted to leave our arrangement, I would have done so an age ago." He shakes his head.
"Oh," says Holmes, and then he composes himself. "Well, in that case, Miss Adler's notified me of another opportunity for when things have died down here -- in France this time, if you're up for crossing the Channel. It's a good thing you've packed, we'll be wanting to relocate in a few days -- the Warren, I suspect, will do us nicely. Oh, and Watson?"
John, who has already begun to retreat into his room, smiling and shaking his head, pauses and looks back.
"Thank you," Holmes says, as if it pains him, like stretching a seldom-used muscle.
"You're most welcome," John says.