Fic: Letters, or the Case of the Cerulean Syringe, Part Two
Title: Letters, or the Case of the Cerulean Syringe, Part Two
Author: agaryulnaer86 and Sarisa
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Holmes/Watson, pre-slash
Disclaimer: Not ours.
Summary: The newlyweds return from their honeymoon. Watson is having some trouble adjusting. Also, murder.
Spoilers: Movie
Warnings: More angst and more hissy fits.
Word Count: 8,615
Author's Notes: Epic-fic, part two. More to come, probably closer to fourteen.
Part One
Watson returns to Cavendish Place some five hours later than he'd intended, feeling oddly almost as though he should knock when he reaches the front door, glancing over at the stone-carved placard next to the doorbell, which proclaims this the practice (and residence) of one John H. Watson, M. D., at Number 169, Cavendish Place.
Feeling a sudden and inexplicable animosity towards that sign, Watson tosses his walking stick upwards slightly, catching it near the middle and making his awkward way up the stairs, shoving open the front door before he can allow himself to contemplate ridiculousness any further. Any desire to return to Baker Street and sit down with Holmes to dine in their customary armchairs is no doubt merely a desire to escape the trouble he's undoubtedly landed himself in by remaining so long at his future residence.
When he steps inside, hanging up his overcoat, however, he's accosted by his mother-in-law, one Mrs. Laura Morstan, a very proper older woman who has elected to stay with them for a few weeks and assist Mary in settling into their new home... despite the fact that they'd lived in it for two months before their official wedding day. Apparently more settling in is required now that they wear wedding bands. Watson doesn't quite understand this logic, but then, he doesn't make any claim to comprehend the strangeness of the fairer sex, generally speaking.
"Mrs. Morstan," he says, turning to find her already reaching for his hat. She's frowning, and resettles it on his head, clearly displeased by the severe angle he'd left it at, wanting to feel a bit like his younger self for a moment. He smiles a bit awkwardly at her, removing it and hanging it with his coat.
"Mother," she insists immediately, sending him a disapproving glance, and he yields, not feeling it worth the argument despite his severe discomfort at addressing her thusly.
"Mother," he echoes. "I do apologize for my lateness--"
"Oh, it was to be expected." She raises a brow, turning to return to the kitchen. "I do hope you haven’t been arrested again." His mother-in-law has never forgiven him for the afternoon during which he'd intended to meet all three Morstans for tea... and had gotten into a rather impressive tussle in Luke Reardon's laboratory instead, ending with the sinking of a boat that had been on the drydock for repairs... and his and Holmes' subsequent arrests and overnight sojourn in Scotland Yard.
He winces at her words but doesn't respond, not wishing to rehash the incident. It's a relief to find Mary in the dining room, already laying out the food; she sends him a knowing look when he again attempts to apologize for his tarrying, shaking her head and smiling slightly. "I do hope you gave Mr. Holmes my regards," she says lightly.
Smiling in return and feeling rather foolish for believing she'd be angry (she's always been such a supporter of his friendship with Holmes, after all, so long as his friend doesn't have more of Watson's time than she herself does, which Watson feels is fair of her), he takes his place at the head of the table and they begin to eat comfortably enough... until Mrs. Morstan decides that quiet is not acceptable.
She and Mary begin discussing the details for the small dinner the next evening, and Watson nods along, paying attention as best he can but already wishing himself into the next night. His mind is still caught on the murder, and the horrible knowledge that there will be another one such in only two days' time unless Holmes makes a miraculous deduction. This is of course entirely possible, and Watson hopes dearly for it.
But when he puts his elbow in the gravy, to Mary's stifled laughter and his mother-in-law's clear displeasure, he knows it's going to be a very long evening.
~~~~~
The next day for Holmes is spent in nearly feverish pursuit of several leads; though he starts very early in the morning, it is well into the afternoon before he returns to Baker Street and the safety of the sitting room (and his pipe). Although Holmes has always appreciated privacy, the ability to work unbothered, the rooms have become more and more stifling in a way the longer he's been alone.
All this has done is prompt him to leave more often and stay out longer; or when he can't (which happens often for days or weeks at a time, that Holmes simply will not leave his rooms), he spends much of his time in a drug-induced stupor. Resting has never been a favorite pastime of his, but in the time since the case involving Lord Blackwood, Holmes' sleeping has been even more irregular, owing to his subconscious' complete refusal to let a few key moments go. Sometimes he has nightmares where he watches Blackwood push the Woman off of the bridge; the few moments after that sight had been some of the worst of Holmes' life, until he had seen her lying beneath them, and her status among the living had been confirmed.
But more than that, it's the same nightmare every night, and that Holmes is powerless to stop: he watches over and over again every time he sleeps Watson turning to shout his name, to warn him in the brief seconds that had felt like an eternity, Holmes knowing exactly what was going to happen but knowing too late to stop it... and then the explosion. Over and over, and it wakes him up and he can never return to sleep, and sometimes he can never prove to himself that Watson hasn't actually died, because Watson isn't in his room anymore, and Holmes can no longer make some racket and wait for Watson to come storming downstairs and demand to know if Holmes has any idea the hour, and Holmes can pretend he's not relieved to see Watson still alive but rather involved in some very profound thinking.
And so Holmes has taken to sleeping only when necessary, and not bothering to try to return to sleep, but rather making more use of his time. Which he most certainly did today. Of course, in the back of his mind the entire time is Watson's dinner invitation, and so when he returns home, he begins the task of searching for clothing that is appropriate. And clean. That's the hardest part, but he does manage eventually.
Then the hair; Holmes seriously* considers not bothering with it simply because Watson had demanded he comb it, but in the end gives in and does as he was told, even a day late, because it won't just be Watson there, it'll be Mary as well and he has been trying to be generally more presentable in all ways with regards to her. Watson was right; she did earn his very grudging approval, and she did so the night she saw through his disguise and demanded that he solve the case for Watson's sake. And so, for her (absolutely not for Watson's sake), Holmes combs his hair and washes his face and all of the things Watson would demand of him were here there. And then he even manages to check the time, only to find that he has two hours before he should be there and nothing at all to do.
Which is why, though he does appear at Cavendish Place precisely on time, Holmes does so completely well groomed aside from the slight blue discoloration of his hands. Too late, he had realized that his idea for keeping himself busy for a couple of hours had perhaps not been the best solution, practically speaking. Also he may need a painter.
At the knock on the door, Watson has to fight not to leap up from his chair in the parlor (a rather overstuffed green fabric thing, nothing so comfortable as his lovely armchair at Baker Street), but rather forces himself to wait an extra beat and then rises, eschewing his walking stick and hurrying as quickly as he can to the door.
He jerks it open, pleased and relieved rather beyond reason to see Holmes actually on his doorstep, and right on time. "Not early tonight?" he quips, stepping back as his friend enters, and shutting the door behind them. He holds out his hand to be shaken and it's taken in a firm, warm grip. The familiarity of it all in the strange place is most unusual, but a relief all the same. And of course, their usual greeting. "Always nice to see you, Holmes."
No words are necessary as Watson takes his overcoat and hat, hanging them next to his own, of course, and then gesturing for Holmes to precede him into the sitting room. With his and Mary's incomes, they've been able to afford a small but tasteful townhouse in Cavendish Place, a more upper-class neighborhood than either of the Watsons are accustomed to.
It's decorated in stately shades of green, striped chairs and a flowered chaise, amongst other feminine touches that cause Watson to feel rather like he's invading Mary's chambers whenever he enters any room but his own office.
He does note the cleanliness of his friend's clothes and face, as well as the combed hair and the jacket. Even a cravat; he supposes he should be honored, he thinks dryly. But his quick glance over Holmes pauses when he notices the blueness of his hands. Without asking for any sort of permission (such a measure would be taken as quite out of the ordinary), Watson steps forward and puts a hand on Holmes' forehead before taking his right hand again, examining it for signs of oxygen deprivation... before he notices the rather obvious smell of copper permeating the air.
Holmes receives a rather tired shake of the head, and his hand is promptly dropped, Watson moving over to pour them each a small glass of brandy. "Mary and Mrs. Morstan are just finishing up, I believe," he says over his shoulder before turning to hand Holmes his drink. He wouldn't know how dinner is progressing, having been shooed out of kitchen and dining room alike. But much more importantly than food to Watson's mind is his friend's current case.
"Has there been any progress? Any developments today?" The words come quickly, betraying his keen interest, but Watson doesn't try to hide it. Tragic and foul the murders might be, but they're far more interesting than the head cold and case of dropsy he'd dealt with that day.
Not surprisingly, Holmes is quite happy to jump right into conversation about the case... although he admits to some interest upon hearing that Mrs. Morstan is present. Interest being, of course, the fact that neither Watson nor Mary seem to have thought this was a poor idea, considering the first impression he'd made on Mary. But then, considering the look on Watson's face as he'd mentioned his dear mother in law... he clearly had absolutely no choice at all in the matter.
Rather amused by that, Holmes nevertheless is glad to let the matter be until the mother in law makes an appearance. After all, he's been at the case all day and has had no one to explain any of it to. Holmes spends every case making discoveries, constantly noticing everything, but what enjoyment he receives from it is a bit reduced when there's no one to share any of it with.
"Several developments," Holmes allows, eyeing his rather blue hand himself for a moment. It's not so bad that it looks particularly oxygen-deprived. He'd say those two conditions are not similar at all, aside from the blue discoloration, but this color is darker than it would be had he been oxygen deprived, which is very interesting of course.
He considers for a moment not continuing on but rather asking after Watson's many patients just to force the doctor to inquire again, thus admitting twice over his interest in the case, but Holmes is far too interested in it himself not to carry on with it immediately (though there is a pause to enjoy some of the brandy Watson had handed him). "The paralytic produces a blue discoloration in the injection site," he explains after a moment. He holds up a hand. "Darker than this. I've visited every chemist and noteworthy doctor in the areas surrounding the murders, but no one has sold anything in a large enough quantity that would create such an effect." Which would suggest that the murderer knows what he's doing, not having had any help, and also that his supplies come from some other source.
Watson stares down at his hands, which are quite blue. Yes, rather dark blue themselves, and this of course leads him to conclude what had occurred. "What did you do, shove your hands into a vat of the stuff?" He stares at Holmes, far too familiar with the man's antics to feel any disbelief regarding this event. Rather, he just appears to be disturbed and rather resigned.
Sighing through his nose, he takes another sip of his own brandy, seeing for himself that if they'd been paralyzed before, Holmes' hands aren't now; his pupils are normal, and he'd noted a moment ago that his pulse had been regular. One of these days, though, the man wouldn't come out so well on the other end of one of his tests.
"Or it could mean that he purchased the supplies from another source entirely," he points out, leaning back against the writing desk, free hand shoved into his jacket pocket. "A less noteworthy apothecary, or someone nowhere near where the murders took place. You could always set Lestrade's men on it, of course." They'd be much more able to cover most of the city than just Holmes could. But the likelihood of any success before the clock ran out on the next murders the following day...
He hears voices in the dining room and sighs. So much for a pre-dinner discussion. He lowers his voice. "You said two days. Did you mean they'll be discovered tomorrow, or committed tomorrow and discovered later on?"
Completely ignoring any discussion on his experiments with the paralytics and the state of his hands, Holmes carries on quickly, waving it off as unimportant. "Committed tomorrow," he says, following Watson's lead in lowering his voice. Contrary to popular belief, he does not actually want to offend Mary. Anymore. But more importantly, he wants to continue discussing the case and knows very well that that could be ended by Mary or her mother with a word. "Tomorrow night. It's always at night. Likely discovered the day after at the earliest. There's no way to know where it might be without doing exactly what the murderer is doing, which is to search for the sort of men he requires."
Which... Holmes may or may not have actually been trying to do. Granted, one cannot simply walk up to another man on the street and inquire as to his sexual preference- not for lack of trying on Holmes' part, luckily he was disguised and avoided being shot- which has hindered his investigation in that manner rather severely. He's had to split his focus between the victims and the perpetrator, and had decided that the latter was the most obvious link to follow between them all.
And also, for reasons he does not share with Watson, Holmes is highly dubious regarding the use of Lestrade's men with regard to the paralytic. "No, Watson, that would be a waste of the resources of Scotland Yard, such as they are. I don't believe he bought any chemicals from any sort of apothecary at all. He knows better."
"Then how did he acquire them?" Watson is frowning, his attention clearly on the problem at hand, when another voice interrupts, sounding amused.
"How did who acquire what, John?" Watson turns quickly, smiling quicksilver fast at his wife, who has a brow raised as she eyes them both.
"Nothing suitable for polite conversation, Mary. Don't worry."
"It's lovely to see you, Mr. Holmes." Mary is quite ignoring her husband, looking far too interested in their topic of discussion. "A new case?" she asks the detective.
Before Holmes can explain anything about it, Watson interjects. "This might be best left for another time--"
"Do you make a point of not introducing your guests, John Watson?" His mother-in-law's clipped tones echo from the dining room, and he winces. Mary just looks amused, reclaiming her hand from Holmes' polite kiss.
"I shall question you later, then, Sir." Turning, she leads the way into the dining room, and Watson sends Holmes a warning look.
"She does not need to know, it will only give her nightmares." God knows he had a few interesting ones in the wee hours of the morning the night before, once Morpheus had finally visited him.
"I think you underestimate your wife, Watson, and goodness knows she has nothing to worry about," Holmes says, which he thinks is quite reasonable, especially considering the emphasis put on her gender. After all, she is as far from the murderer's victims as humanly possible. He would not kill a woman any more than Holmes or Watson would.
Holmes knows this of course, and it's quite reasonable, but he also knows what Watson means. Murder is not a proper discussion topic among polite company, especially in the company of polite women such as Mary. That is what Watson had meant; and she very well might have nightmares. After all, just because she is safe doesn't make the murders of six men any less gruesome.
Watson does not look pleased, and Holmes raises a blue hand in his defense. "I shall do my best to dissuade her, but she can be very tenacious." And then he turns to follow Mary and Watson obediently, but not before he abruptly finishes all of his brandy. He has the feeling he may need the fortification, having heard Mary's mother's voice. He's never heard anyone speak to Watson in such a tone, nor has he seen Watson flinch from such an accusation before. It's interesting. And a bit sinister. Holmes is quite interested.
Laura Morstan straightens from where she'd been setting out the last of the wineglasses, smiling at her daughter when she enters the room. Watson of course receives a much sterner smile, and Holmes barely more than a twitch of the lips, although she does hold out her hand to be kissed when Watson introduces her.
"Holmes, this is Mary's mother, Mrs. Morston. Mrs.--er, Mother, may I introduce Mr. Sherlock Holmes, my colle--" He cuts himself off for the second time, his eyes meeting Holmes' for a moment. They are no longer colleagues, are they? "My friend." The word, while a very apt descriptor of their relationship, sounds strange to say.
"Ah." Mrs. Morston manages to convey a wealth of feeling in that one syllable. "The infamous Mr. Holmes. I've heard a great deal about you." And clearly she does not approve of him being invited to what is certainly a family affair; if it were intended for friends, many of Mary's would have been invited. "How kind of you to join our small family dinner this evening."
"Mother," Mary says, the slight warning audible in her voice.
Watson pulls out his wife's chair for her, repeating the process for his mother-in-law a moment later. "Mrs. Morston, Holmes is my family." And he'll thank her kindly to remember that.
Although Holmes had not been surprised either by Mrs. Morstan's chilly reception of him or Watson's confusion as to how to refer to him now that they are no longer colleagues, this last statement from Watson does startle him, and his eyes widen slightly before he can force his expression back to neutrality.
He doesn't imagine he and Watson have quite the same ideas when it comes to "family"; that much is evident in their lifestyles and what discussions they have had on the matter. But even with that being so, Holmes knows what being referred to as his family means, and for some reason, feels a twinge of sadness upon hearing it that is quickly squashed, replaced by interest in Mrs. Morstan.
"Mrs. Morstan," he says after a moment, completely ignoring the way Watson is trying not to wince at him addressing the older woman; the man has no faith in him whatsoever. Holmes hasn't the slightest what he's done to deserve such a reaction, but it is quite insulting that Watson wouldn't trust him to behave himself. "I cannot thank you or your daughter enough for allowing me to join your celebration." He pauses. "And I must say, whatever it is you've heard about me was undoubtedly all fabricated by the doctor. He has quite a flare for the dramatic."
"Oh, yes, I'm the dramatic one," Watson mutters. "Theatrical old fool."
"John," Mary scolds quietly, but Mrs. Morstan's lips have thinned into a line.
"He possesses a flare for something, that is for certain." She sips her wine as Watson leans forward to start serving the food. "We ladies did wonder what exactly the two of you were discussing so heatedly." She arches a brow, looking back and forth between the detective and her son-in-law. "Planning the sinking of another ship?"
Watson's grip on the serving ladle slips, and it falls back into the stew with a small splash. "Mrs. Morstan--"
"I do insist that you call me Mother, John."
Breathing out through his nose, Watson resumes serving. "Mother, those were in fact extenuating circumstances during which we'd been set upon by three arsonists, and we were merely defending ourselves--"
"Actually, madam, we had been tentatively planning on next Tuesday," Holmes cuts Watson off mid-sentence, quite happy to speak over him when necessary. Although Watson's discomfort is highly entertaining, the man's mother-in-law appears to neither have a sense of humor nor a pleasant word for Watson, and Holmes finds himself wondering how in the world she managed to raise a gentler, more pleasant woman such as Mary.
A flare for something. Holmes is having trouble understanding why Mrs. Morstan would dislike Watson so; after all, he's used to people disliking him, but Watson has almost always made a good impression on... well, everyone. What could he possibly have done? The moods of women are most baffling, and that is highly annoying to someone who is used to understanding... most everything he encounters, given time.
The ladle slips again, but Holmes is quite ignoring Watson in favor of Mrs. Morstan, and then Mary, as he continues on quite pleasantly. "But I was hoping to double check that with you, my dear," he says to Watson's wife. "As Watson did not handle jail particularly well last time and I don't want to keep his patients waiting."
Amused, Mary smiles, having to stifle a grin at the memory of John's apologies after she'd bailed him out of prison. "I will make sure to clear his schedule for Tuesday and Wednesday, and to pack him a pillow."
"I don't appreciate all of this--" Watson tries to interject, but they've continued on by then, and he lets out a martyr-like sigh, finishing with the serving and falling back into his own seat, draining his wineglass and ignoring his mother-in-law's frown. It is impossible, however, to ignore her voice.
"That is not a joking matter," she snaps. "To have to rescue one's future husband from jail the day after he missed his appointment to meet his future in-laws. Shameful, all three of you."
"To be fair, Mother," Mary says delicately, "I left Mr. Holmes where he was."
"I learned my lesson quite thoroughly," Holmes agrees. Mary had indeed left him where she'd found him, without Watson (who had been yelling at him anyway, quite unfairly). Granted, he had then gone on to befriend the largest, most intimidating criminal in the lot and had been quite enjoying the company of most of the inmates when he'd been rescued by Lestrade anyway.
So of course, no lesson was learned except the same lesson that keeps being ingrained in Holmes during every one of his adventures: that one can get out of any situation, no matter how bleak it may appear, if one is clever enough. And he is. Granted, just in case, he has been doing his best to remember several new jokes, just in case he should need to entertain criminals again. He supposes that was a lesson learned.
And though he’s always been quite happy to blame just about everything on Watson, Holmes finds that he does not appreciate the blame being hurled at the other man in such a manner. It seems quite unfair. “Of course it was all entirely Watson’s fault. The arsonists were peaceful gentlemen, their career choices aside. I hardly know what possessed him to attack the poor men in such a manner, but I simply couldn‘t leave him to defend himself once he had incurred their wrath.”
At this, Watson can't keep silent. "Once I had incurred their wrath?" he echoes disbelievingly. "As I recall, I was not the one to send an electric shock through that behemoth Dredger until he attempted to kill us both." Pause. "Twice. Twice, Holmes. And which of us was left to deal with him while you followed the Woman?"
Mary appears to be shaking with laughter; Mrs. Morston does not appear to be able to summon a suitable reply to all of this, and stares at Watson, her mouth open slightly.
"Entirely inappropriate behavior for gentlemen," she scolds faintly after a moment. "To run around getting into scrapes. You might as well be dock workers gambling in some sort of illegal cockfighting or boxing ring."
At that, Mary raises a brow and exchanges a glance with Watson, whose lips twitch beneath his mustache. She still hasn't forgotten that stub from the last boxing match he'd attended. He wouldn't mind going to another, actually, for old times' sake, but it seems severely unlikely now, in his new life.
"Mother," he says, his voice barely strained; Mary won't pick up on it, although she knows how much he dislikes referring to her mother thusly, but Holmes will. "Have you had word from Mr. Morstan?" Mary's father had gone on a trip to Paris for a few weeks on business with the shipping company for whom he worked, thereby freeing his wife to stay with their daughter. Watson reminds himself once again to send the man a thank-you gift. Perhaps a package of handkerchiefs, after one of his patients has sneezed all over them.
Having unfortunately- and completely unjustly!- been kicked under the table by Watson the moment he opened his mouth to comment on the idea of fighting in an illegal gambling ring, Holmes remains silent for the time being. He has no idea what he had planned to say, which makes Watson’s reaction completely uncalled for, but Holmes does shut his mouth again. He supposes Mrs. Morstan could do without knowing that one need not be a dock worker to fight in an illegal gambling ring, or that it can be quite lucrative if you’re both intelligent and a skilled boxer, which he is.
Mrs. Morstan, however, is quite allowed to speak and sees no need to spare the table her opinions or responses. Granted, Watson had addressed her. Holmes doesn’t quite see the wisdom of this approach, but then undoubtedly Watson does not see the wisdom of taunting her.
“I received a telegram today, in fact,” she responds stiffly, seemingly pleased that both men had stopped recounting their adventures. “Apparently he has made some sort of deal that will require him to remain in Paris for a week or two more.”
Holmes’ eyes widen very minutely at that, and he glances sidelong at Watson. He hadn’t missed Watson’s dislike for referring to Mrs. Morstan as “mother”; and so it hardly surprises him to see the twinge of annoyance upon hearing that Mr. Morstan will not be returning to her own home. Obviously Mrs. Morstan’s presence here is due to her husband’s extended stay in Paris. He would almost feel sorry for Watson, were he not so very amused by all of this.
"Oh, that's wonderful, Mother," Mary says, appearing to be genuinely pleased, although when her mother looks away again, Watson doesn't miss the slight press of her lips indicating some annoyance. He can certainly sympathize. At least her mother likes her.
Dinner continues on in this fashion, with Holmes making comments entirely unsuited for the company of Mary's mother and Watson receiving the brunt of the disapproving looks after each new ridiculous notion from Holmes. Mary is entirely unhelpful, managing to look just disapproving enough to satisfy her mother but also somehow egging Holmes on at the same time. Watson is quite relieved when they finish with dessert, and after a brief offer to assist with the dishes (the housekeeper will manage it, apparently), he excuses himself and his friend and leads the way into his office, shutting the door behind Holmes.
Dropping into his chair, he rests his elbows on his desk and drags a hand through his hair. "Another brandy?" he offers in a muffled voice.
“Please,” Holmes says, wandering about the office a bit, shamelessly inspecting things as he goes. He knows better than to move anything far from its origin by now (having lived with Watson for years), but that does not stop him from being nosy in general. He has a knack of course for putting things back exactly where he had found them, and thus managing to both placate Watson’s desire for neatness and invade his privacy at the same time.
He doesn’t go so far as to open drawers or poke about tonight, but Holmes does turn a critical eye on the entire room, inspecting it in the same fashion he inspects everything. It is most certainly Watson’s office, this room, and yet... not. It doesn’t exude the same Watsonness that his office at Baker Street had. Although not for lack of trying, if one judges by the obsessive neatness of the entire place. Holmes briefly considers stealing one of Watson’s pens, but he’ll wait until Watson isn’t looking for a reason to hit someone.
“Mrs. Morstan is quite charming,” he says in the same flat manner he says most anything, especially when it is not true. “Or should I say your dear Mother?”
Watson does nothing more than grunt, relieved to be away from the women and therefore not required to maintain perfect decorum. If he were less of a gentleman, he would mutter under his breath, but as it is he simply hoists himself out of the chair again, moving over to the cabinet where he keeps his alcohol and pouring them each two shots' worth, this time, neither on the rocks, as preferred.
Handing one to Holmes, he falls back into his chair, loosening his tie and undoing the top button of his collar. "It's not right that I should have to call her that," he says a bit sullenly. "I'm not comfortable with it. I had a mother, and she died. But Mary says it's easier to simply oblige her." He snorts. "Hadn't expected her to stay for a few more weeks."
Looking around at the familiar items in still-unfamiliar places, Watson shakes his head slowly. The air in here is warmer, now, which is abnormal since there is no fire in the grate. But for some reason it's less of an office and more of a haven, with Holmes here, prowling about and clearly observing everything.
"Well?" he asks after a moment, pushing his chair back on its back legs and propping his boots up on the desk, finally relaxing with a long sigh. "What are your conclusions, then?" They're both aware that he's not referring to the investigation, but rather to what Holmes has observed about Watson's new life.
There is a pause, during which Holmes does not look at Watson, but rather inspects the nearest bookshelf with interest before turning back to the doctor. It’s always interesting to him that Watson should still want to know his conclusions even when it is quite possible that he will not appreciate what Holmes has to say, but as he is never one to keep his observations and the conclusions he comes to through them to himself indefinitely, Holmes obliges him.
“You’re not comfortable here,” he says after a moment, referring to the office, and undoubtedly the entire home. He has always been merciless in his conclusions, even when he knows it won’t be what the receiving party wants to hear, because in matters of deduction there is no room for mercy or any sort of emotion. “You’ve set everything in your office as near to exactly the same as your previous office as possible, but it will never be the same because it is not the same room or receptacle for your things, and as such all it does is remind you of the previous office, making it impossible for it to be comforting either as a new space, or in the old fashion.”
He waves his hand vaguely towards the door. “The rest of the house is the same,” he says. “Mary took care of all of it, and you let her. But now none of it is yours.” He pause. “Mother dearest certainly does not help. You‘ve been a month away and now, having returned to her, have had no time to make this place your own.”
But the conclusions go even further, and these Holmes draws from details not simply of this house, but Watson’s demeanor since he has moved out, his tiredness, his proclivity towards yelling at Holmes both when he is ignored and when he is bothered too much, the ease with which Holmes convinced him to stay the day before. “Your things are here but it is not your own,” he says. “Your things are moved from Baker Street, and so neither is that flat.” He picks up the nearest pen (from Watson’s desk) to inspect it closely for a moment, and then points it at him. “You’re adrift, Watson. That is why you can’t sleep.”
Well, that and he suspects Mary steals all of the blankets, but Holmes keeps that deduction to himself.
Watson doesn't reply for a long time, although he does glance up at Holmes when his pen is suddenly pointed at him. As per usual, everything Holmes says makes perfect sense, and Watson is able to step outside of his situation and view it with a sudden clarity. The feeling is a relief, so much of one that he suddenly wants to cry, despite the fact that he would never do so, not even if he were alone. The shame of it would be unbearable.
He does understand. He no longer lives at Baker Street, all of his things, his practice, his life moved here to Cavendish Place, but he himself has not moved. He's caught somewhere on Paddington Street, halfway between the two, and can't move forward or back.
"I can't find my role here," he admits quietly. "Mary is gone all day during the week, while I see my patients, and we're doing well..." That is, of course, the most important thing, that they're settled and prepared for the future. "She's been speaking of having a child. I want children of course, but the idea terrifies me, and we've only returned two days ago from Chichester." Only married a month, and none of that spent in this residence.
There is nowhere for him to relax and let his guard down. Isn't that the sort of relationship a man should have with his wife? To come home and lounge about, some comfortable conversation or discussion, no need to pretend or keep on the mask. But here, it's as though if he lets the mask slip just a little... well, he simply can't do that in front of Mary. He just... cannot.
"You're right, of course," he says finally, still musing. "But how am I to be comfortable?" He's convinced it's, as always, Holmes' fault. Not directly this time, at least, but Watson knew his role in their shared rooms. Knew what he would do, how Holmes would react, knew that he could speak his mind and not worry about how it would sound. If only he could just stop worrying, it can't be good for his health...
“I would suggest getting rid of the old bat, first off,” Holmes says matter-of-factly. “Her presence has you twitching. Interesting as that might be from a psychosocial standpoint, I don’t imagine it’s good for your health.”
Of course, to Holmes it is as simple as “getting rid” of her, but he knows that with Watson it will not be so simple, in the same way that he had allowed her to stay with them in the first place, that he doesn’t always charge his patients when they have fallen upon bad times, that he allowed Mary to decorate the entire house because she enjoyed it so. But he asked, and Holmes will give him a list.
Whether or not he particularly wants Watson to be comfortable here... does not matter. Watson had asked for his advice, based upon his ability to see things from a completely rational manner, and as his friend Holmes must give the information to him. It’s easy to see that Watson wants this new life very badly, that he is certain it will make him happy in the end. And yet, now he is not. After all... Holmes is not blind to Watson’s state. He is certainly not happy, and... well, at least one of them should be.
“Tell Mary your fears about children,” he adds, listing them all of as one would list items on a grocery list. “Do not have any until you are comfortable here, because a child will change it all again and you’ll go mad playing catch-up to it all.” He glances around the office again. “Move your things to suit this room, not the old one.” He pauses, and then adds, "And perhaps sleep on the right side of the bed."
The last gets Watson to look up again; he'd appreciated the value of the other suggestions, and as always wonders if he should be making a list. He thinks he'll remember, this time, but the bit about the bed... Very slowly, one corner of his mouth quirks up in a wry smile, and he decides that he really doesn't want to know how Holmes deduced the problem of Mary stealing the blankets.
"Thank you," he says finally, nodding. There's a pause as the silence extends onward and Watson casts about for what should follow that. "You know I appreciate it, Holmes." Even if he also knows that it must be difficult for his friend to help him adjust to this place when the detective fought so hard against Watson's marriage and move in the first place.
A voice in the back of his head murmurs that perhaps Holmes had been right, perhaps he does dread a life without their macabre investigations, and the adventures that inevitably go along with them--misadventures, he reminds himself--but he silences that voice immediately. He reminds himself that he has a full docket of patients, now, enough to fill each day, and there will be quite enough to keep him busy, and once his mother-in-law leaves, plenty of quiet, comfortable conversation with Mary once he grows accustomed to this place.
Because surely, if he does everything Holmes has recommended, he will. He can speak to Mary at the next opportunity for a private conversation (meaning one without her mother present), and he's certain she'll understand his wishing to wait a little while before a child. And certainly a switch in sleeping positions is not an immense request. As for his office furnishings...
He stands, moving over to the sculptures sitting on the windowsill, and reaches down to grasp one, intending to move it to his bookshelf... but he stops, suddenly, retracting his hand. "I'll do it later," he mutters, stepping sideways to the brandy cabinet instead and refilling his glass. "More?"
Unsurprisingly, Holmes has finished the brandy Watson had poured for him by now, and suddenly finds himself in dire need of another. “Please,” he says, handing his glass over immediately.
He says nothing about whether Watson appreciates it, or the fact that he had been unable to follow through with any of the suggestions at present. He won’t want to hear Holmes’ deductions regarding that. As always, for every detail or inference Holmes tells Watson, there are ten more that he keeps to himself. He observes everything, and unable to shut his mind down or keep it from a problem, no matter how small, he then infers even more than he’d observed.
Watson appreciates some of the things Holmes tells him, and some he certainly does not, but though Holmes rarely if ever edits himself based on Watson’s preferences, he does edit himself (he knows Watson would find that hard to believe). It is simply usually based on the desire to keep things to himself or to let Watson discover certain details on his own for the time being.
And some things remain unsaid because the things Holmes deduces from them, he does not care to know himself.
It's only a little while later that Mary knocks on the closed door and insists that they rejoin the ladies in the parlor, for John can't be permitted to have their guest all to himself. Looking rather resigned, Watson therefore leads the way back to what he's begun to refer to as the Green Room, sinking down onto the less comfortable chair next to the fire. Holmes, unsurprisingly, remains standing and resumes his earlier prowl about the room, observing everything as usual.
Thankfully, his friend keeps to his word and manages to navigate the conversation away from his current case, difficult though Watson knows that must be for him, as his investigations are always by far the detective's preferred topic of discussion. But Mary receives no more of an explanation than that several men had been murdered, and that the papers hadn't run the story at the request of Scotland Yard.
To no one's surprise, Mrs. Morstan is exceedingly disturbed by this revelation of Holmes' interests, and spends at least half an hour commenting upon and scolding them all regarding their morbid hobbies. Even Mary does not escape condemnation, as she prefers to read detective novels above all else (and would in fact simply love to accompany Mr. Holmes on an investigation, not that Watson will ever allow that so long as he is still breathing). Holmes, however, receives a swift dismissal, as Mrs. Morstan had nearly given up 'conversing' with him at dinner.
Watson, to his severe lack of shock, is gifted with a lecture on improper interests for properly married gentlemen, and is swiftly informed that he'll have no clients of a certain status at all if he continues to gallivant off and have himself bloodied and/or arrested. He forces himself not to point out that he'd had quite a respectable set of clients while practicing at Baker Street, not wanting to begin an argument, but it's extremely difficult to hold back.
Holmes does finally look at his watch (not for the first time, for which Watson blames his mother-in-law entirely, as it is completely her fault that his closest friend wishes to leave) and announces that he must bid them goodnight. It's only almost ten, however, and Watson trails after him to the door, handing him his coat and hat with no little reluctance. "A lead or the docks?" he asks, stomping down any wistfulness.
“I have high hopes for both,” Holmes says, placing his own hat firmly upon his head in what might very well be an effort to ruin what combing he’d done to his hair earlier. He’d managed to keep from either running his hand through it or attempting to pull it out all night, and he’s had quite enough of that.
He turns to Watson, not missing any of the wistfulness, and knows very well that had they still been at Baker Street, it wouldn’t have taken any convincing at all to get Watson to go with him no matter what he had awaiting him in the morning. And yet here, there is no chance to convince the doctor, as he would surely be tied up and thrown in a closet by his mother in law, her all the while assuring him that it is for his own good. That woman, Holmes has decided, is one more very good reason never to marry. The mother in law. He wonders if the Woman ever had a mother, or if she just appeared one day fully grown and began her reign of terror free of the bonds of family.
Holmes finds himself hoping so, just a little. If Mary’s mother is this bad, he can’t imagine what hers would be like.
“Two more men will die tomorrow night,” he says as he pulls on his coat, managing to gesture and pull the coat on at once, which done by anyone else would look ridiculous. Holmes just looks... well, like Holmes. “If these leads prove inadequate, the next crime will provide more information, but I would prefer in this case to get more from less.” Watson understands, he’s certain. As much as Holmes appreciates an abundance of data, even he cannot say he would like another pair of murders to be committed to help him collect it.
"Yes, of course," Watson says immediately, in full agreement on that point. He sighs slightly, fighting back the yearning to go off with Holmes and damn the women, to track down a lead and possibly get into a scrap, and make off with a good few wins betting on Holmes in the boxing arena.
Instead, he merely clears his throat. "Well, have a good evening, old boy." But Holmes is already turning and heading down the steps, not one for long goodbyes, and Watson watches him stride off for a moment before shutting the door. He does up the locks quickly, before he can give into the urge to put on his own coat and hat and hurry off after his friend. To feel the cool night air and the excitement stemming from heading off into the unknown, the knowledge that the night could bring any sort of adventure.
Misadventure. Not adventure.
It's still early, but Mary is heading for the stairs and sending him a welcoming, sly sort of smile. He knows he's meant to follow, knows that after only a month of marriage he should be unable to think of much else besides his wife's embrace, but his mind is on the case and on Holmes heading off on his own. What would he do if his friend were the one discovered murdered on the docks the next morning? Left to be muttered over by an incompetent Inspector, the highest insult to the great detective.
But Watson cannot go after him, as he has reminded himself for months... and so he follows Mary slowly up the stairs, his mind racing... and realizes that he's going to have to discuss his desire to wait for children before things progress any further. That's not to say, of course, that they cannot still enjoy themselves, but she likely still won't be pleased.
He catches sight of Mrs. Morstan's disapproving stare as he reaches the landing, the older woman already wearing her thick nightrobe and white cap, and fights back a scream of frustration. This night will be even longer than the last, and he's undoubtedly going to lie awake all night, worrying after Holmes.
Again.
Mother hen, indeed.
~~~~~
So close, now, to another crime, Holmes does not sleep at all through the night, spending several hours in the dark houses where the last crimes had been committed, trying to make more clear the specter of the murderer in his mind. Then, after passing some hours at the docks (and allowing himself a few brief moments to imagine Mrs. Morstan’s face upon seeing what he’s been doing all night), his mind sufficiently cleared at the expense of a bleeding lip and several not insubstantial bruises, he returns to the night to follow another lead.
Of course, he hadn’t quite intended to wait out the entire day hidden in a broken cabinet behind an apothecary’s shop- actually a front for the more nefarious dealings occurring in the alleyway behind- until the proprietor and his muscle, as it were, step out for a moment. By the time he manages to return to Baker Street, it’s mid-afternoon, and Holmes finds Mrs. Hudson informing him that Lestrade had send someone to collect him earlier, but as he could not be found, he had left.
Certain Lestrade has not found anything but rather, wishes to know what he had found, Holmes ignores Mrs. Hudson’s insistence that he should at least let the Inspector know that he’s alive. He certainly cannot explain to her that he is avoiding the Inspector and his men more than usual. She would want to know why, and nothing bothers Holmes more than when people ask “why” without attempting to discover it for themselves first. “Why” is a question you ask yourself and your surroundings.
By this point he is not only dirty, he seems to have lost his coat and at some point, gained a bottle which is at this point empty but was not just a few moments ago. Holmes drops that square in the middle of his desk, picks up his violin for a few minutes, and then before the hour is out is gone again. He will neither eat nor sleep today, but rely solely upon his will and mind to keep him upright. By now, Holmes can feel the passing of time towards the hour when two innocent (well, not strictly speaking, but innocent in Holmes‘ mind) men will be killed as surely as if the clock were ticking on his own death.
He won’t find the killer tonight, not unless luck intervenes. He does not have enough information to catch the man or find his next intended murder before he arrives. But that is his failing, and it does not excuse him from his job. He has work to do.
And so when the next dawn arrives, Holmes is found, waiting, in the sitting room in his flat at Baker Street, sitting in his chair and smoking. Other chemicals had kept him up the entirety of the night (after being awake the night before), and as much is obvious from the look of him. But he has not slept, and he knows what Clarky has to say before the man even opens his mouth. Pulling on his hat and sunglasses, Holmes stands, not removing the pipe from his mouth as he quickly pulls on another coat over the clothing he‘s been wearing for two days.
Two more dead, then. But that should be enough.
~~~~~
Part Three
Author: agaryulnaer86 and Sarisa
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Holmes/Watson, pre-slash
Disclaimer: Not ours.
Summary: The newlyweds return from their honeymoon. Watson is having some trouble adjusting. Also, murder.
Spoilers: Movie
Warnings: More angst and more hissy fits.
Word Count: 8,615
Author's Notes: Epic-fic, part two. More to come, probably closer to fourteen.
Part One
Watson returns to Cavendish Place some five hours later than he'd intended, feeling oddly almost as though he should knock when he reaches the front door, glancing over at the stone-carved placard next to the doorbell, which proclaims this the practice (and residence) of one John H. Watson, M. D., at Number 169, Cavendish Place.
Feeling a sudden and inexplicable animosity towards that sign, Watson tosses his walking stick upwards slightly, catching it near the middle and making his awkward way up the stairs, shoving open the front door before he can allow himself to contemplate ridiculousness any further. Any desire to return to Baker Street and sit down with Holmes to dine in their customary armchairs is no doubt merely a desire to escape the trouble he's undoubtedly landed himself in by remaining so long at his future residence.
When he steps inside, hanging up his overcoat, however, he's accosted by his mother-in-law, one Mrs. Laura Morstan, a very proper older woman who has elected to stay with them for a few weeks and assist Mary in settling into their new home... despite the fact that they'd lived in it for two months before their official wedding day. Apparently more settling in is required now that they wear wedding bands. Watson doesn't quite understand this logic, but then, he doesn't make any claim to comprehend the strangeness of the fairer sex, generally speaking.
"Mrs. Morstan," he says, turning to find her already reaching for his hat. She's frowning, and resettles it on his head, clearly displeased by the severe angle he'd left it at, wanting to feel a bit like his younger self for a moment. He smiles a bit awkwardly at her, removing it and hanging it with his coat.
"Mother," she insists immediately, sending him a disapproving glance, and he yields, not feeling it worth the argument despite his severe discomfort at addressing her thusly.
"Mother," he echoes. "I do apologize for my lateness--"
"Oh, it was to be expected." She raises a brow, turning to return to the kitchen. "I do hope you haven’t been arrested again." His mother-in-law has never forgiven him for the afternoon during which he'd intended to meet all three Morstans for tea... and had gotten into a rather impressive tussle in Luke Reardon's laboratory instead, ending with the sinking of a boat that had been on the drydock for repairs... and his and Holmes' subsequent arrests and overnight sojourn in Scotland Yard.
He winces at her words but doesn't respond, not wishing to rehash the incident. It's a relief to find Mary in the dining room, already laying out the food; she sends him a knowing look when he again attempts to apologize for his tarrying, shaking her head and smiling slightly. "I do hope you gave Mr. Holmes my regards," she says lightly.
Smiling in return and feeling rather foolish for believing she'd be angry (she's always been such a supporter of his friendship with Holmes, after all, so long as his friend doesn't have more of Watson's time than she herself does, which Watson feels is fair of her), he takes his place at the head of the table and they begin to eat comfortably enough... until Mrs. Morstan decides that quiet is not acceptable.
She and Mary begin discussing the details for the small dinner the next evening, and Watson nods along, paying attention as best he can but already wishing himself into the next night. His mind is still caught on the murder, and the horrible knowledge that there will be another one such in only two days' time unless Holmes makes a miraculous deduction. This is of course entirely possible, and Watson hopes dearly for it.
But when he puts his elbow in the gravy, to Mary's stifled laughter and his mother-in-law's clear displeasure, he knows it's going to be a very long evening.
~~~~~
The next day for Holmes is spent in nearly feverish pursuit of several leads; though he starts very early in the morning, it is well into the afternoon before he returns to Baker Street and the safety of the sitting room (and his pipe). Although Holmes has always appreciated privacy, the ability to work unbothered, the rooms have become more and more stifling in a way the longer he's been alone.
All this has done is prompt him to leave more often and stay out longer; or when he can't (which happens often for days or weeks at a time, that Holmes simply will not leave his rooms), he spends much of his time in a drug-induced stupor. Resting has never been a favorite pastime of his, but in the time since the case involving Lord Blackwood, Holmes' sleeping has been even more irregular, owing to his subconscious' complete refusal to let a few key moments go. Sometimes he has nightmares where he watches Blackwood push the Woman off of the bridge; the few moments after that sight had been some of the worst of Holmes' life, until he had seen her lying beneath them, and her status among the living had been confirmed.
But more than that, it's the same nightmare every night, and that Holmes is powerless to stop: he watches over and over again every time he sleeps Watson turning to shout his name, to warn him in the brief seconds that had felt like an eternity, Holmes knowing exactly what was going to happen but knowing too late to stop it... and then the explosion. Over and over, and it wakes him up and he can never return to sleep, and sometimes he can never prove to himself that Watson hasn't actually died, because Watson isn't in his room anymore, and Holmes can no longer make some racket and wait for Watson to come storming downstairs and demand to know if Holmes has any idea the hour, and Holmes can pretend he's not relieved to see Watson still alive but rather involved in some very profound thinking.
And so Holmes has taken to sleeping only when necessary, and not bothering to try to return to sleep, but rather making more use of his time. Which he most certainly did today. Of course, in the back of his mind the entire time is Watson's dinner invitation, and so when he returns home, he begins the task of searching for clothing that is appropriate. And clean. That's the hardest part, but he does manage eventually.
Then the hair; Holmes seriously* considers not bothering with it simply because Watson had demanded he comb it, but in the end gives in and does as he was told, even a day late, because it won't just be Watson there, it'll be Mary as well and he has been trying to be generally more presentable in all ways with regards to her. Watson was right; she did earn his very grudging approval, and she did so the night she saw through his disguise and demanded that he solve the case for Watson's sake. And so, for her (absolutely not for Watson's sake), Holmes combs his hair and washes his face and all of the things Watson would demand of him were here there. And then he even manages to check the time, only to find that he has two hours before he should be there and nothing at all to do.
Which is why, though he does appear at Cavendish Place precisely on time, Holmes does so completely well groomed aside from the slight blue discoloration of his hands. Too late, he had realized that his idea for keeping himself busy for a couple of hours had perhaps not been the best solution, practically speaking. Also he may need a painter.
At the knock on the door, Watson has to fight not to leap up from his chair in the parlor (a rather overstuffed green fabric thing, nothing so comfortable as his lovely armchair at Baker Street), but rather forces himself to wait an extra beat and then rises, eschewing his walking stick and hurrying as quickly as he can to the door.
He jerks it open, pleased and relieved rather beyond reason to see Holmes actually on his doorstep, and right on time. "Not early tonight?" he quips, stepping back as his friend enters, and shutting the door behind them. He holds out his hand to be shaken and it's taken in a firm, warm grip. The familiarity of it all in the strange place is most unusual, but a relief all the same. And of course, their usual greeting. "Always nice to see you, Holmes."
No words are necessary as Watson takes his overcoat and hat, hanging them next to his own, of course, and then gesturing for Holmes to precede him into the sitting room. With his and Mary's incomes, they've been able to afford a small but tasteful townhouse in Cavendish Place, a more upper-class neighborhood than either of the Watsons are accustomed to.
It's decorated in stately shades of green, striped chairs and a flowered chaise, amongst other feminine touches that cause Watson to feel rather like he's invading Mary's chambers whenever he enters any room but his own office.
He does note the cleanliness of his friend's clothes and face, as well as the combed hair and the jacket. Even a cravat; he supposes he should be honored, he thinks dryly. But his quick glance over Holmes pauses when he notices the blueness of his hands. Without asking for any sort of permission (such a measure would be taken as quite out of the ordinary), Watson steps forward and puts a hand on Holmes' forehead before taking his right hand again, examining it for signs of oxygen deprivation... before he notices the rather obvious smell of copper permeating the air.
Holmes receives a rather tired shake of the head, and his hand is promptly dropped, Watson moving over to pour them each a small glass of brandy. "Mary and Mrs. Morstan are just finishing up, I believe," he says over his shoulder before turning to hand Holmes his drink. He wouldn't know how dinner is progressing, having been shooed out of kitchen and dining room alike. But much more importantly than food to Watson's mind is his friend's current case.
"Has there been any progress? Any developments today?" The words come quickly, betraying his keen interest, but Watson doesn't try to hide it. Tragic and foul the murders might be, but they're far more interesting than the head cold and case of dropsy he'd dealt with that day.
Not surprisingly, Holmes is quite happy to jump right into conversation about the case... although he admits to some interest upon hearing that Mrs. Morstan is present. Interest being, of course, the fact that neither Watson nor Mary seem to have thought this was a poor idea, considering the first impression he'd made on Mary. But then, considering the look on Watson's face as he'd mentioned his dear mother in law... he clearly had absolutely no choice at all in the matter.
Rather amused by that, Holmes nevertheless is glad to let the matter be until the mother in law makes an appearance. After all, he's been at the case all day and has had no one to explain any of it to. Holmes spends every case making discoveries, constantly noticing everything, but what enjoyment he receives from it is a bit reduced when there's no one to share any of it with.
"Several developments," Holmes allows, eyeing his rather blue hand himself for a moment. It's not so bad that it looks particularly oxygen-deprived. He'd say those two conditions are not similar at all, aside from the blue discoloration, but this color is darker than it would be had he been oxygen deprived, which is very interesting of course.
He considers for a moment not continuing on but rather asking after Watson's many patients just to force the doctor to inquire again, thus admitting twice over his interest in the case, but Holmes is far too interested in it himself not to carry on with it immediately (though there is a pause to enjoy some of the brandy Watson had handed him). "The paralytic produces a blue discoloration in the injection site," he explains after a moment. He holds up a hand. "Darker than this. I've visited every chemist and noteworthy doctor in the areas surrounding the murders, but no one has sold anything in a large enough quantity that would create such an effect." Which would suggest that the murderer knows what he's doing, not having had any help, and also that his supplies come from some other source.
Watson stares down at his hands, which are quite blue. Yes, rather dark blue themselves, and this of course leads him to conclude what had occurred. "What did you do, shove your hands into a vat of the stuff?" He stares at Holmes, far too familiar with the man's antics to feel any disbelief regarding this event. Rather, he just appears to be disturbed and rather resigned.
Sighing through his nose, he takes another sip of his own brandy, seeing for himself that if they'd been paralyzed before, Holmes' hands aren't now; his pupils are normal, and he'd noted a moment ago that his pulse had been regular. One of these days, though, the man wouldn't come out so well on the other end of one of his tests.
"Or it could mean that he purchased the supplies from another source entirely," he points out, leaning back against the writing desk, free hand shoved into his jacket pocket. "A less noteworthy apothecary, or someone nowhere near where the murders took place. You could always set Lestrade's men on it, of course." They'd be much more able to cover most of the city than just Holmes could. But the likelihood of any success before the clock ran out on the next murders the following day...
He hears voices in the dining room and sighs. So much for a pre-dinner discussion. He lowers his voice. "You said two days. Did you mean they'll be discovered tomorrow, or committed tomorrow and discovered later on?"
Completely ignoring any discussion on his experiments with the paralytics and the state of his hands, Holmes carries on quickly, waving it off as unimportant. "Committed tomorrow," he says, following Watson's lead in lowering his voice. Contrary to popular belief, he does not actually want to offend Mary. Anymore. But more importantly, he wants to continue discussing the case and knows very well that that could be ended by Mary or her mother with a word. "Tomorrow night. It's always at night. Likely discovered the day after at the earliest. There's no way to know where it might be without doing exactly what the murderer is doing, which is to search for the sort of men he requires."
Which... Holmes may or may not have actually been trying to do. Granted, one cannot simply walk up to another man on the street and inquire as to his sexual preference- not for lack of trying on Holmes' part, luckily he was disguised and avoided being shot- which has hindered his investigation in that manner rather severely. He's had to split his focus between the victims and the perpetrator, and had decided that the latter was the most obvious link to follow between them all.
And also, for reasons he does not share with Watson, Holmes is highly dubious regarding the use of Lestrade's men with regard to the paralytic. "No, Watson, that would be a waste of the resources of Scotland Yard, such as they are. I don't believe he bought any chemicals from any sort of apothecary at all. He knows better."
"Then how did he acquire them?" Watson is frowning, his attention clearly on the problem at hand, when another voice interrupts, sounding amused.
"How did who acquire what, John?" Watson turns quickly, smiling quicksilver fast at his wife, who has a brow raised as she eyes them both.
"Nothing suitable for polite conversation, Mary. Don't worry."
"It's lovely to see you, Mr. Holmes." Mary is quite ignoring her husband, looking far too interested in their topic of discussion. "A new case?" she asks the detective.
Before Holmes can explain anything about it, Watson interjects. "This might be best left for another time--"
"Do you make a point of not introducing your guests, John Watson?" His mother-in-law's clipped tones echo from the dining room, and he winces. Mary just looks amused, reclaiming her hand from Holmes' polite kiss.
"I shall question you later, then, Sir." Turning, she leads the way into the dining room, and Watson sends Holmes a warning look.
"She does not need to know, it will only give her nightmares." God knows he had a few interesting ones in the wee hours of the morning the night before, once Morpheus had finally visited him.
"I think you underestimate your wife, Watson, and goodness knows she has nothing to worry about," Holmes says, which he thinks is quite reasonable, especially considering the emphasis put on her gender. After all, she is as far from the murderer's victims as humanly possible. He would not kill a woman any more than Holmes or Watson would.
Holmes knows this of course, and it's quite reasonable, but he also knows what Watson means. Murder is not a proper discussion topic among polite company, especially in the company of polite women such as Mary. That is what Watson had meant; and she very well might have nightmares. After all, just because she is safe doesn't make the murders of six men any less gruesome.
Watson does not look pleased, and Holmes raises a blue hand in his defense. "I shall do my best to dissuade her, but she can be very tenacious." And then he turns to follow Mary and Watson obediently, but not before he abruptly finishes all of his brandy. He has the feeling he may need the fortification, having heard Mary's mother's voice. He's never heard anyone speak to Watson in such a tone, nor has he seen Watson flinch from such an accusation before. It's interesting. And a bit sinister. Holmes is quite interested.
Laura Morstan straightens from where she'd been setting out the last of the wineglasses, smiling at her daughter when she enters the room. Watson of course receives a much sterner smile, and Holmes barely more than a twitch of the lips, although she does hold out her hand to be kissed when Watson introduces her.
"Holmes, this is Mary's mother, Mrs. Morston. Mrs.--er, Mother, may I introduce Mr. Sherlock Holmes, my colle--" He cuts himself off for the second time, his eyes meeting Holmes' for a moment. They are no longer colleagues, are they? "My friend." The word, while a very apt descriptor of their relationship, sounds strange to say.
"Ah." Mrs. Morston manages to convey a wealth of feeling in that one syllable. "The infamous Mr. Holmes. I've heard a great deal about you." And clearly she does not approve of him being invited to what is certainly a family affair; if it were intended for friends, many of Mary's would have been invited. "How kind of you to join our small family dinner this evening."
"Mother," Mary says, the slight warning audible in her voice.
Watson pulls out his wife's chair for her, repeating the process for his mother-in-law a moment later. "Mrs. Morston, Holmes is my family." And he'll thank her kindly to remember that.
Although Holmes had not been surprised either by Mrs. Morstan's chilly reception of him or Watson's confusion as to how to refer to him now that they are no longer colleagues, this last statement from Watson does startle him, and his eyes widen slightly before he can force his expression back to neutrality.
He doesn't imagine he and Watson have quite the same ideas when it comes to "family"; that much is evident in their lifestyles and what discussions they have had on the matter. But even with that being so, Holmes knows what being referred to as his family means, and for some reason, feels a twinge of sadness upon hearing it that is quickly squashed, replaced by interest in Mrs. Morstan.
"Mrs. Morstan," he says after a moment, completely ignoring the way Watson is trying not to wince at him addressing the older woman; the man has no faith in him whatsoever. Holmes hasn't the slightest what he's done to deserve such a reaction, but it is quite insulting that Watson wouldn't trust him to behave himself. "I cannot thank you or your daughter enough for allowing me to join your celebration." He pauses. "And I must say, whatever it is you've heard about me was undoubtedly all fabricated by the doctor. He has quite a flare for the dramatic."
"Oh, yes, I'm the dramatic one," Watson mutters. "Theatrical old fool."
"John," Mary scolds quietly, but Mrs. Morstan's lips have thinned into a line.
"He possesses a flare for something, that is for certain." She sips her wine as Watson leans forward to start serving the food. "We ladies did wonder what exactly the two of you were discussing so heatedly." She arches a brow, looking back and forth between the detective and her son-in-law. "Planning the sinking of another ship?"
Watson's grip on the serving ladle slips, and it falls back into the stew with a small splash. "Mrs. Morstan--"
"I do insist that you call me Mother, John."
Breathing out through his nose, Watson resumes serving. "Mother, those were in fact extenuating circumstances during which we'd been set upon by three arsonists, and we were merely defending ourselves--"
"Actually, madam, we had been tentatively planning on next Tuesday," Holmes cuts Watson off mid-sentence, quite happy to speak over him when necessary. Although Watson's discomfort is highly entertaining, the man's mother-in-law appears to neither have a sense of humor nor a pleasant word for Watson, and Holmes finds himself wondering how in the world she managed to raise a gentler, more pleasant woman such as Mary.
A flare for something. Holmes is having trouble understanding why Mrs. Morstan would dislike Watson so; after all, he's used to people disliking him, but Watson has almost always made a good impression on... well, everyone. What could he possibly have done? The moods of women are most baffling, and that is highly annoying to someone who is used to understanding... most everything he encounters, given time.
The ladle slips again, but Holmes is quite ignoring Watson in favor of Mrs. Morstan, and then Mary, as he continues on quite pleasantly. "But I was hoping to double check that with you, my dear," he says to Watson's wife. "As Watson did not handle jail particularly well last time and I don't want to keep his patients waiting."
Amused, Mary smiles, having to stifle a grin at the memory of John's apologies after she'd bailed him out of prison. "I will make sure to clear his schedule for Tuesday and Wednesday, and to pack him a pillow."
"I don't appreciate all of this--" Watson tries to interject, but they've continued on by then, and he lets out a martyr-like sigh, finishing with the serving and falling back into his own seat, draining his wineglass and ignoring his mother-in-law's frown. It is impossible, however, to ignore her voice.
"That is not a joking matter," she snaps. "To have to rescue one's future husband from jail the day after he missed his appointment to meet his future in-laws. Shameful, all three of you."
"To be fair, Mother," Mary says delicately, "I left Mr. Holmes where he was."
"I learned my lesson quite thoroughly," Holmes agrees. Mary had indeed left him where she'd found him, without Watson (who had been yelling at him anyway, quite unfairly). Granted, he had then gone on to befriend the largest, most intimidating criminal in the lot and had been quite enjoying the company of most of the inmates when he'd been rescued by Lestrade anyway.
So of course, no lesson was learned except the same lesson that keeps being ingrained in Holmes during every one of his adventures: that one can get out of any situation, no matter how bleak it may appear, if one is clever enough. And he is. Granted, just in case, he has been doing his best to remember several new jokes, just in case he should need to entertain criminals again. He supposes that was a lesson learned.
And though he’s always been quite happy to blame just about everything on Watson, Holmes finds that he does not appreciate the blame being hurled at the other man in such a manner. It seems quite unfair. “Of course it was all entirely Watson’s fault. The arsonists were peaceful gentlemen, their career choices aside. I hardly know what possessed him to attack the poor men in such a manner, but I simply couldn‘t leave him to defend himself once he had incurred their wrath.”
At this, Watson can't keep silent. "Once I had incurred their wrath?" he echoes disbelievingly. "As I recall, I was not the one to send an electric shock through that behemoth Dredger until he attempted to kill us both." Pause. "Twice. Twice, Holmes. And which of us was left to deal with him while you followed the Woman?"
Mary appears to be shaking with laughter; Mrs. Morston does not appear to be able to summon a suitable reply to all of this, and stares at Watson, her mouth open slightly.
"Entirely inappropriate behavior for gentlemen," she scolds faintly after a moment. "To run around getting into scrapes. You might as well be dock workers gambling in some sort of illegal cockfighting or boxing ring."
At that, Mary raises a brow and exchanges a glance with Watson, whose lips twitch beneath his mustache. She still hasn't forgotten that stub from the last boxing match he'd attended. He wouldn't mind going to another, actually, for old times' sake, but it seems severely unlikely now, in his new life.
"Mother," he says, his voice barely strained; Mary won't pick up on it, although she knows how much he dislikes referring to her mother thusly, but Holmes will. "Have you had word from Mr. Morstan?" Mary's father had gone on a trip to Paris for a few weeks on business with the shipping company for whom he worked, thereby freeing his wife to stay with their daughter. Watson reminds himself once again to send the man a thank-you gift. Perhaps a package of handkerchiefs, after one of his patients has sneezed all over them.
Having unfortunately- and completely unjustly!- been kicked under the table by Watson the moment he opened his mouth to comment on the idea of fighting in an illegal gambling ring, Holmes remains silent for the time being. He has no idea what he had planned to say, which makes Watson’s reaction completely uncalled for, but Holmes does shut his mouth again. He supposes Mrs. Morstan could do without knowing that one need not be a dock worker to fight in an illegal gambling ring, or that it can be quite lucrative if you’re both intelligent and a skilled boxer, which he is.
Mrs. Morstan, however, is quite allowed to speak and sees no need to spare the table her opinions or responses. Granted, Watson had addressed her. Holmes doesn’t quite see the wisdom of this approach, but then undoubtedly Watson does not see the wisdom of taunting her.
“I received a telegram today, in fact,” she responds stiffly, seemingly pleased that both men had stopped recounting their adventures. “Apparently he has made some sort of deal that will require him to remain in Paris for a week or two more.”
Holmes’ eyes widen very minutely at that, and he glances sidelong at Watson. He hadn’t missed Watson’s dislike for referring to Mrs. Morstan as “mother”; and so it hardly surprises him to see the twinge of annoyance upon hearing that Mr. Morstan will not be returning to her own home. Obviously Mrs. Morstan’s presence here is due to her husband’s extended stay in Paris. He would almost feel sorry for Watson, were he not so very amused by all of this.
"Oh, that's wonderful, Mother," Mary says, appearing to be genuinely pleased, although when her mother looks away again, Watson doesn't miss the slight press of her lips indicating some annoyance. He can certainly sympathize. At least her mother likes her.
Dinner continues on in this fashion, with Holmes making comments entirely unsuited for the company of Mary's mother and Watson receiving the brunt of the disapproving looks after each new ridiculous notion from Holmes. Mary is entirely unhelpful, managing to look just disapproving enough to satisfy her mother but also somehow egging Holmes on at the same time. Watson is quite relieved when they finish with dessert, and after a brief offer to assist with the dishes (the housekeeper will manage it, apparently), he excuses himself and his friend and leads the way into his office, shutting the door behind Holmes.
Dropping into his chair, he rests his elbows on his desk and drags a hand through his hair. "Another brandy?" he offers in a muffled voice.
“Please,” Holmes says, wandering about the office a bit, shamelessly inspecting things as he goes. He knows better than to move anything far from its origin by now (having lived with Watson for years), but that does not stop him from being nosy in general. He has a knack of course for putting things back exactly where he had found them, and thus managing to both placate Watson’s desire for neatness and invade his privacy at the same time.
He doesn’t go so far as to open drawers or poke about tonight, but Holmes does turn a critical eye on the entire room, inspecting it in the same fashion he inspects everything. It is most certainly Watson’s office, this room, and yet... not. It doesn’t exude the same Watsonness that his office at Baker Street had. Although not for lack of trying, if one judges by the obsessive neatness of the entire place. Holmes briefly considers stealing one of Watson’s pens, but he’ll wait until Watson isn’t looking for a reason to hit someone.
“Mrs. Morstan is quite charming,” he says in the same flat manner he says most anything, especially when it is not true. “Or should I say your dear Mother?”
Watson does nothing more than grunt, relieved to be away from the women and therefore not required to maintain perfect decorum. If he were less of a gentleman, he would mutter under his breath, but as it is he simply hoists himself out of the chair again, moving over to the cabinet where he keeps his alcohol and pouring them each two shots' worth, this time, neither on the rocks, as preferred.
Handing one to Holmes, he falls back into his chair, loosening his tie and undoing the top button of his collar. "It's not right that I should have to call her that," he says a bit sullenly. "I'm not comfortable with it. I had a mother, and she died. But Mary says it's easier to simply oblige her." He snorts. "Hadn't expected her to stay for a few more weeks."
Looking around at the familiar items in still-unfamiliar places, Watson shakes his head slowly. The air in here is warmer, now, which is abnormal since there is no fire in the grate. But for some reason it's less of an office and more of a haven, with Holmes here, prowling about and clearly observing everything.
"Well?" he asks after a moment, pushing his chair back on its back legs and propping his boots up on the desk, finally relaxing with a long sigh. "What are your conclusions, then?" They're both aware that he's not referring to the investigation, but rather to what Holmes has observed about Watson's new life.
There is a pause, during which Holmes does not look at Watson, but rather inspects the nearest bookshelf with interest before turning back to the doctor. It’s always interesting to him that Watson should still want to know his conclusions even when it is quite possible that he will not appreciate what Holmes has to say, but as he is never one to keep his observations and the conclusions he comes to through them to himself indefinitely, Holmes obliges him.
“You’re not comfortable here,” he says after a moment, referring to the office, and undoubtedly the entire home. He has always been merciless in his conclusions, even when he knows it won’t be what the receiving party wants to hear, because in matters of deduction there is no room for mercy or any sort of emotion. “You’ve set everything in your office as near to exactly the same as your previous office as possible, but it will never be the same because it is not the same room or receptacle for your things, and as such all it does is remind you of the previous office, making it impossible for it to be comforting either as a new space, or in the old fashion.”
He waves his hand vaguely towards the door. “The rest of the house is the same,” he says. “Mary took care of all of it, and you let her. But now none of it is yours.” He pause. “Mother dearest certainly does not help. You‘ve been a month away and now, having returned to her, have had no time to make this place your own.”
But the conclusions go even further, and these Holmes draws from details not simply of this house, but Watson’s demeanor since he has moved out, his tiredness, his proclivity towards yelling at Holmes both when he is ignored and when he is bothered too much, the ease with which Holmes convinced him to stay the day before. “Your things are here but it is not your own,” he says. “Your things are moved from Baker Street, and so neither is that flat.” He picks up the nearest pen (from Watson’s desk) to inspect it closely for a moment, and then points it at him. “You’re adrift, Watson. That is why you can’t sleep.”
Well, that and he suspects Mary steals all of the blankets, but Holmes keeps that deduction to himself.
Watson doesn't reply for a long time, although he does glance up at Holmes when his pen is suddenly pointed at him. As per usual, everything Holmes says makes perfect sense, and Watson is able to step outside of his situation and view it with a sudden clarity. The feeling is a relief, so much of one that he suddenly wants to cry, despite the fact that he would never do so, not even if he were alone. The shame of it would be unbearable.
He does understand. He no longer lives at Baker Street, all of his things, his practice, his life moved here to Cavendish Place, but he himself has not moved. He's caught somewhere on Paddington Street, halfway between the two, and can't move forward or back.
"I can't find my role here," he admits quietly. "Mary is gone all day during the week, while I see my patients, and we're doing well..." That is, of course, the most important thing, that they're settled and prepared for the future. "She's been speaking of having a child. I want children of course, but the idea terrifies me, and we've only returned two days ago from Chichester." Only married a month, and none of that spent in this residence.
There is nowhere for him to relax and let his guard down. Isn't that the sort of relationship a man should have with his wife? To come home and lounge about, some comfortable conversation or discussion, no need to pretend or keep on the mask. But here, it's as though if he lets the mask slip just a little... well, he simply can't do that in front of Mary. He just... cannot.
"You're right, of course," he says finally, still musing. "But how am I to be comfortable?" He's convinced it's, as always, Holmes' fault. Not directly this time, at least, but Watson knew his role in their shared rooms. Knew what he would do, how Holmes would react, knew that he could speak his mind and not worry about how it would sound. If only he could just stop worrying, it can't be good for his health...
“I would suggest getting rid of the old bat, first off,” Holmes says matter-of-factly. “Her presence has you twitching. Interesting as that might be from a psychosocial standpoint, I don’t imagine it’s good for your health.”
Of course, to Holmes it is as simple as “getting rid” of her, but he knows that with Watson it will not be so simple, in the same way that he had allowed her to stay with them in the first place, that he doesn’t always charge his patients when they have fallen upon bad times, that he allowed Mary to decorate the entire house because she enjoyed it so. But he asked, and Holmes will give him a list.
Whether or not he particularly wants Watson to be comfortable here... does not matter. Watson had asked for his advice, based upon his ability to see things from a completely rational manner, and as his friend Holmes must give the information to him. It’s easy to see that Watson wants this new life very badly, that he is certain it will make him happy in the end. And yet, now he is not. After all... Holmes is not blind to Watson’s state. He is certainly not happy, and... well, at least one of them should be.
“Tell Mary your fears about children,” he adds, listing them all of as one would list items on a grocery list. “Do not have any until you are comfortable here, because a child will change it all again and you’ll go mad playing catch-up to it all.” He glances around the office again. “Move your things to suit this room, not the old one.” He pauses, and then adds, "And perhaps sleep on the right side of the bed."
The last gets Watson to look up again; he'd appreciated the value of the other suggestions, and as always wonders if he should be making a list. He thinks he'll remember, this time, but the bit about the bed... Very slowly, one corner of his mouth quirks up in a wry smile, and he decides that he really doesn't want to know how Holmes deduced the problem of Mary stealing the blankets.
"Thank you," he says finally, nodding. There's a pause as the silence extends onward and Watson casts about for what should follow that. "You know I appreciate it, Holmes." Even if he also knows that it must be difficult for his friend to help him adjust to this place when the detective fought so hard against Watson's marriage and move in the first place.
A voice in the back of his head murmurs that perhaps Holmes had been right, perhaps he does dread a life without their macabre investigations, and the adventures that inevitably go along with them--misadventures, he reminds himself--but he silences that voice immediately. He reminds himself that he has a full docket of patients, now, enough to fill each day, and there will be quite enough to keep him busy, and once his mother-in-law leaves, plenty of quiet, comfortable conversation with Mary once he grows accustomed to this place.
Because surely, if he does everything Holmes has recommended, he will. He can speak to Mary at the next opportunity for a private conversation (meaning one without her mother present), and he's certain she'll understand his wishing to wait a little while before a child. And certainly a switch in sleeping positions is not an immense request. As for his office furnishings...
He stands, moving over to the sculptures sitting on the windowsill, and reaches down to grasp one, intending to move it to his bookshelf... but he stops, suddenly, retracting his hand. "I'll do it later," he mutters, stepping sideways to the brandy cabinet instead and refilling his glass. "More?"
Unsurprisingly, Holmes has finished the brandy Watson had poured for him by now, and suddenly finds himself in dire need of another. “Please,” he says, handing his glass over immediately.
He says nothing about whether Watson appreciates it, or the fact that he had been unable to follow through with any of the suggestions at present. He won’t want to hear Holmes’ deductions regarding that. As always, for every detail or inference Holmes tells Watson, there are ten more that he keeps to himself. He observes everything, and unable to shut his mind down or keep it from a problem, no matter how small, he then infers even more than he’d observed.
Watson appreciates some of the things Holmes tells him, and some he certainly does not, but though Holmes rarely if ever edits himself based on Watson’s preferences, he does edit himself (he knows Watson would find that hard to believe). It is simply usually based on the desire to keep things to himself or to let Watson discover certain details on his own for the time being.
And some things remain unsaid because the things Holmes deduces from them, he does not care to know himself.
It's only a little while later that Mary knocks on the closed door and insists that they rejoin the ladies in the parlor, for John can't be permitted to have their guest all to himself. Looking rather resigned, Watson therefore leads the way back to what he's begun to refer to as the Green Room, sinking down onto the less comfortable chair next to the fire. Holmes, unsurprisingly, remains standing and resumes his earlier prowl about the room, observing everything as usual.
Thankfully, his friend keeps to his word and manages to navigate the conversation away from his current case, difficult though Watson knows that must be for him, as his investigations are always by far the detective's preferred topic of discussion. But Mary receives no more of an explanation than that several men had been murdered, and that the papers hadn't run the story at the request of Scotland Yard.
To no one's surprise, Mrs. Morstan is exceedingly disturbed by this revelation of Holmes' interests, and spends at least half an hour commenting upon and scolding them all regarding their morbid hobbies. Even Mary does not escape condemnation, as she prefers to read detective novels above all else (and would in fact simply love to accompany Mr. Holmes on an investigation, not that Watson will ever allow that so long as he is still breathing). Holmes, however, receives a swift dismissal, as Mrs. Morstan had nearly given up 'conversing' with him at dinner.
Watson, to his severe lack of shock, is gifted with a lecture on improper interests for properly married gentlemen, and is swiftly informed that he'll have no clients of a certain status at all if he continues to gallivant off and have himself bloodied and/or arrested. He forces himself not to point out that he'd had quite a respectable set of clients while practicing at Baker Street, not wanting to begin an argument, but it's extremely difficult to hold back.
Holmes does finally look at his watch (not for the first time, for which Watson blames his mother-in-law entirely, as it is completely her fault that his closest friend wishes to leave) and announces that he must bid them goodnight. It's only almost ten, however, and Watson trails after him to the door, handing him his coat and hat with no little reluctance. "A lead or the docks?" he asks, stomping down any wistfulness.
“I have high hopes for both,” Holmes says, placing his own hat firmly upon his head in what might very well be an effort to ruin what combing he’d done to his hair earlier. He’d managed to keep from either running his hand through it or attempting to pull it out all night, and he’s had quite enough of that.
He turns to Watson, not missing any of the wistfulness, and knows very well that had they still been at Baker Street, it wouldn’t have taken any convincing at all to get Watson to go with him no matter what he had awaiting him in the morning. And yet here, there is no chance to convince the doctor, as he would surely be tied up and thrown in a closet by his mother in law, her all the while assuring him that it is for his own good. That woman, Holmes has decided, is one more very good reason never to marry. The mother in law. He wonders if the Woman ever had a mother, or if she just appeared one day fully grown and began her reign of terror free of the bonds of family.
Holmes finds himself hoping so, just a little. If Mary’s mother is this bad, he can’t imagine what hers would be like.
“Two more men will die tomorrow night,” he says as he pulls on his coat, managing to gesture and pull the coat on at once, which done by anyone else would look ridiculous. Holmes just looks... well, like Holmes. “If these leads prove inadequate, the next crime will provide more information, but I would prefer in this case to get more from less.” Watson understands, he’s certain. As much as Holmes appreciates an abundance of data, even he cannot say he would like another pair of murders to be committed to help him collect it.
"Yes, of course," Watson says immediately, in full agreement on that point. He sighs slightly, fighting back the yearning to go off with Holmes and damn the women, to track down a lead and possibly get into a scrap, and make off with a good few wins betting on Holmes in the boxing arena.
Instead, he merely clears his throat. "Well, have a good evening, old boy." But Holmes is already turning and heading down the steps, not one for long goodbyes, and Watson watches him stride off for a moment before shutting the door. He does up the locks quickly, before he can give into the urge to put on his own coat and hat and hurry off after his friend. To feel the cool night air and the excitement stemming from heading off into the unknown, the knowledge that the night could bring any sort of adventure.
Misadventure. Not adventure.
It's still early, but Mary is heading for the stairs and sending him a welcoming, sly sort of smile. He knows he's meant to follow, knows that after only a month of marriage he should be unable to think of much else besides his wife's embrace, but his mind is on the case and on Holmes heading off on his own. What would he do if his friend were the one discovered murdered on the docks the next morning? Left to be muttered over by an incompetent Inspector, the highest insult to the great detective.
But Watson cannot go after him, as he has reminded himself for months... and so he follows Mary slowly up the stairs, his mind racing... and realizes that he's going to have to discuss his desire to wait for children before things progress any further. That's not to say, of course, that they cannot still enjoy themselves, but she likely still won't be pleased.
He catches sight of Mrs. Morstan's disapproving stare as he reaches the landing, the older woman already wearing her thick nightrobe and white cap, and fights back a scream of frustration. This night will be even longer than the last, and he's undoubtedly going to lie awake all night, worrying after Holmes.
Again.
Mother hen, indeed.
~~~~~
So close, now, to another crime, Holmes does not sleep at all through the night, spending several hours in the dark houses where the last crimes had been committed, trying to make more clear the specter of the murderer in his mind. Then, after passing some hours at the docks (and allowing himself a few brief moments to imagine Mrs. Morstan’s face upon seeing what he’s been doing all night), his mind sufficiently cleared at the expense of a bleeding lip and several not insubstantial bruises, he returns to the night to follow another lead.
Of course, he hadn’t quite intended to wait out the entire day hidden in a broken cabinet behind an apothecary’s shop- actually a front for the more nefarious dealings occurring in the alleyway behind- until the proprietor and his muscle, as it were, step out for a moment. By the time he manages to return to Baker Street, it’s mid-afternoon, and Holmes finds Mrs. Hudson informing him that Lestrade had send someone to collect him earlier, but as he could not be found, he had left.
Certain Lestrade has not found anything but rather, wishes to know what he had found, Holmes ignores Mrs. Hudson’s insistence that he should at least let the Inspector know that he’s alive. He certainly cannot explain to her that he is avoiding the Inspector and his men more than usual. She would want to know why, and nothing bothers Holmes more than when people ask “why” without attempting to discover it for themselves first. “Why” is a question you ask yourself and your surroundings.
By this point he is not only dirty, he seems to have lost his coat and at some point, gained a bottle which is at this point empty but was not just a few moments ago. Holmes drops that square in the middle of his desk, picks up his violin for a few minutes, and then before the hour is out is gone again. He will neither eat nor sleep today, but rely solely upon his will and mind to keep him upright. By now, Holmes can feel the passing of time towards the hour when two innocent (well, not strictly speaking, but innocent in Holmes‘ mind) men will be killed as surely as if the clock were ticking on his own death.
He won’t find the killer tonight, not unless luck intervenes. He does not have enough information to catch the man or find his next intended murder before he arrives. But that is his failing, and it does not excuse him from his job. He has work to do.
And so when the next dawn arrives, Holmes is found, waiting, in the sitting room in his flat at Baker Street, sitting in his chair and smoking. Other chemicals had kept him up the entirety of the night (after being awake the night before), and as much is obvious from the look of him. But he has not slept, and he knows what Clarky has to say before the man even opens his mouth. Pulling on his hat and sunglasses, Holmes stands, not removing the pipe from his mouth as he quickly pulls on another coat over the clothing he‘s been wearing for two days.
Two more dead, then. But that should be enough.
~~~~~
Part Three