Letters, or the Case of the Cerulean Syringe, Part Fourteen
Title: Letters, or the Case of the Cerulean Syringe, Part Fourteen
Author: agaryulnaer86 and sarisa_rahe
Rating: R
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Disclaimer: Not ours. Sigh.
Summary: In which Holmes has more patience than usual and he and Watson are not taxmen.
Spoilers: Movie
Warnings: Aftermath of slash. More to come, next chappie.
Word Count: 8,508
Author's Notes: Epic-fic, part 14 of… well, God knows.
Parts One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five, Part Six, Part Seven, Part Eight, Part Nine, Part Ten, Part Eleven, Part Twelve, Part Thirteen
~~~~~~~
When Holmes wakes again, he awakes warm, on a softer surface than he typically wakes, and surrounded by... Watson? Confused, Holmes forces open one eye, to find that the room is exceptionally dark. The room... his room? Since when does he fall asleep in his bed?
Except then Holmes' eye lights on the other form sleeping next to him, and the other eye opens so that he can stare for a moment, eyes wide in the darkness, over at Watson, whose side he had at some point curled up into so that Holmes' head was buried in Watson's shoulder. No wonder it smelled like Watson; Watson is right there. Holmes recalls quickly what had happened before he can be hit by the shock of it all again, but the shock does come, followed quickly by disbelief.
Holmes spends a moment blinking repeatedly, shaking his head, and then actually pinching himself just to check, but this is all quite real. Watson is sleeping there, quite soundly for once, and before he'd been sleeping, they'd been... holy god they had been. Holmes' mind is much clearer now, a fact which he notices immediately, and so he quickly begins replaying everything that had happened and everything he'd noticed and determines that he must indeed have passed out because he doesn't recall anything after...
Swallowing, Holmes tries to run a hand through his hair but finds that he cannot move; his hands are both stuck between himself and Watson's form. If he moves, he'll wake the doctor, and Holmes can tell from the color and depth of the darkness outside the window that it's nearing dawn, but there must still be an hour before the sun rises. And Watson, no matter whatever else had happened the night before, needs rest.
So Holmes carefully lays his head back down next to Watson's shoulder, allowing himself a few moments during which he doesn't have to pretend, alone with his own mind in the darkness, that this isn't the safest, most comforting place he has ever woken in his entire life. He allows himself, for a few brief moments, to simply relish in the aches and bruises he can feel that weren't there the day before, knowing that they had been put there by Watson when he'd shoved Holmes over and had landed on top of him. Or when Watson had held on to Holmes hard enough to bruise, when finally...
Holmes allows himself this small amount of time to bask in everything (meaning... just Watson) before morning and reality comes crashing back, as it tends to. Showing remarkable patience considering the source, Holmes lies still in bed for a little over an hour, until the sky outside the window lightens from black to midnight blue to that gray-blue slate color that means dawn is on its way.
And then, quite done with lying still, Holmes begins to poke at Watson. Sleeping is quite overrated, they do have a case after all, and Holmes is quite awake and aware as ever. "Watson," he says, first quietly, and then louder, with the intention of increasing volume until the other man opens his eyes. He is, as always, completely unaware of his resemblance to an excited child. "Watson. It's morning. You gave your word that you would reveal the location of the crime."
Watson swims slowly back to consciousness, not springing awake as he usually does but rather floating to the surface. It takes him a moment, too, to realize where he is, opening his eyes to stare directly at Holmes, lying so close together as they are. His memory stretches back to the night before but he'll be damned if he can recall any conversation. Really, all he can remember is how they'd... how Holmes had... how he'd... how...
"Hell," he nearly croaks, as everything slowly melts into surreality. "Holmes..." They had... that had all actually happened. He'd left Mary, had... he and Holmes had... He starts to see spots, and realizing that he's been holding his breath, he lets it out in a small explosion. Slowly, a smile grows on his face. They're really lying here, and he can't put a name to the nearly giddy feeling in the pit of his stomach, save that he wants to roll the other man back under him again and take what had happened again, but this time a great deal more slowly.
"I suppose I did," he mutters finally, realizing that he's smiling in a way that rather makes him feel a great deal less masculine than he normally does, and clearing his throat, he sobers his expression. "Right. It's an alley off of Kingsway. But I will be accompanying you," he cautions. "I know quite well that you're nowhere near your best, and someone has to knock sense into your head if necessary." Not that there's ever a great deal of sense in Holmes' head to begin with, but Watson had gotten a full night of sleep out of the man (an occurrence so rare as to likely be impossible to repeat), and he supposes that accomplishment is impressive in itself. He supposes he must count himself satisfied... at least for now.
It takes Holmes a moment to respond; not because he is insulted that Watson thinks he has no sense in his head or bothered by the idea of Watson coming with him, but rather because he'd been watching Watson's reactions since his eyes had opened. He'd seen the smile on the doctor's face before Watson had sobered, the way he observes everything. Holmes is slightly surprised to find that something in him is eased to see the smile on Watson's face. He knows Watson's expressions, he thinks, better than most people would, after all of their years together can read the other man very well. And that expression means... well, it means that Watson does not regret what had happened the night before.
And that... that eases something in Holmes he didn't realize had tensed. Perhaps that was why he had allowed Watson to sleep an hour... worry that the doctor would wake up and realize that what they had done, what he had done, was wrong. Worry that Watson would change his mind... and leave.
But he isn't leaving. That... that was a genuine smile, more genuine than most Holmes perceives on Watson, especially recently. It lights up his face, in a manner Holmes doesn't believe Watson realizes makes him look almost irresistible; Holmes would do almost anything to get that smile out of Watson. And yet, Holmes is still surprised to realize just how pleased he himself is to see that smile, surprised to find himself returning it for a moment without meaning to. But then Watson coughs, the smile disappearing and Holmes quickly hides his own grin.
"All right then," he says after a moment, forcing his mind back to the case. It's much more difficult than it usually is; Holmes is rather startled to find that that is the case. "If you insist." He fights a grin. "Let us hurry then. Evidence will not wait. In fact I don't imagine it has been waiting. But I have: sixty-two minutes, to be exact." Sixty-two whole minutes. See how well behaved he's been? And yet... Holmes makes no move to leave, not just yet.
"My faith in your capability for patience has just greatly increased," Watson quips in return, falling onto his back and then sitting up with a small groan, dragging a hand through his own hair and stretching. But then he glances down at Holmes, taking in the entirety of the other man, still lying there, and has to fight back a sigh. He's right; evidence won't wait, and anything started now would be hurried, not with the time he means to include in it, the next time.
Yawning again, he swings his legs over the side of the bed, standing and fastening his trousers, amused despite the newness of the situation. "Can't let the evidence wait longer than necessary." Of course, his clothes are still neatly folded, and he picks them up, meaning to go change. And he should probably make arrangements for the rest of his things, as well, in the next few days... but just now, he doesn't want to think about much else beyond that it's a quiet morning and that he feels more at peace today than he has in months.
"You had no faith in my capability for patience to begin with," Holmes mumbles, not bothering to fight back his sigh at Watson beginning to replace clothing and getting up. His priorities, such as they are, have always been very clear, very succinct: case first, everything else after. But Watson seems to have thrown that for a loop today, and Holmes finds himself at a bit of a loss. He has never slept so long in one place, not since childhood, especially not while he has a case. Concussions had never stopped him before.
But it wasn't the concussion that had stopped him, not really. It had been Watson. Holmes wouldn't have stayed put for anyone else, and they both know it.
Still, now morning is swiftly on its way and Holmes is ready, prepared as ever to go out and see the scene of the crime. A new case, and with Watson, and Watson might still be guilty and moping about but a moment ago he had been smiling and frankly, that is all Holmes can ask of life. A case and Watson.
Trying to determine how long that has been so, and then beginning to wonder if Watson is aware of the great power he has over the detective, Holmes pulls himself into a seated position as well with a groan. It hurts; it hurts a lot. But it's not the sharp pain of new wounds, but becoming the dull ache of bruises and battery from days past. And his head stays put on his shoulders and the room doesn't spin at all. Holmes has seen worse days, many of them, and so calls this a success.
He wouldn't mind taking off the bandages around his torso... but he suspects Watson would kill him if he tried just yet, and they have places to be. Later. He looks up at Watson, recalling that he must find his pipe before they leave. "So naturally, it could do nothing but increase. What were they doing in the alley?"
Watson is buttoning up his shirt and casting about for his tie, knowing he won't have fresh clothes that day, not until he can return to Cavendish Place for more of his things, and frankly he's too afraid to run into Mary to attempt it today. "Ms. Winstone... well, they did not appear to be of great financial wealth, and I believed they lived nearby. She told me they had... something of an affectionate, and she believed intimate, relationship already, prior to their marriage."
And honestly, he has absolutely no grounds to look down upon that just now. Separated he might be, but he'd had intimate relations with someone not his wife on the very day on which the separation had occurred. The fact that his relationship with Holmes is a complicated one but had certainly been intimate in every other manner before last night does play a part, but is it right that he should feel guilty for... not feeling guilty about the night before? Christ, he doesn't even understand.
"The missing Ms. Winstone worked as a maid in an actress' home near Covent Garden. Mr. Yaxley took it upon himself to see her safely home each night. Her cousin assured me that the alley was a part of their usual route." Buttoning his waistcoat, he turns to see Holmes flinch slightly while trying to pull on his shirt. "Here, let me." His hands are gentle but businesslike, a doctor's hands as he takes the shirt from Holmes, holding it while the other man gets his arms inside and then settling it on his shoulders.
But his fingertips linger for a beat too long, smoothing its back. "Fits you well, considering it was tailored for me," he jibes good-naturedly, dropping his hands but forgoing the usual throat-clearing. It would be a bit absurd to do so, after the night before. And the fact that Holmes smells... well. Watson wants to bite his neck from behind, but again if he does so they'll never get to Kingsway.
It takes Holmes a moment longer than it normally would to respond to any of that yet again. He has to force his mind to the task at hand, swallowing and wishing Watson would do exactly what he's considering, but knowing the same as the doctor does that they have work to do. He's waited years. He can wait again. But it's as though knowing now that it's possible... knowing exactly what he's been missing, makes it harder to resist.
Still, Holmes can feel the spot where Watson's hands had rested even after he removes them, warmer than the rest of him, and the detective has to stomp down the desire to turn around and attempt to tackle Watson. It wouldn't go well in his condition, and they would never leave.
So instead Holmes swallows and tries to regain some of the patience he'd displayed so recently, waiting for an hour for the sun to rise and the conditions Watson had placed on his learning the location of the crime to be fulfilled. But patience does not come naturally to Holmes- at least not in this sort of situation- and especially not now, with his mind beginning to work on a case. What patience and serenity he has is typically foregone when a case takes hold of his mind as much as it is foregone when he finds himself between cases and despondent. It's a rare thing to find Holmes in between one or the other, but when he is, patience is easier.
"I've found that your shirts often fit me well despite your tailor," Holmes returns finally, mind beginning to consider the facts Watson had given him. "It's a mystery. Perhaps you should have them tailored to fit someone else."
They'll have to see Ms. Winstone's employer, of course. And the cousin, later this morning... "Which actress employs her?"
Watson pulls out his small notebook, in which he'd jotted down the names and important points of his conversation with Ms. Winstone. "Miss Caroline Baker. We saw her in Moliere a few months ago, do you recall?" He clears his throat, putting the notebook back into his jacket pocket and then shrugging on said jacket, buttoning it neatly. He'll need to shave as well, of course, but as he's not yet too prickly, it can likely wait until they return.
"She is also, according to the missing Ms. Winstone, who informed her cousin, currently the mistress of Lord Darnley." Thus prepared, with all but his overcoat, he turns to glance back at Holmes. "Ms. Winstone was in too much distress to tell me more. I recommended she rest as well as she can, and that you and I would call upon her today. I may prescribe her a sedative, later; she was most distraught."
Moliere, Moliere. Throughout most of this explanation, Holmes is trying to recall the night Watson had mentioned, and then Miss Caroline Baker. It takes him a moment, as this information had at the time not been deemed particularly important and had thus been mostly ignored and forgotten once they'd left, but finally Holmes does recall. Miss Caroline Baker, actress, mistress to Lord Darnley.
Interesting information, but useless to Holmes as of yet. He will need to see the scene of the crime, first and foremost. And then Ms. Winstone, the one who is not missing. Holmes does not particularly look forward to getting information out of a distressed young woman, but he'll do it nevertheless.
"I imagine she would be," he agrees vaguely, eyes not focused on Watson at all. He is clearly not focused on the state of Ms. Winstone's mind and emotions, but the entirety of everything Watson had told him. After a moment, though, Holmes comes back to himself and looks himself over; he looks a bit worse for wear, but presentable at least in his own mind, and so decides that with his coat and hat he will be fine. Excepting one thing. "I'm going to locate my pipe." And Watson had best hope that it isn't broken.
There's a pause as Watson eyes the frost on the window, and then he digs around in the pile of clothes in the corner (trying not to think about what all could be on them, considering some of the oddly-colored and scented stains) and makes his way down the two steps and over to his office, where he hands Holmes a scarf. "It's bloody cold," he mutters, shoving it at the detective, who has located his pipe and looks quite satisfied.
Putting on his own outer clothes and grabbing his walking stick, Watson checks for his pistol and then glances over at Holmes. "Revolver."
The man blinks and then turns on his heel, disappearing into the sitting room while Watson moves to wait at the top of the stairs. There is a small crash and then a loud thud, but then Holmes appears. Amused, Watson says nothing but simply follows him down the stairs.
It's surreal, again, to go out onto the street. When Watson had come up the front steps, he'd been trying to recover from a distressing situation of his own, not sure if ever could recover. But now... now, everything feels different. It's chilly, but the air is clear and the sun is bright (for once). He doesn't know what the change in his own personal atmosphere means, but he does know that he's right where he wants to be, off on another investigation and bound to get into some sort of chase, scrape, or other (mis)adventure by day's end.
The trip to Kingway doesn't take long at all; both men are quiet along the way, engrossed in their own thoughts. Holmes, for one, finds it easier to let his mind think of the case while they are no longer at Baker Street, no longer near the bed, which had never been to him a place where he slept, so had no real value in his mind until the night before. Now... now it has a place in Holmes' mind, a value, and as such he doesn't imagine being able to look at it without thinking of what had taken place there.
But now that they're outside, in the cold air, his mind is willing and ready as ever to take on a new case, a problem to be solved, and Holmes is happy to leave Watson to his own thoughts, knowing he undoubtedly needs the time.
Soon enough, though, they reach the alley where the crime occurred (though Holmes demands a detour, so that they begin from the route the young couple would have taken, staring from the area of Miss Caroline Baker's home), and Holmes stops before he enters, right in the middle of the turn, to take in the entire place while consulting his mental map of the area around it. A stabbing, and an abduction. But that might not have been what had happened at all; it is merely what everyone assumes had taken place. The only witnesses are either missing or comatose.
The question, first, is now who had done this or where Ms. Winstone is, but rather why here? That is where Holmes must begin, while they are here. Then the order of events. And then... Ms. Winstone's location. After all, to say that Holmes keeps an open mind about such matters as a case would be a vast understatement. When it comes to cases, Holmes' mind is so open it is a wonder it doesn't fall out of his head. He has no preconceived notions about the number of attackers, who it might have been, or why it had been done. For all he knows or cares, Ms. Winstone had done the deed herself and run off to Paris. To him, that is at present just as likely as a random mugging, kidnapping, and likely murder. But soon enough, some possibilities will be eliminated.
Sure enough, after a minute of staring at the whole alley, Holmes begins his inspection of the entire area, not faltering for a moment because of his injuries. In fact, despite the way his breathing is still labored, injuries could not be further from Holmes' mind at the moment, immersed as he is. The walls of the surrounding buildings come first. Then the ground, circling towards the spot where he has spied blood; the ground is, of course, dirty as hell but the spot where Mr. Yaxley had been stabbed is still visible; Holmes takes samples of course of this area and the surrounding areas as well, to be inspected later. But he seems very interested in the surrounding buildings, continuing throughout this investigation to look up at one in particular, with a window that appears, upon closer inspection, just slightly cleaner than the surrounding windows on the same house.
Holmes finally stops his inspection of the ground to stare up at said window. He has to get in there. He turns to Watson, not sharing this plan with the other man, and nods. "Nothing more to be done here until dusk," he announces.
Quite accustomed to being kept in the dark as to his friend's thoughts and methods (although the latter to a much lesser extent), Watson nods his agreement, having kept back out of the way so as not to impede Holmes' process. "I take it the game is afoot then, old boy?"
He gets a harrumph in response, the sort that means his question is irrelevant, its answer obvious, and smiles slightly, the expression hidden beneath his mustache. "Well, then it's off to see Ms. Winstone. Must we inspect Mr. Yaxley's rooms, as well? I managed to discover their location last night, in case it became relevant."
He does at least try to anticipate things. Sometimes it's useless, and sometimes he's scolded for wasting energy, but at other times Holmes praises him for his forethought and charges ahead, making great use of Watson's information. It's impossible to tell which will be the case, but Watson finds that having a fairly easygoing and polite manner gets one a very long way among any set of people, really.
He can come off as the distinguished, well-dressed physician or the gambling addict as the situation requires; he would never pretend to be such a master of disguise as Holmes, but in many instances he likes to think that his modicum of social skills (one area in which the great detective is severely lacking) are of just as much use.
Equally important, he supposes, are a strong back and a talent for kicking in doors, but that's neither here nor there.
"Mr. Yaxley's rooms," Holmes repeats, eyebrows raising; he turns to glance at Watson as they turn, Holmes following Watson's directions to what he assumes is Ms. Winstone's (the cousin) place of residence. He seems, this time, quite pleasantly surprised by Watson's foresight.
Well, then again, he has been doing his very best to train the good doctor for years now. If he didn't come out with some useful idea or deduction every now and then, Holmes would be sorely disappointed in him. He supposes he's still recovering from the recent, more emotional issues, and his determination that Watson is a complete idiot. He will grudgingly have to allow that Watson is at least not a complete idiot in all areas.
"That might very well prove necessary," he says, with an air of mild approval, the sort a professor might have with a student. Whether or not Watson truly is a student of the discipline of deduction is debatable, but no one else has ever bothered to truly learn Holmes' methods, or gone to such pains to help. No one else has ever dared... or cared enough to brave the mind of Sherlock Holmes. Some people have done so in shorter spurts, yes, but not like Watson.
And in return, Holmes has laid bare to Watson as much as he could, as often as he could. There are leaps of logic and deduction that Holmes makes, however, that Watson simply cannot fathom without first being told the destination or result, places in Holmes' mind where Watson cannot follow, and that will never change. But he bothers to try, despite Holmes' oddities (which had kept many others at a distance), and that above all else has been what eventually warmed Holmes to him. That had begun their friendship.
But it had been other qualities that had kept Holmes interested in Watson, and eventually had led to... well. Friendship, interest in another person, Holmes can accept. Feelings beyond that... Holmes finds himself in such foreign territory that his logical mind rebels at the thought. He returns to the case, much as he might want to ruminate on Watson. "You don't imagine she'll cry, do you?" He hates it when women cry. He feels for them and that is distracting and besides, nothing he says ever helps.
Watson shakes his head slowly, but more in a lack of answer than any sort of negative response. "I honestly haven't the slightest," he replies, stepping slightly to the side to be out of the back of a small pickpocket, who glares at him but keeps going. They're entering a less well-to-do area, and Watson can't help but notice, as he always does, that Holmes seems equally in his element here as he had in Covent Garden. Perhaps it's just that the man is so Bohemian that he'll fit (or not fit) equally anywhere at all. Watson has certainly observed this phenomenon abroad, as well.
Holmes' shoulder brushes his, a normal, everyday occurrence for them for the most part but one that has a different weight this morning. After their... well, after their more intimate encounter the night before (a truly inadequate term, he knows, but any other he could use sounds far too crude or far too emotional for him after the many, many earthquakes savaging his life the previous day), everything is different. It's also completely the same, and he knows he'd never had contradictions like that one in his life before he'd met Holmes. But the surreality is impossible to miss; here they are, on a case and walking through London as they've done countless times before, bumping into one another in what, the day before yesterday, he'd've termed a comfortable, brotherly way.
But now, that slight contact is enough to send him right back to the night before, beneath and above Holmes as they'd ventured into very new territory for the first time, and he feels a bolt of heat shoot from his chest directly to his... er, lower extremities. Thankfully due to the many layers he's clad in, however, it's not noticeable, and he wonders if he'll ever be able to touch Holmes without thinking... and wanting... again. Probably not. He's not complaining, however.
Will anyone else notice? Before, they'd always had a great deal of physical contact, had always spoken with their heads bent together... he doesn't think they'll be obvious about it, merely because they'd just... well. He merely needs to refrain from giving in to any urges while in public. And the risk is enough to forestall him; he's no desire for either of them to spend two years in hard labor. So he'll only need to concentrate on keeping himself in check, and possibly Holmes, which when the other man has a case should not be so very difficult.
As he is now, for which Watson is grateful. Holmes might be remaining quiet for the most part in consideration, and Watson appreciates that, but he's not thinking about Mary just now, is far too preoccupied, and he doesn't think just now is the best time to inform Holmes of that. For one, it might not be true later. And Holmes needs to concentrate, so Watson won't disrupt him.
They arrive at the shabby tenement building, and Watson pushes the door open with his walking stick, entering first and starting up the stairs to the third floor, glad that the Winstone ladies don't live any higher up than that, if only for the sake of his poor leg. He raps on their door. "Miss Winstone! It's Dr. Watson returning."
There are the sounds of rustling inside, and a moment later the door opens only a crack. "Who's that?" a hoarse voice asks harshly.
Watson tries to sound reassuring. "This is Mr. Holmes, Miss Winstone. He wishes to speak with you as well, as I promised last night."
The door opens a bit farther, and a face is suddenly visible, a pretty if ill-fed visage peering up at them hopefully, and Watson sighs silently. The girl can't be more than fifteen. "You'll take the case, then, Mr. Holmes, Sir?" She's prepared to flinch if the answer is a negative, and Watson feels yet another stab of pity. What is this girl going to do if they can't find her cousin? He knows the likely answer, and does not like it in the least.
"I already have, Miss Winstone," Holmes assures her straightforwardly. He watches her eyes widen a bit then, some of the built up tension leave her as she allows that he's going to help her, and Holmes is immediately assured that this girl is either a phenomenal actress or she had nothing to do with her cousin's disappearance.
That is certainly a step in the right direction, eliminating one possibility so quickly, and Holmes is glad for it as always. The girl has moved on past relief and mild shock (she hadn't had much hope, apparently) to curiosity, and the door opens a little more a moment later so that she can get a better look at Holmes. Holmes uses the opportunity to do the same to her. More a child than a woman, underfed and frightened out of her wits. Watson had said she was too distressed to carry on with his questioning the night before; Holmes hopes she can manage today. Distressed witnesses are not his forte.
"May we come in?" he asks after she stares at him for a moment.
Startled, she nods, opening the door and allowing both men to enter. She locks the door behind them almost frantically, which Holmes notes while he takes in the rooms. Dingy and small, but obviously meant for two people. Had the missing Ms. Winstone not gone missing, however, her cousin would have been living here on her own soon enough, what with the impending marriage. Holmes wonders how Ms. Winstone had intended to pay for it on her own salary.
The questions begin quickly; Holmes is relentless as always and only rarely looks at Ms. Winstone as he asks questions, but rather spends most of the time poking about, looking out the windows at the view below, inspecting the doorways, and just generally confusing the girl more and more. When he does look at her, it's blatantly and with a purpose, wanting to see her reaction more than the rest of the rooms.
On the bright side, this keeps her thrown off enough that she doesn't burst into tears or stop answering questions. Unfortunately, she also is now looking at Holmes with the sort of expression most people have upon meeting him for very long, the one that says clearly that she can't decide if he's the sort of madman that could be dangerous. Eventually, this turns into shock and awe when he deduces something they find extraordinary, but at the beginning it is almost always like this.
Not surprisingly, even Watson notices the paper from the day before last, hailing Scotland Yard's triumph over the jewel thieves... with the assistance of Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective, of course. Not having read the article, Watson examines it, noting with some relief that neither his name nor Mary's is mentioned. His thoughts shy from his... now-estranged wife almost immediately, and he quickly returns his attention to the interview.
Miss Winstone does not look all too steady on her feet once Holmes completes his barrage of questions (at least momentarily), and Watson gently urges her to sit and have some tea, putting the pot on himself. The doctor takes over, noting how pale and wan she seems, and he checks her temperature. A bit high. Well-dressed, but even he notes the stains on the hem that don't come from mud or any sort of industrial work. There are other stains on her skirt that have clearly been scrubbed at, all evidence proving that Miss Winstone has likely been forced to investigate other sources of revenue than whatever job she's been working.
A scullery maid, she'd told Holmes, at a home a mile or so from here. Her dress is practical, made with sturdy if inexpensive cloth, and with the two of them in the rooms, even knowing that they mean her no harm, she looks like a frightened deer. She'd be chewed up and spit back out if she goes into the profession she'll likely try, he thinks angrily. And if her cousin doesn't return, there will be nothing to be done about it at all.
Holmes finishes his inspection rather abruptly, clapping his hands, and Watson pulls out his prescription pad, scribbling something onto it. "Take this to the pharmacy closest to here on the Strand and fill it. Don't worry about needing to pay for it. It's a sedative and will help you sleep tonight."
Her eyes are wide and brown, and suddenly remind him of Holmes' the morning before, the shock and the hope. Something twists in his gut, and he has to clench his jaw to keep any other signs of anger from showing.
"But Doctor--"
"Take it, and do not go out looking for that sort of work tonight." His voice brooks no argument, and she sinks back down onto the couch, clearly shaken.
"Yes, sir," she says quietly.
Satisfied but still angry, not at her but at life in general, Watson straightens and looks over at Holmes, nodding. "Good day, Miss Winstone."
They say their goodbyes, Miss Winstone looking thoroughly shaken, and finally the two men let themselves out, Holmes quietly shutting the door behind them. Watson looks half ready to hit something, but there is no one and nothing to hit unless he feels the need to hit Holmes, but he's injured already and Holmes has the feeling the doctor in him would rebel at that. So instead they just leave the building quietly, both considering what they had learned from the young lady separately.
"Even if her cousin isn't dead or long gone," Holmes says once they are outside, far enough from the girl's building that there is no way she could hear them, "She'll go on to marry Mr. Yaxley, should he survive. Miss Winstone is going to be on her own no matter how this ends, Watson." He doesn't care for the situation any more than Watson, but even displeased with it can still clearly see the way of things and relate this without difficulty.
Of course Holmes had quickly come to the same conclusions that Watson had, looking at the girl. That had been why he had put a couple of questions to her about Mr. Yaxley, watching her responses as he did. After all, it wouldn't be too farfetched for the girl to feel so jealous and afraid to be on her own when her cousin married that she would try to be rid of the man standing in between them. But she seemed genuinely distressed by the man's state, and neither her stature nor disposition lend to her ability to have stabbed a healthy young man into a coma. Not to mention the fact that this would hardly explain her cousin's disappearance.
"And is it right that a girl that young, girls that young should have no other recourse but prostitution?" Watson counters, jaw still clenched. "A scullery maid's wages won't keep those rooms alone. Perhaps she was meant to move in with her cousin and Mr. Yaxley."
Not that there's anything to be done for it now, he supposes. He can't help every destitute person he meets and he knows that, but it's always more difficult when he has a face to put to them. "She'll be eaten alive. She won't last a month." He swallows hard, looking away. "She's no older than my sister was when she died." Lucy was only fifteen, as well. Wasted away in the space of a summer. It's painful, to watch another young girl no older than she was heading straight towards a similar fate, only less well-loved.
"The maid, Martha," he says suddenly, glancing over at Holmes. "The girl whom Mrs. Hudson complained so bitterly about. Has she been dismissed?" Holmes is eyeing him, and he very nearly hits something. "I'm aware that I can't save everyone, but the asking wouldn't do any harm."
Holmes glances over at Watson, his expression unreadable as he eyes the doctor. Watson had compared Miss Winstone to his sister; there will be no arguing with him now. That belies emotional attachment more than any amount of obvious anger or jaw clenching ever could. Watson has always had more trouble keeping an emotional distance from this sort of thing than Holmes has. Granted, much of the time a rock would have a harder time keeping an emotional distance than Holmes, but that is hardly the point. Holmes does show sympathy on occasion, simply not in the same manner as most people. He might, in fact, have been showing some little human empathy in taking this case to begin with, not that he'd ever admit that he would take one case over another due to the dire need of the people involved rather than the case's merit.
But when it comes to young girls falling on hard times... Holmes simply does not allow himself to become emotionally involved. There is no room for that in a case. That keeps one from remaining objective, which Holmes must be for him to be able to see the case clearly. And that is the most important matter here: the case. If he didn't remain objective, the case would not be solved, and no good would come of it at all. And so it has become simple and commonplace for Holmes to simply shut off any and all emotion and become little more than an instrument of deduction.
Of course, he has told Watson this numerous times; the doctor surely knows how Holmes feels about becoming emotionally attached to witnesses or anyone, really, by now. And Holmes knows just as surely that Watson cannot remove himself from the personal aspect of the crimes in the manner which Holmes himself has become so accustomed, cannot for all that he has witnessed in his life remain distant and collected as the detective. It simply is not Watson's way. "She has been dismissed, yes," he says, watching the doctor out of the corner of his eye. "Don't offer her a position until the case is solved, Watson. She is as much suspect as she is witness until the other Miss Winstone is found." The you know that at the end remains unspoken.
"I'm aware," Watson says, an edge to his voice. He could say more, and easily, but he keeps his mouth shut, having no desire to argue. Holmes is right; the girl is a suspect. There's nothing for it. And there's nothing more Watson can do, for all that he wants to. He sighs, biting the inside of his cheek for a moment before glancing over at Holmes again. "I apologize. I wasn't expecting to fall into such a poor temper."
He supposes he has an excuse, what with all that had happened over the past few days, but that doesn't mean he's pleased about it. He hadn't meant to take his frustration out on his friend. And Holmes' method (to his madness or to anything else) is to detach during a case, and think solely about the investigation, and nothing else. Watson can't blame him, and he can see how emotion would get in the way... and only feels more foolish when he realizes that his emotions had.
Watson's apology gets a quiet noise of assent from Holmes, who didn't appear to have been bothered much by the edge to Watson's voice to begin with. Rather, he begins fiddling with his pipe as they walk, considering Miss Winstone and her cousin, Mr. Yaxley, the actress, and that window. Right now it all seems so separate, but it's not, and Holmes knows it. He simply has to find the threads connecting them all, then leading to the missing girl and Mr. Yaxley's attacker. Perhaps the same person, perhaps unrelated. Holmes does not guess at these things until he has the data to determine the truth at the heart of the matter.
And Watson... Watson is in a state over Miss Winstone, more than is typical, and Holmes finds that mildly interesting. Of course he doesn't expect Watson to be as detached as he is, he never has, no more than he expects Watson to share his observations. But this attachment and anger is worse than it would normally be, because Watson does see why Holmes keeps himself at such a distance, and does on occassion emulate it to the best of his ability, so that when he cannot manage Watson is more disappointed with himself than Holmes is with him. But considering the day before, Holmes isn't terribly surprised to find Watson less collected than is typical.
What he is surprised to find is that he himself is slightly more inclined towards sympathy for the young Miss Winstone. Not out of any regard for the girl herself, Holmes decides as he lights his pipe and stares up at the sky for a moment, but rather because it has bothered Watson so. And that, he determines, is most interesting. Of course he promptly squashes the feeling. But it had been there, even now while he is immersed in a case, and that is atypical to say the least.
"I should like to call on Miss Caroline Baker," Holmes announces a minute later, leaving the topic of Miss Winstone behind. An actress. Holmes frowns a little, considering. He knows actresses. They are both more interesting and more difficult than other women, and can pose a problem when trying to determine the truth. "Do you recall her level of skill at her trade?" He asks after a moment, frowning. "In Moliere?" He cannot, for the life of him, recall.
Watson frowns, considering. It had been several months before, so he does not recall exactly... "I believe she was a comedic actress," he says finally. "But beyond that I cannot recall much." Twirling his walking stick in his hand for a moment, he walks normally again. "I would suggest we inquire at one of the theatres near Covent Garden to see where she may be working."
They do so, and find her an hour or so later at the Opera Comique on the Strand. Entering the rickety old building, Watson eyes the structure above them with some dubiousness, but Holmes seems not to notice, charging ahead, right into the theatre. It's not worth the effort to try and stop him, so Watson simply follows behind, ready to smooth ruffled feathers if needed.
And there may be some after all, he notes, seeing the large number of scantily clad women rushing about in enormous feathered wings and headdresses. He blinks, doing his level best to keep his eyes on Holmes' back straight ahead, but he's no saint, and he can't help but glance. A bit. But only a little. Certainly he would never do more than glance, after all.
A large man in an enormous emerald-green coat is shouting orders and seems to be directing the chaos, and so Watson trails after Holmes in his direction. "You!" the man bellows, pointing at them. "You're not the taxmen, are you?"
"I certainly hope not," Holmes replies, just as loudly. Taxmen. Interesting that the man should automatically think that any unknown visitors are taxmen. They don't look one bit like taxmen, either of them, but it isn't difficult to see that the man is... a bit distracted. Holmes can't blame him. Christ, he certainly is a bit distracted. The scantily clad women catch his interest very quickly, until he forces his mind to the man in question. "No, not taxmen, sir, but journalists with a great interest in your production. We were hoping to speak to Miss Caroline Baker."
The lie comes easily to Holmes, even as he extends his hand to be shaken; they always do, even off-the-cuff as this one is. He had no idea he was going to be posing as a reporter until just a moment ago, when they had been spotted by the director (Holmes of course determined that he was such the moment he laid eyes on the other man). But now that he has, something is clearly keeping Holmes from giving this man and therefore Miss Baker his name and true profession, thus keeping them both unaware that the case of the missing Miss Winstone is being investigated. Obviously he has a reason; he only hopes that Watson isn't so off today that his face shows Holmes' lie.
As he'd predicted, the director's eyes light up just a little with a familiar, slightly greedy glint. Journalists mean an article, which means free publicity. It's the perfect cover, of course; who would question a journalist asking questions of an actress if she is the subject matter of his article?
The man moves quickly to shake first Holmes' hand, and then Watson's, and a smile (fake, Holmes knows) appears on his face. "Journalists?" he repeats. "Fellow artists, then. You're quite welcome, gentlemen."
Holmes returns the smile with an equally fake one of his own, not that the man would know. "We can't thank you enough, sir. You are most gracious, and by that I know you. You must be Mr. Baudin." A French name, but the man is not French and Holmes knows it, no matter how he might pretend. "I am a great admirer, sir." Holmes had of course never heard of him until he'd spotted the flier at the front of the theater.
Baudin inflates with predictable pride, and Watson is glad his mustache hides his amusement, stifled though it is. "We're from the Dispatch, sir," he says politely. "Greatly looking forward to tonight's performance."
"Much obliged, sirs, much obliged." Baudin tips forward very slightly in what could have been a bow had his stomach not been quite so globe-like. "Miss Baker--yes, Caroline's dressing room is just that way, to stage left." He points. "Her name is inscribed upon the door." There is a mutter from somewhere behind then that it wouldn't be inscribed there for much longer, but when Holmes and Watson turn to look, there is only a mass of feathered wings and headdresses.
"Yes, well, I do hope you gentlemen enjoy tonight's opening," Baudin says loudly, obviously trying to regain their attention. "I trust you've already obtained tickets?"
"Yes, of course," Holmes says with a smile. A charming smile, the kind he pulls out at the strangest moments that tends to surprise anyone who knows him. "At the first opportunity, we've been greatly anticipating this."
Her name won't be on the door much longer? Holmes takes that bit of information- or at least gossip- and stores it for later consideration. It is interesting, considering the fact that they are opening a new show, with Miss Baker as the lead. If she might no longer be popular or wanted, why would they begin a new show with her as the star?
But now is not the time for that, and Holmes keeps his attention firmly on Baudin, as much as he might want to watch the women behind the man who are... changing clothes... Holmes swallows, eyes very firmly on Baudin's. "I'm certain it will be magnificent. Thank you so much for your time, Mr. Baudin, and your contributions to the fine arts." And then they are on their way, leaving a very pleased Baudin behind and heading for Miss Caroline Baker's dressing room, Holmes eyeing everything along the way, scantily clad chorus girls included.
Barely controlled chaos, the entire place. Holmes grudgingly admits that he would fit in quite well here, but dislikes the idea of working in a theater for many reasons. "We will have to determine why Miss Baker's career is apparently about to come to an abrupt end," he comments to Watson when he is certain no one is listening to them.
Watson does nothing more than clear his throat, although he does jump a bit when, as they're making their way through a large group of women, a hand squeezes his arse. There's a giggle, but when he spins around damned if he can tell which one of them did it, so he has to give it up.
Thankfully they don't have to go far to reach Miss Baker's dressing room, and Holmes raps on the door immediately. She opens it, half-dressed in a silk robe and half-made up, and opens her mouth to undoubtedly screech at them (through long experience--not with his wife, thankfully--Watson is well aware of when a woman is about to screech), but Holmes cuts her off smoothly with the story of them being journalists from the Dispatch.
"We mean to do a piece on the most successful comediennes, Miss," Watson adds smoothly, removing his hat as Holmes does the same. She has them sit on a rather ratty-looking red velvet couch, and they do, Watson checking his spot surreptitiously first but Holmes plopping down immediately.
"How can I help?" she asks in a low, sultry voice, clearly putting on for them. "Anything for a good review, of course." Her legs are crossed beneath her robe, revealing more skin than is strictly appropriate, and Watson tries not to sigh. He'll leave Holmes to the questioning or he'll turn beet-red immediately, he knows it for certain.
~~~~~~~
Part Fifteen
Author: agaryulnaer86 and sarisa_rahe
Rating: R
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Disclaimer: Not ours. Sigh.
Summary: In which Holmes has more patience than usual and he and Watson are not taxmen.
Spoilers: Movie
Warnings: Aftermath of slash. More to come, next chappie.
Word Count: 8,508
Author's Notes: Epic-fic, part 14 of… well, God knows.
Parts One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five, Part Six, Part Seven, Part Eight, Part Nine, Part Ten, Part Eleven, Part Twelve, Part Thirteen
~~~~~~~
When Holmes wakes again, he awakes warm, on a softer surface than he typically wakes, and surrounded by... Watson? Confused, Holmes forces open one eye, to find that the room is exceptionally dark. The room... his room? Since when does he fall asleep in his bed?
Except then Holmes' eye lights on the other form sleeping next to him, and the other eye opens so that he can stare for a moment, eyes wide in the darkness, over at Watson, whose side he had at some point curled up into so that Holmes' head was buried in Watson's shoulder. No wonder it smelled like Watson; Watson is right there. Holmes recalls quickly what had happened before he can be hit by the shock of it all again, but the shock does come, followed quickly by disbelief.
Holmes spends a moment blinking repeatedly, shaking his head, and then actually pinching himself just to check, but this is all quite real. Watson is sleeping there, quite soundly for once, and before he'd been sleeping, they'd been... holy god they had been. Holmes' mind is much clearer now, a fact which he notices immediately, and so he quickly begins replaying everything that had happened and everything he'd noticed and determines that he must indeed have passed out because he doesn't recall anything after...
Swallowing, Holmes tries to run a hand through his hair but finds that he cannot move; his hands are both stuck between himself and Watson's form. If he moves, he'll wake the doctor, and Holmes can tell from the color and depth of the darkness outside the window that it's nearing dawn, but there must still be an hour before the sun rises. And Watson, no matter whatever else had happened the night before, needs rest.
So Holmes carefully lays his head back down next to Watson's shoulder, allowing himself a few moments during which he doesn't have to pretend, alone with his own mind in the darkness, that this isn't the safest, most comforting place he has ever woken in his entire life. He allows himself, for a few brief moments, to simply relish in the aches and bruises he can feel that weren't there the day before, knowing that they had been put there by Watson when he'd shoved Holmes over and had landed on top of him. Or when Watson had held on to Holmes hard enough to bruise, when finally...
Holmes allows himself this small amount of time to bask in everything (meaning... just Watson) before morning and reality comes crashing back, as it tends to. Showing remarkable patience considering the source, Holmes lies still in bed for a little over an hour, until the sky outside the window lightens from black to midnight blue to that gray-blue slate color that means dawn is on its way.
And then, quite done with lying still, Holmes begins to poke at Watson. Sleeping is quite overrated, they do have a case after all, and Holmes is quite awake and aware as ever. "Watson," he says, first quietly, and then louder, with the intention of increasing volume until the other man opens his eyes. He is, as always, completely unaware of his resemblance to an excited child. "Watson. It's morning. You gave your word that you would reveal the location of the crime."
Watson swims slowly back to consciousness, not springing awake as he usually does but rather floating to the surface. It takes him a moment, too, to realize where he is, opening his eyes to stare directly at Holmes, lying so close together as they are. His memory stretches back to the night before but he'll be damned if he can recall any conversation. Really, all he can remember is how they'd... how Holmes had... how he'd... how...
"Hell," he nearly croaks, as everything slowly melts into surreality. "Holmes..." They had... that had all actually happened. He'd left Mary, had... he and Holmes had... He starts to see spots, and realizing that he's been holding his breath, he lets it out in a small explosion. Slowly, a smile grows on his face. They're really lying here, and he can't put a name to the nearly giddy feeling in the pit of his stomach, save that he wants to roll the other man back under him again and take what had happened again, but this time a great deal more slowly.
"I suppose I did," he mutters finally, realizing that he's smiling in a way that rather makes him feel a great deal less masculine than he normally does, and clearing his throat, he sobers his expression. "Right. It's an alley off of Kingsway. But I will be accompanying you," he cautions. "I know quite well that you're nowhere near your best, and someone has to knock sense into your head if necessary." Not that there's ever a great deal of sense in Holmes' head to begin with, but Watson had gotten a full night of sleep out of the man (an occurrence so rare as to likely be impossible to repeat), and he supposes that accomplishment is impressive in itself. He supposes he must count himself satisfied... at least for now.
It takes Holmes a moment to respond; not because he is insulted that Watson thinks he has no sense in his head or bothered by the idea of Watson coming with him, but rather because he'd been watching Watson's reactions since his eyes had opened. He'd seen the smile on the doctor's face before Watson had sobered, the way he observes everything. Holmes is slightly surprised to find that something in him is eased to see the smile on Watson's face. He knows Watson's expressions, he thinks, better than most people would, after all of their years together can read the other man very well. And that expression means... well, it means that Watson does not regret what had happened the night before.
And that... that eases something in Holmes he didn't realize had tensed. Perhaps that was why he had allowed Watson to sleep an hour... worry that the doctor would wake up and realize that what they had done, what he had done, was wrong. Worry that Watson would change his mind... and leave.
But he isn't leaving. That... that was a genuine smile, more genuine than most Holmes perceives on Watson, especially recently. It lights up his face, in a manner Holmes doesn't believe Watson realizes makes him look almost irresistible; Holmes would do almost anything to get that smile out of Watson. And yet, Holmes is still surprised to realize just how pleased he himself is to see that smile, surprised to find himself returning it for a moment without meaning to. But then Watson coughs, the smile disappearing and Holmes quickly hides his own grin.
"All right then," he says after a moment, forcing his mind back to the case. It's much more difficult than it usually is; Holmes is rather startled to find that that is the case. "If you insist." He fights a grin. "Let us hurry then. Evidence will not wait. In fact I don't imagine it has been waiting. But I have: sixty-two minutes, to be exact." Sixty-two whole minutes. See how well behaved he's been? And yet... Holmes makes no move to leave, not just yet.
"My faith in your capability for patience has just greatly increased," Watson quips in return, falling onto his back and then sitting up with a small groan, dragging a hand through his own hair and stretching. But then he glances down at Holmes, taking in the entirety of the other man, still lying there, and has to fight back a sigh. He's right; evidence won't wait, and anything started now would be hurried, not with the time he means to include in it, the next time.
Yawning again, he swings his legs over the side of the bed, standing and fastening his trousers, amused despite the newness of the situation. "Can't let the evidence wait longer than necessary." Of course, his clothes are still neatly folded, and he picks them up, meaning to go change. And he should probably make arrangements for the rest of his things, as well, in the next few days... but just now, he doesn't want to think about much else beyond that it's a quiet morning and that he feels more at peace today than he has in months.
"You had no faith in my capability for patience to begin with," Holmes mumbles, not bothering to fight back his sigh at Watson beginning to replace clothing and getting up. His priorities, such as they are, have always been very clear, very succinct: case first, everything else after. But Watson seems to have thrown that for a loop today, and Holmes finds himself at a bit of a loss. He has never slept so long in one place, not since childhood, especially not while he has a case. Concussions had never stopped him before.
But it wasn't the concussion that had stopped him, not really. It had been Watson. Holmes wouldn't have stayed put for anyone else, and they both know it.
Still, now morning is swiftly on its way and Holmes is ready, prepared as ever to go out and see the scene of the crime. A new case, and with Watson, and Watson might still be guilty and moping about but a moment ago he had been smiling and frankly, that is all Holmes can ask of life. A case and Watson.
Trying to determine how long that has been so, and then beginning to wonder if Watson is aware of the great power he has over the detective, Holmes pulls himself into a seated position as well with a groan. It hurts; it hurts a lot. But it's not the sharp pain of new wounds, but becoming the dull ache of bruises and battery from days past. And his head stays put on his shoulders and the room doesn't spin at all. Holmes has seen worse days, many of them, and so calls this a success.
He wouldn't mind taking off the bandages around his torso... but he suspects Watson would kill him if he tried just yet, and they have places to be. Later. He looks up at Watson, recalling that he must find his pipe before they leave. "So naturally, it could do nothing but increase. What were they doing in the alley?"
Watson is buttoning up his shirt and casting about for his tie, knowing he won't have fresh clothes that day, not until he can return to Cavendish Place for more of his things, and frankly he's too afraid to run into Mary to attempt it today. "Ms. Winstone... well, they did not appear to be of great financial wealth, and I believed they lived nearby. She told me they had... something of an affectionate, and she believed intimate, relationship already, prior to their marriage."
And honestly, he has absolutely no grounds to look down upon that just now. Separated he might be, but he'd had intimate relations with someone not his wife on the very day on which the separation had occurred. The fact that his relationship with Holmes is a complicated one but had certainly been intimate in every other manner before last night does play a part, but is it right that he should feel guilty for... not feeling guilty about the night before? Christ, he doesn't even understand.
"The missing Ms. Winstone worked as a maid in an actress' home near Covent Garden. Mr. Yaxley took it upon himself to see her safely home each night. Her cousin assured me that the alley was a part of their usual route." Buttoning his waistcoat, he turns to see Holmes flinch slightly while trying to pull on his shirt. "Here, let me." His hands are gentle but businesslike, a doctor's hands as he takes the shirt from Holmes, holding it while the other man gets his arms inside and then settling it on his shoulders.
But his fingertips linger for a beat too long, smoothing its back. "Fits you well, considering it was tailored for me," he jibes good-naturedly, dropping his hands but forgoing the usual throat-clearing. It would be a bit absurd to do so, after the night before. And the fact that Holmes smells... well. Watson wants to bite his neck from behind, but again if he does so they'll never get to Kingsway.
It takes Holmes a moment longer than it normally would to respond to any of that yet again. He has to force his mind to the task at hand, swallowing and wishing Watson would do exactly what he's considering, but knowing the same as the doctor does that they have work to do. He's waited years. He can wait again. But it's as though knowing now that it's possible... knowing exactly what he's been missing, makes it harder to resist.
Still, Holmes can feel the spot where Watson's hands had rested even after he removes them, warmer than the rest of him, and the detective has to stomp down the desire to turn around and attempt to tackle Watson. It wouldn't go well in his condition, and they would never leave.
So instead Holmes swallows and tries to regain some of the patience he'd displayed so recently, waiting for an hour for the sun to rise and the conditions Watson had placed on his learning the location of the crime to be fulfilled. But patience does not come naturally to Holmes- at least not in this sort of situation- and especially not now, with his mind beginning to work on a case. What patience and serenity he has is typically foregone when a case takes hold of his mind as much as it is foregone when he finds himself between cases and despondent. It's a rare thing to find Holmes in between one or the other, but when he is, patience is easier.
"I've found that your shirts often fit me well despite your tailor," Holmes returns finally, mind beginning to consider the facts Watson had given him. "It's a mystery. Perhaps you should have them tailored to fit someone else."
They'll have to see Ms. Winstone's employer, of course. And the cousin, later this morning... "Which actress employs her?"
Watson pulls out his small notebook, in which he'd jotted down the names and important points of his conversation with Ms. Winstone. "Miss Caroline Baker. We saw her in Moliere a few months ago, do you recall?" He clears his throat, putting the notebook back into his jacket pocket and then shrugging on said jacket, buttoning it neatly. He'll need to shave as well, of course, but as he's not yet too prickly, it can likely wait until they return.
"She is also, according to the missing Ms. Winstone, who informed her cousin, currently the mistress of Lord Darnley." Thus prepared, with all but his overcoat, he turns to glance back at Holmes. "Ms. Winstone was in too much distress to tell me more. I recommended she rest as well as she can, and that you and I would call upon her today. I may prescribe her a sedative, later; she was most distraught."
Moliere, Moliere. Throughout most of this explanation, Holmes is trying to recall the night Watson had mentioned, and then Miss Caroline Baker. It takes him a moment, as this information had at the time not been deemed particularly important and had thus been mostly ignored and forgotten once they'd left, but finally Holmes does recall. Miss Caroline Baker, actress, mistress to Lord Darnley.
Interesting information, but useless to Holmes as of yet. He will need to see the scene of the crime, first and foremost. And then Ms. Winstone, the one who is not missing. Holmes does not particularly look forward to getting information out of a distressed young woman, but he'll do it nevertheless.
"I imagine she would be," he agrees vaguely, eyes not focused on Watson at all. He is clearly not focused on the state of Ms. Winstone's mind and emotions, but the entirety of everything Watson had told him. After a moment, though, Holmes comes back to himself and looks himself over; he looks a bit worse for wear, but presentable at least in his own mind, and so decides that with his coat and hat he will be fine. Excepting one thing. "I'm going to locate my pipe." And Watson had best hope that it isn't broken.
There's a pause as Watson eyes the frost on the window, and then he digs around in the pile of clothes in the corner (trying not to think about what all could be on them, considering some of the oddly-colored and scented stains) and makes his way down the two steps and over to his office, where he hands Holmes a scarf. "It's bloody cold," he mutters, shoving it at the detective, who has located his pipe and looks quite satisfied.
Putting on his own outer clothes and grabbing his walking stick, Watson checks for his pistol and then glances over at Holmes. "Revolver."
The man blinks and then turns on his heel, disappearing into the sitting room while Watson moves to wait at the top of the stairs. There is a small crash and then a loud thud, but then Holmes appears. Amused, Watson says nothing but simply follows him down the stairs.
It's surreal, again, to go out onto the street. When Watson had come up the front steps, he'd been trying to recover from a distressing situation of his own, not sure if ever could recover. But now... now, everything feels different. It's chilly, but the air is clear and the sun is bright (for once). He doesn't know what the change in his own personal atmosphere means, but he does know that he's right where he wants to be, off on another investigation and bound to get into some sort of chase, scrape, or other (mis)adventure by day's end.
The trip to Kingway doesn't take long at all; both men are quiet along the way, engrossed in their own thoughts. Holmes, for one, finds it easier to let his mind think of the case while they are no longer at Baker Street, no longer near the bed, which had never been to him a place where he slept, so had no real value in his mind until the night before. Now... now it has a place in Holmes' mind, a value, and as such he doesn't imagine being able to look at it without thinking of what had taken place there.
But now that they're outside, in the cold air, his mind is willing and ready as ever to take on a new case, a problem to be solved, and Holmes is happy to leave Watson to his own thoughts, knowing he undoubtedly needs the time.
Soon enough, though, they reach the alley where the crime occurred (though Holmes demands a detour, so that they begin from the route the young couple would have taken, staring from the area of Miss Caroline Baker's home), and Holmes stops before he enters, right in the middle of the turn, to take in the entire place while consulting his mental map of the area around it. A stabbing, and an abduction. But that might not have been what had happened at all; it is merely what everyone assumes had taken place. The only witnesses are either missing or comatose.
The question, first, is now who had done this or where Ms. Winstone is, but rather why here? That is where Holmes must begin, while they are here. Then the order of events. And then... Ms. Winstone's location. After all, to say that Holmes keeps an open mind about such matters as a case would be a vast understatement. When it comes to cases, Holmes' mind is so open it is a wonder it doesn't fall out of his head. He has no preconceived notions about the number of attackers, who it might have been, or why it had been done. For all he knows or cares, Ms. Winstone had done the deed herself and run off to Paris. To him, that is at present just as likely as a random mugging, kidnapping, and likely murder. But soon enough, some possibilities will be eliminated.
Sure enough, after a minute of staring at the whole alley, Holmes begins his inspection of the entire area, not faltering for a moment because of his injuries. In fact, despite the way his breathing is still labored, injuries could not be further from Holmes' mind at the moment, immersed as he is. The walls of the surrounding buildings come first. Then the ground, circling towards the spot where he has spied blood; the ground is, of course, dirty as hell but the spot where Mr. Yaxley had been stabbed is still visible; Holmes takes samples of course of this area and the surrounding areas as well, to be inspected later. But he seems very interested in the surrounding buildings, continuing throughout this investigation to look up at one in particular, with a window that appears, upon closer inspection, just slightly cleaner than the surrounding windows on the same house.
Holmes finally stops his inspection of the ground to stare up at said window. He has to get in there. He turns to Watson, not sharing this plan with the other man, and nods. "Nothing more to be done here until dusk," he announces.
Quite accustomed to being kept in the dark as to his friend's thoughts and methods (although the latter to a much lesser extent), Watson nods his agreement, having kept back out of the way so as not to impede Holmes' process. "I take it the game is afoot then, old boy?"
He gets a harrumph in response, the sort that means his question is irrelevant, its answer obvious, and smiles slightly, the expression hidden beneath his mustache. "Well, then it's off to see Ms. Winstone. Must we inspect Mr. Yaxley's rooms, as well? I managed to discover their location last night, in case it became relevant."
He does at least try to anticipate things. Sometimes it's useless, and sometimes he's scolded for wasting energy, but at other times Holmes praises him for his forethought and charges ahead, making great use of Watson's information. It's impossible to tell which will be the case, but Watson finds that having a fairly easygoing and polite manner gets one a very long way among any set of people, really.
He can come off as the distinguished, well-dressed physician or the gambling addict as the situation requires; he would never pretend to be such a master of disguise as Holmes, but in many instances he likes to think that his modicum of social skills (one area in which the great detective is severely lacking) are of just as much use.
Equally important, he supposes, are a strong back and a talent for kicking in doors, but that's neither here nor there.
"Mr. Yaxley's rooms," Holmes repeats, eyebrows raising; he turns to glance at Watson as they turn, Holmes following Watson's directions to what he assumes is Ms. Winstone's (the cousin) place of residence. He seems, this time, quite pleasantly surprised by Watson's foresight.
Well, then again, he has been doing his very best to train the good doctor for years now. If he didn't come out with some useful idea or deduction every now and then, Holmes would be sorely disappointed in him. He supposes he's still recovering from the recent, more emotional issues, and his determination that Watson is a complete idiot. He will grudgingly have to allow that Watson is at least not a complete idiot in all areas.
"That might very well prove necessary," he says, with an air of mild approval, the sort a professor might have with a student. Whether or not Watson truly is a student of the discipline of deduction is debatable, but no one else has ever bothered to truly learn Holmes' methods, or gone to such pains to help. No one else has ever dared... or cared enough to brave the mind of Sherlock Holmes. Some people have done so in shorter spurts, yes, but not like Watson.
And in return, Holmes has laid bare to Watson as much as he could, as often as he could. There are leaps of logic and deduction that Holmes makes, however, that Watson simply cannot fathom without first being told the destination or result, places in Holmes' mind where Watson cannot follow, and that will never change. But he bothers to try, despite Holmes' oddities (which had kept many others at a distance), and that above all else has been what eventually warmed Holmes to him. That had begun their friendship.
But it had been other qualities that had kept Holmes interested in Watson, and eventually had led to... well. Friendship, interest in another person, Holmes can accept. Feelings beyond that... Holmes finds himself in such foreign territory that his logical mind rebels at the thought. He returns to the case, much as he might want to ruminate on Watson. "You don't imagine she'll cry, do you?" He hates it when women cry. He feels for them and that is distracting and besides, nothing he says ever helps.
Watson shakes his head slowly, but more in a lack of answer than any sort of negative response. "I honestly haven't the slightest," he replies, stepping slightly to the side to be out of the back of a small pickpocket, who glares at him but keeps going. They're entering a less well-to-do area, and Watson can't help but notice, as he always does, that Holmes seems equally in his element here as he had in Covent Garden. Perhaps it's just that the man is so Bohemian that he'll fit (or not fit) equally anywhere at all. Watson has certainly observed this phenomenon abroad, as well.
Holmes' shoulder brushes his, a normal, everyday occurrence for them for the most part but one that has a different weight this morning. After their... well, after their more intimate encounter the night before (a truly inadequate term, he knows, but any other he could use sounds far too crude or far too emotional for him after the many, many earthquakes savaging his life the previous day), everything is different. It's also completely the same, and he knows he'd never had contradictions like that one in his life before he'd met Holmes. But the surreality is impossible to miss; here they are, on a case and walking through London as they've done countless times before, bumping into one another in what, the day before yesterday, he'd've termed a comfortable, brotherly way.
But now, that slight contact is enough to send him right back to the night before, beneath and above Holmes as they'd ventured into very new territory for the first time, and he feels a bolt of heat shoot from his chest directly to his... er, lower extremities. Thankfully due to the many layers he's clad in, however, it's not noticeable, and he wonders if he'll ever be able to touch Holmes without thinking... and wanting... again. Probably not. He's not complaining, however.
Will anyone else notice? Before, they'd always had a great deal of physical contact, had always spoken with their heads bent together... he doesn't think they'll be obvious about it, merely because they'd just... well. He merely needs to refrain from giving in to any urges while in public. And the risk is enough to forestall him; he's no desire for either of them to spend two years in hard labor. So he'll only need to concentrate on keeping himself in check, and possibly Holmes, which when the other man has a case should not be so very difficult.
As he is now, for which Watson is grateful. Holmes might be remaining quiet for the most part in consideration, and Watson appreciates that, but he's not thinking about Mary just now, is far too preoccupied, and he doesn't think just now is the best time to inform Holmes of that. For one, it might not be true later. And Holmes needs to concentrate, so Watson won't disrupt him.
They arrive at the shabby tenement building, and Watson pushes the door open with his walking stick, entering first and starting up the stairs to the third floor, glad that the Winstone ladies don't live any higher up than that, if only for the sake of his poor leg. He raps on their door. "Miss Winstone! It's Dr. Watson returning."
There are the sounds of rustling inside, and a moment later the door opens only a crack. "Who's that?" a hoarse voice asks harshly.
Watson tries to sound reassuring. "This is Mr. Holmes, Miss Winstone. He wishes to speak with you as well, as I promised last night."
The door opens a bit farther, and a face is suddenly visible, a pretty if ill-fed visage peering up at them hopefully, and Watson sighs silently. The girl can't be more than fifteen. "You'll take the case, then, Mr. Holmes, Sir?" She's prepared to flinch if the answer is a negative, and Watson feels yet another stab of pity. What is this girl going to do if they can't find her cousin? He knows the likely answer, and does not like it in the least.
"I already have, Miss Winstone," Holmes assures her straightforwardly. He watches her eyes widen a bit then, some of the built up tension leave her as she allows that he's going to help her, and Holmes is immediately assured that this girl is either a phenomenal actress or she had nothing to do with her cousin's disappearance.
That is certainly a step in the right direction, eliminating one possibility so quickly, and Holmes is glad for it as always. The girl has moved on past relief and mild shock (she hadn't had much hope, apparently) to curiosity, and the door opens a little more a moment later so that she can get a better look at Holmes. Holmes uses the opportunity to do the same to her. More a child than a woman, underfed and frightened out of her wits. Watson had said she was too distressed to carry on with his questioning the night before; Holmes hopes she can manage today. Distressed witnesses are not his forte.
"May we come in?" he asks after she stares at him for a moment.
Startled, she nods, opening the door and allowing both men to enter. She locks the door behind them almost frantically, which Holmes notes while he takes in the rooms. Dingy and small, but obviously meant for two people. Had the missing Ms. Winstone not gone missing, however, her cousin would have been living here on her own soon enough, what with the impending marriage. Holmes wonders how Ms. Winstone had intended to pay for it on her own salary.
The questions begin quickly; Holmes is relentless as always and only rarely looks at Ms. Winstone as he asks questions, but rather spends most of the time poking about, looking out the windows at the view below, inspecting the doorways, and just generally confusing the girl more and more. When he does look at her, it's blatantly and with a purpose, wanting to see her reaction more than the rest of the rooms.
On the bright side, this keeps her thrown off enough that she doesn't burst into tears or stop answering questions. Unfortunately, she also is now looking at Holmes with the sort of expression most people have upon meeting him for very long, the one that says clearly that she can't decide if he's the sort of madman that could be dangerous. Eventually, this turns into shock and awe when he deduces something they find extraordinary, but at the beginning it is almost always like this.
Not surprisingly, even Watson notices the paper from the day before last, hailing Scotland Yard's triumph over the jewel thieves... with the assistance of Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective, of course. Not having read the article, Watson examines it, noting with some relief that neither his name nor Mary's is mentioned. His thoughts shy from his... now-estranged wife almost immediately, and he quickly returns his attention to the interview.
Miss Winstone does not look all too steady on her feet once Holmes completes his barrage of questions (at least momentarily), and Watson gently urges her to sit and have some tea, putting the pot on himself. The doctor takes over, noting how pale and wan she seems, and he checks her temperature. A bit high. Well-dressed, but even he notes the stains on the hem that don't come from mud or any sort of industrial work. There are other stains on her skirt that have clearly been scrubbed at, all evidence proving that Miss Winstone has likely been forced to investigate other sources of revenue than whatever job she's been working.
A scullery maid, she'd told Holmes, at a home a mile or so from here. Her dress is practical, made with sturdy if inexpensive cloth, and with the two of them in the rooms, even knowing that they mean her no harm, she looks like a frightened deer. She'd be chewed up and spit back out if she goes into the profession she'll likely try, he thinks angrily. And if her cousin doesn't return, there will be nothing to be done about it at all.
Holmes finishes his inspection rather abruptly, clapping his hands, and Watson pulls out his prescription pad, scribbling something onto it. "Take this to the pharmacy closest to here on the Strand and fill it. Don't worry about needing to pay for it. It's a sedative and will help you sleep tonight."
Her eyes are wide and brown, and suddenly remind him of Holmes' the morning before, the shock and the hope. Something twists in his gut, and he has to clench his jaw to keep any other signs of anger from showing.
"But Doctor--"
"Take it, and do not go out looking for that sort of work tonight." His voice brooks no argument, and she sinks back down onto the couch, clearly shaken.
"Yes, sir," she says quietly.
Satisfied but still angry, not at her but at life in general, Watson straightens and looks over at Holmes, nodding. "Good day, Miss Winstone."
They say their goodbyes, Miss Winstone looking thoroughly shaken, and finally the two men let themselves out, Holmes quietly shutting the door behind them. Watson looks half ready to hit something, but there is no one and nothing to hit unless he feels the need to hit Holmes, but he's injured already and Holmes has the feeling the doctor in him would rebel at that. So instead they just leave the building quietly, both considering what they had learned from the young lady separately.
"Even if her cousin isn't dead or long gone," Holmes says once they are outside, far enough from the girl's building that there is no way she could hear them, "She'll go on to marry Mr. Yaxley, should he survive. Miss Winstone is going to be on her own no matter how this ends, Watson." He doesn't care for the situation any more than Watson, but even displeased with it can still clearly see the way of things and relate this without difficulty.
Of course Holmes had quickly come to the same conclusions that Watson had, looking at the girl. That had been why he had put a couple of questions to her about Mr. Yaxley, watching her responses as he did. After all, it wouldn't be too farfetched for the girl to feel so jealous and afraid to be on her own when her cousin married that she would try to be rid of the man standing in between them. But she seemed genuinely distressed by the man's state, and neither her stature nor disposition lend to her ability to have stabbed a healthy young man into a coma. Not to mention the fact that this would hardly explain her cousin's disappearance.
"And is it right that a girl that young, girls that young should have no other recourse but prostitution?" Watson counters, jaw still clenched. "A scullery maid's wages won't keep those rooms alone. Perhaps she was meant to move in with her cousin and Mr. Yaxley."
Not that there's anything to be done for it now, he supposes. He can't help every destitute person he meets and he knows that, but it's always more difficult when he has a face to put to them. "She'll be eaten alive. She won't last a month." He swallows hard, looking away. "She's no older than my sister was when she died." Lucy was only fifteen, as well. Wasted away in the space of a summer. It's painful, to watch another young girl no older than she was heading straight towards a similar fate, only less well-loved.
"The maid, Martha," he says suddenly, glancing over at Holmes. "The girl whom Mrs. Hudson complained so bitterly about. Has she been dismissed?" Holmes is eyeing him, and he very nearly hits something. "I'm aware that I can't save everyone, but the asking wouldn't do any harm."
Holmes glances over at Watson, his expression unreadable as he eyes the doctor. Watson had compared Miss Winstone to his sister; there will be no arguing with him now. That belies emotional attachment more than any amount of obvious anger or jaw clenching ever could. Watson has always had more trouble keeping an emotional distance from this sort of thing than Holmes has. Granted, much of the time a rock would have a harder time keeping an emotional distance than Holmes, but that is hardly the point. Holmes does show sympathy on occasion, simply not in the same manner as most people. He might, in fact, have been showing some little human empathy in taking this case to begin with, not that he'd ever admit that he would take one case over another due to the dire need of the people involved rather than the case's merit.
But when it comes to young girls falling on hard times... Holmes simply does not allow himself to become emotionally involved. There is no room for that in a case. That keeps one from remaining objective, which Holmes must be for him to be able to see the case clearly. And that is the most important matter here: the case. If he didn't remain objective, the case would not be solved, and no good would come of it at all. And so it has become simple and commonplace for Holmes to simply shut off any and all emotion and become little more than an instrument of deduction.
Of course, he has told Watson this numerous times; the doctor surely knows how Holmes feels about becoming emotionally attached to witnesses or anyone, really, by now. And Holmes knows just as surely that Watson cannot remove himself from the personal aspect of the crimes in the manner which Holmes himself has become so accustomed, cannot for all that he has witnessed in his life remain distant and collected as the detective. It simply is not Watson's way. "She has been dismissed, yes," he says, watching the doctor out of the corner of his eye. "Don't offer her a position until the case is solved, Watson. She is as much suspect as she is witness until the other Miss Winstone is found." The you know that at the end remains unspoken.
"I'm aware," Watson says, an edge to his voice. He could say more, and easily, but he keeps his mouth shut, having no desire to argue. Holmes is right; the girl is a suspect. There's nothing for it. And there's nothing more Watson can do, for all that he wants to. He sighs, biting the inside of his cheek for a moment before glancing over at Holmes again. "I apologize. I wasn't expecting to fall into such a poor temper."
He supposes he has an excuse, what with all that had happened over the past few days, but that doesn't mean he's pleased about it. He hadn't meant to take his frustration out on his friend. And Holmes' method (to his madness or to anything else) is to detach during a case, and think solely about the investigation, and nothing else. Watson can't blame him, and he can see how emotion would get in the way... and only feels more foolish when he realizes that his emotions had.
Watson's apology gets a quiet noise of assent from Holmes, who didn't appear to have been bothered much by the edge to Watson's voice to begin with. Rather, he begins fiddling with his pipe as they walk, considering Miss Winstone and her cousin, Mr. Yaxley, the actress, and that window. Right now it all seems so separate, but it's not, and Holmes knows it. He simply has to find the threads connecting them all, then leading to the missing girl and Mr. Yaxley's attacker. Perhaps the same person, perhaps unrelated. Holmes does not guess at these things until he has the data to determine the truth at the heart of the matter.
And Watson... Watson is in a state over Miss Winstone, more than is typical, and Holmes finds that mildly interesting. Of course he doesn't expect Watson to be as detached as he is, he never has, no more than he expects Watson to share his observations. But this attachment and anger is worse than it would normally be, because Watson does see why Holmes keeps himself at such a distance, and does on occassion emulate it to the best of his ability, so that when he cannot manage Watson is more disappointed with himself than Holmes is with him. But considering the day before, Holmes isn't terribly surprised to find Watson less collected than is typical.
What he is surprised to find is that he himself is slightly more inclined towards sympathy for the young Miss Winstone. Not out of any regard for the girl herself, Holmes decides as he lights his pipe and stares up at the sky for a moment, but rather because it has bothered Watson so. And that, he determines, is most interesting. Of course he promptly squashes the feeling. But it had been there, even now while he is immersed in a case, and that is atypical to say the least.
"I should like to call on Miss Caroline Baker," Holmes announces a minute later, leaving the topic of Miss Winstone behind. An actress. Holmes frowns a little, considering. He knows actresses. They are both more interesting and more difficult than other women, and can pose a problem when trying to determine the truth. "Do you recall her level of skill at her trade?" He asks after a moment, frowning. "In Moliere?" He cannot, for the life of him, recall.
Watson frowns, considering. It had been several months before, so he does not recall exactly... "I believe she was a comedic actress," he says finally. "But beyond that I cannot recall much." Twirling his walking stick in his hand for a moment, he walks normally again. "I would suggest we inquire at one of the theatres near Covent Garden to see where she may be working."
They do so, and find her an hour or so later at the Opera Comique on the Strand. Entering the rickety old building, Watson eyes the structure above them with some dubiousness, but Holmes seems not to notice, charging ahead, right into the theatre. It's not worth the effort to try and stop him, so Watson simply follows behind, ready to smooth ruffled feathers if needed.
And there may be some after all, he notes, seeing the large number of scantily clad women rushing about in enormous feathered wings and headdresses. He blinks, doing his level best to keep his eyes on Holmes' back straight ahead, but he's no saint, and he can't help but glance. A bit. But only a little. Certainly he would never do more than glance, after all.
A large man in an enormous emerald-green coat is shouting orders and seems to be directing the chaos, and so Watson trails after Holmes in his direction. "You!" the man bellows, pointing at them. "You're not the taxmen, are you?"
"I certainly hope not," Holmes replies, just as loudly. Taxmen. Interesting that the man should automatically think that any unknown visitors are taxmen. They don't look one bit like taxmen, either of them, but it isn't difficult to see that the man is... a bit distracted. Holmes can't blame him. Christ, he certainly is a bit distracted. The scantily clad women catch his interest very quickly, until he forces his mind to the man in question. "No, not taxmen, sir, but journalists with a great interest in your production. We were hoping to speak to Miss Caroline Baker."
The lie comes easily to Holmes, even as he extends his hand to be shaken; they always do, even off-the-cuff as this one is. He had no idea he was going to be posing as a reporter until just a moment ago, when they had been spotted by the director (Holmes of course determined that he was such the moment he laid eyes on the other man). But now that he has, something is clearly keeping Holmes from giving this man and therefore Miss Baker his name and true profession, thus keeping them both unaware that the case of the missing Miss Winstone is being investigated. Obviously he has a reason; he only hopes that Watson isn't so off today that his face shows Holmes' lie.
As he'd predicted, the director's eyes light up just a little with a familiar, slightly greedy glint. Journalists mean an article, which means free publicity. It's the perfect cover, of course; who would question a journalist asking questions of an actress if she is the subject matter of his article?
The man moves quickly to shake first Holmes' hand, and then Watson's, and a smile (fake, Holmes knows) appears on his face. "Journalists?" he repeats. "Fellow artists, then. You're quite welcome, gentlemen."
Holmes returns the smile with an equally fake one of his own, not that the man would know. "We can't thank you enough, sir. You are most gracious, and by that I know you. You must be Mr. Baudin." A French name, but the man is not French and Holmes knows it, no matter how he might pretend. "I am a great admirer, sir." Holmes had of course never heard of him until he'd spotted the flier at the front of the theater.
Baudin inflates with predictable pride, and Watson is glad his mustache hides his amusement, stifled though it is. "We're from the Dispatch, sir," he says politely. "Greatly looking forward to tonight's performance."
"Much obliged, sirs, much obliged." Baudin tips forward very slightly in what could have been a bow had his stomach not been quite so globe-like. "Miss Baker--yes, Caroline's dressing room is just that way, to stage left." He points. "Her name is inscribed upon the door." There is a mutter from somewhere behind then that it wouldn't be inscribed there for much longer, but when Holmes and Watson turn to look, there is only a mass of feathered wings and headdresses.
"Yes, well, I do hope you gentlemen enjoy tonight's opening," Baudin says loudly, obviously trying to regain their attention. "I trust you've already obtained tickets?"
"Yes, of course," Holmes says with a smile. A charming smile, the kind he pulls out at the strangest moments that tends to surprise anyone who knows him. "At the first opportunity, we've been greatly anticipating this."
Her name won't be on the door much longer? Holmes takes that bit of information- or at least gossip- and stores it for later consideration. It is interesting, considering the fact that they are opening a new show, with Miss Baker as the lead. If she might no longer be popular or wanted, why would they begin a new show with her as the star?
But now is not the time for that, and Holmes keeps his attention firmly on Baudin, as much as he might want to watch the women behind the man who are... changing clothes... Holmes swallows, eyes very firmly on Baudin's. "I'm certain it will be magnificent. Thank you so much for your time, Mr. Baudin, and your contributions to the fine arts." And then they are on their way, leaving a very pleased Baudin behind and heading for Miss Caroline Baker's dressing room, Holmes eyeing everything along the way, scantily clad chorus girls included.
Barely controlled chaos, the entire place. Holmes grudgingly admits that he would fit in quite well here, but dislikes the idea of working in a theater for many reasons. "We will have to determine why Miss Baker's career is apparently about to come to an abrupt end," he comments to Watson when he is certain no one is listening to them.
Watson does nothing more than clear his throat, although he does jump a bit when, as they're making their way through a large group of women, a hand squeezes his arse. There's a giggle, but when he spins around damned if he can tell which one of them did it, so he has to give it up.
Thankfully they don't have to go far to reach Miss Baker's dressing room, and Holmes raps on the door immediately. She opens it, half-dressed in a silk robe and half-made up, and opens her mouth to undoubtedly screech at them (through long experience--not with his wife, thankfully--Watson is well aware of when a woman is about to screech), but Holmes cuts her off smoothly with the story of them being journalists from the Dispatch.
"We mean to do a piece on the most successful comediennes, Miss," Watson adds smoothly, removing his hat as Holmes does the same. She has them sit on a rather ratty-looking red velvet couch, and they do, Watson checking his spot surreptitiously first but Holmes plopping down immediately.
"How can I help?" she asks in a low, sultry voice, clearly putting on for them. "Anything for a good review, of course." Her legs are crossed beneath her robe, revealing more skin than is strictly appropriate, and Watson tries not to sigh. He'll leave Holmes to the questioning or he'll turn beet-red immediately, he knows it for certain.
~~~~~~~
Part Fifteen