Fic: Letters, or the Case of the Cerulean Syringe, Part Six
Title: Letters, or the Case of the Cerulean Syringe, Part Six
Authors: sarisa_rahe and agaryulnaer86
Rating: R
Pairing: Holmes/Watson, pre-slash
Disclaimer: Still not ours.
Summary: Watson feels trapped and guilty, the story of the murderer is revealed, and Holmes proves yet again that tact is not his strong suit.
Spoilers: Movie.
Warnings: Rated for descriptions of molestation/rape of young boys. It does not go into depth, but do NOT read if this is going to upset you. Also, mild descriptions of gruesome murders.
Word Count: ~8,270
Authors' Notes: Epic-fic, part 6/~14.
>> Part One
>> Part Two
>> Part Three
>> Part Four
>> Part Five
~~~~~
It's the middle of the afternoon before Watson wakes, once again, to the smell of smoke. This hasn't really been an uncommon occurrence in his life, though, and so when he cracks an eye open and doesn't see anything on fire, he rolls back over and tries to go back to sleep.
Rolling over, however, might not have been the best idea, because although he recalls falling asleep on the floor (and possibly literally on his closest friend), he'd somehow been transported to the settee while in the land of the hungover and unconscious. Thus, when he tries to roll over, he rolls right off the edge of the small couch, landing on the floor with an abnormally loud thump.
There's a brief moment of silence while he tries to ascertain what exactly had happened, but then he groans loudly, having landed right on the bruises left over from their fight the night before. Specifically the ones caused by decimating that old chair. Clenching his eyes shut for a moment, he forces himself to roll onto his back and sit up, looking around, immediately recalling his friend and how he came to be asleep on the parlor floor. "Holmes?"
No immediate response. With a grunt, he hauls himself to his feel, wrinkling his nose at the smell permeating from his skin and clothes. Christ, he needs a wash. He smells... like stale sweat and regurgitated alcohol. Pungent, to say the least. Turning, he finally spots his friend, through a crack in the closed curtains in front of Holmes' bedroom, working away at his lab equipment. He opens the curtain slightly and steps up into the room, appreciating the thought behind keeping the drapes closed. "Thank you," he says hoarsely, coughing. It feels more than slightly as though he's swallowed sanding paper. "Have you succeeded?"
"Very nearly," Holmes says without looking up; his tone suggests that there is no question in his mind as to whether he will succeed soon. It has only taken a bit longer than he had intended, mainly due to his sitting with Watson passed out on his shoulder for half an hour before moving him to the settee. That had been interesting. Watson is damn heavy, and Holmes had yet to completely recover his strength.
It had taken twenty minutes. And Holmes had stubbed his toe, as well as having managed to bowl over Gladstone with Watson's legs. He feels quite certain Watson does not recall any of this, however, as he had been snoring at the time.
It's another minute or so before he affords Watson any more attention than responding to his question, however, when the solution bubbling in front of him finally spouts smoke and turns the required blue-green. Holmes lets out a small, triumphant "hah!" before turning to Watson, at which point he raises an eyebrow.
Now, Holmes knows quite well that he often looks... less than presentable. In fact, after the night before and this morning, not only is he covered in bruises and sweat, he's still wearing the same shirt and has certainly not combed his hair in over a week. His hands are still a light blue color, and now that he's rolled the sleeves of his shirt up to his elbows, the site he had injected the paralytic into his own arm is quite visible as a darker blue mark taking up half of his forearm.
None of that matters, though, because Watson looks much worse. Holmes isn't certain if that is amazing or frightening. "You look like death warmed over several times." Well, no one had ever accused Sherlock Holmes of possessing tact.
All he receives in response is a yawn, which Watson muffles with his own forearm. "You're too kind," he croaks when he has the use of his jaw again. But he knows he looks terrible; this isn't actually news. He'd be shocked if he looked any better than death warmed over, to be honest.
But his clothes are all at Cavendish Place, and since thinking of that makes him think of his wife, he shoves that away for the moment, concentrating on what Holmes has just done. "That looks like more than enough, then, providing he doesn't actually intend to inject ten men."
He drags a hand through his hair, mimicking Holmes' common gesture, and then sighs, relieved that his headache has receded, at least. Holmes won't have contacted Lestrade yet, then, or the inspector would almost certainly be breaking down the door in search of answers. And there are other things weighing on his mind, things that need to be discussed. Their confrontation the night before, for example.
After a moment of silence, during which Holmes is fiddling with something on the table, putting the liquid into syringes, he manages to actually introduce the topic. "Holmes, last night, at the Punchbowl..." If only he'd actually thought about what he'd planned to say about it... "I'm deeply sorry for my behavior during the past few weeks. I never intended..." He doesn't know. To hurt his friend, not that Holmes would ever acknowledge that, even if Watson could get the words out. He's trapped himself quite neatly, hasn't he? In everything.
As soon as this topic is introduced, Holmes falters just a little in his dealing with the antidote, but that is the only reaction he gives until Watson finishes. He would much prefer that they not discuss the night before, and as such keeps his eyes on what he is doing rather than looking at the doctor. Somehow, not looking at Watson makes conversation simpler. Holmes does not question why that is so, because he has no answer and he knows it.
But then Watson is finished, and Holmes finds himself at a loss and yet expected to respond. Watson does not say what he had never intended, but Holmes doesn't need to hear it. He doesn't need apologies, either, doesn't quite know what to do with one. He is not used to Watson being the one who should be apologizing, not that Holmes often bothers with apologies in so many words. What's more, he isn't certain Watson knows what it is he is apologizing for, and as such it makes his apology ineffective.
And yet, Holmes still does not know how to respond. Relationships of any sort are so much not his forte as to make conversations like this next to impossible. Neither he nor Watson is particularly comfortable with emotional issues, to say the least, but Watson is somehow both more versed in dealing with his own emotions and exceedingly dense about all of it, all at once. It's maddening, or it would be if Holmes hadn't resolved not to care. Case, case, he has a case.
"There is no need for apologies, Watson, I had not intended to imply that that was necessary," he says, still unable to even so much as glance up at the other man. Hopefully that will be enough to stop this.
"You didn't need to imply anything," Watson says with a frown. "I... I've upset you, and I've behaved in such a way that I feel an apology is more than necessary. I've begun to question... things... and took my frustrations out on you last night, and before that I've expected you to act as though nothing is different to soothe my confusion, which is... unfair. To say the least."
He turns away slightly. "I can't expect you to pretend along with me that nothing is changed whenever I need to escape from my duties. That... has been cruel of me."
But there's nothing he can do about any of it. He's well aware that he can't go on as he has been, can't remain in the in-between for the rest of his life. He'd taken vows, made a commitment to Mary, and he has to honor that. But he can't help but feel that this isn't the normal frustrations felt by most men giving up their bachelor freedoms for marital bliss. The time before the wedding had been so hectic that there had been no time for a brief thought, much less contemplation, and the honeymoon had been more a vacation than anything else.
It seems ridiculous that two weeks returned to begin his new life and he wants nothing more than to return to the old one. Is it normal to dread the idea of going to dinner at the end of the day and spending a quiet evening in front of the fire with a newspaper? To never unsheathe the blade hidden in his walking stick for more than to slice open a package, ridiculous as that idea seems?
That the idea of Mary carrying his child, of being tied to one house with one family and never the freedom to simply step out for the night makes him cringe? To never engage in any sort of a fight with a group of criminals, or feel the satisfaction of preventing one more bastard from inflicting hurt upon the innocent? He might wish for a wife that wouldn't mind if he spent his nights gallivanting off, a wife who didn't require his presence at the head of the table for dinner or in church on Sundays, but that is merely him wishing for no further responsibilities for another person. No dependents.
He doesn't know. He doesn't know. He doesn't know what he wants, and none of it matters because he's an honorable man who is not capable of breaking his word, and why hadn't he had these thoughts before he'd asked Mary to marry him?!
Because he'd been so busy convincing Holmes that this was what he wanted, and that it was happening whether Holmes liked it or not.
He's been silent for several minutes, lost in his brooding, but he straightens very abruptly, shoving aside the curtains again and stalking down into the parlor and over to his office (yes, his office, dammit, this is his office!), where he paces for a minute or two, staring out at the familiar view of Baker Street... and then turns without warning to lash out, his fist connecting with one of the cupboards, cracking the unfortunate wood. But he hits it again, and a third time, splitting his knuckles before pulling back with a hiss, his frustration spent for the moment.
It wasn't until Watson had stalked off, out of his line of vision, that Holmes had turned, looking after him. Of course, by then Watson was in the sitting room and then his office, but Holmes could hear the doctor stalking off. He's well accustomed to the sound of Watson stalking off in one direction or another; typically, however, it's Holmes' fault, or at least Watson perceives that that is so. This is altogether new.
But Watson is gone, into his office- and Holmes, too, still thinks of it as Watson's office, which is why it has remained bare rather than taking on any of the detective's not inconsiderable mess- and Holmes does not know what that should mean, except that Watson is frustrated. Holmes does, however, jump a little when he hears... that would be the cupboard breaking from contact with Watson's fist.
Against his will, Holmes finds himself highly interested by this reaction, focusing more on listening to Watson in the other room than his antidote, but he finishes with that quickly anyway. Yes, yes, he had told himself that he was through with the case he had styled around Watson, but... well, it is a blessing and a failing that Holmes is not truly done with anything until he has solved it to his own standard. His mind, as usual, will not let any small detail go.
And so when he moves to sit on his bed, staring down at the two small syringes he had placed on the table, and his pipe makes an appearance, Holmes finds as he lights it absently that he is not thinking about the case and his plans for later that evening, but rather about the frustrated doctor in the next room. And a moment later, when his violin also materializes and he begins absently plucking at the strings in what might eventually become a song rather than notes at random to match his thoughts, he begins to wonder how long it will be before Watson realizes the time and that he has not thought to send word to Mary.
Sure enough, there is silence from the office for a few minutes, an eerie silence after the violence that had echoed through the flat a moment or two before. But finally, a defeated-looking Watson emerges from his office, the urge to strike something faded for the moment. He makes his way around the furniture and Gladstone to find Holmes with his violin and stares at the other man, his eyes strangely deadened.
"I'm going to change," he announces in a low voice, more of a monotone than anything else. "When are we leaving?"
There is no question of whether or not he's accompanying his friend, no distinction of it being only Holmes who is going. He simply is, he's decided, and Holmes will just have to deal with that. So will Mary. And so he continues to stare at his friend, waiting for a response. If he were to display any of his thoughts to anyone at all just now... well, he just doesn't wish to.
Holmes stares back at him for a brief moment, shifting from staring off into space to staring up at the doctor with his usual intense clarity so quickly that no transition is obvious. But then he removes one hand from his violin to check his pocket watch briefly, which is then shut with a snap and replaced.
"Half past," he says shortly, "Which is in forty minutes."
That said, he resumes plucking aimlessly at the violin strings, absolutely no song or rhythm in mind. He does not say that Watson is not invited, as he had not been the night before. He does not comment on the way the doctor's hand is bleeding, or the fact that he had just damaged a cupboard in a room that technically no longer belongs to him. He does not ask if Watson is allowed to go.
But he does wonder at the peculiar look in his eyes, or rather, lack thereof. While Watson often expresses himself with his entire face, his expressions, Holmes being more given to showing responses only through his eyes, Holmes knows Watson's looks better than anyone, knows how much more goes on behind his expressions. This is shutting that off, the things behind his expressions, an almost deliberate way of keeping Holmes specifically from noticing anything... which is enough for Holmes to notice and draw conclusions from anyway, but he does not tell Watson that. He is hardly suicidal.
Holmes has no idea what Watson had determined in his office, but he had decided that he is coming with Holmes whether Holmes likes it or not, and that does speak volumes. And it is also why there are two syringes instead of just the one.
~~~~~
Nodding slightly, Watson turns on his heel and stalks off, snatching up his jacket and walking stick from the armchair. He hadn't had a waistcoat in the first place, and he might as well leave his overcoat, as it's May and he'll be back in forty minutes. The trip to Cavendish places goes far more quickly than he would have liked, but he doesn't hesitate as he goes directly up the stairs and through the door, thankful that his key had still been in his jacket pocket from the night before, as Mary has the door quite locked.
Sparing a thought to remind himself to thank Charley with an extra shilling the next time he saw the lad, he lets himself inside and aims straight for the stairs, well aware that he has only ten minutes to wash and prepare himself before he has to leave. And in those ten minutes, he also has to find some way to reassure Mary... who cannot, he reminds himself, be the recipient of his anger. She is not the one at fault, here. Nor is Holmes. He, Watson, is the only one to blame for this situation. Mary undoubtedly has no idea that anything is even wrong. But Watson, at least, has finally realized that something is.
Of course, he hadn't expected to find Mary folding laundry in the master bedroom. He swears silently, but then digs in his metaphorical heels. They can have it out as much as she'd like, later, but he has to go. "Mary." He sets his walking stick aside and strips off his shirt, knowing he has no time to run a bath. So he moves to the sink instead, grabbing the soap and doing his best to wash his torso without looking back at his wife.
She is silent, staring at him and then going back to her folding, and he sighs. "I'm so very sorry for last night, and this morning, and I promise you may punish me however you like, I realize what a cad I've been and that you've had no word since I ran out, but every second truly counted." As he's saying all this, he splashes water to rinse the soap from his skin, shucking the rest of his clothes, save his underwear, with no regard for her sensibilities. Normally he'd have begged her pardon, married or not, lovers or not, but he has no time.
Throwing open the wardrobe, he pulls out one of his older suits and a clean shirt, not the finer things he's chosen since they marriage, but those of sturdier quality that he'd preferred beforehand, his favorite gray tweeds, the comfortable (while still stylish!) trousers, waistcoat, and jacket. His boots are laced once again and he's retrieved his gloves, his small tool kit, and is reminding himself to get his service revolver before he realizes that she still has not spoken a word. "Mary, I'm truly sorry, but I must go, I shall explain everything to you later--"
"John," Mary says, frozen and now staring at him, one of his shirts still in hand. Her voice is quiet, but even in that one word she manages to convey her anger, disappointment, confusion and overall frustration with him.
When he left yesterday, she had been pleased; Mary is not blind, after all, to her husband's moods. Since the debacle the week before when he had disappeared for eleven hours, he had been contrite enough to stay away from the detective, but he had been unhappy. So as his wife, a woman who loves him and wishes to see him happy, she was glad to see him go, and glad that he had learned his lesson. She was told where he would be, was afforded an explanation and promise of a note if he should be too late. She had been happy with that.
But then he had not returned all night, and when he did return, he was still drunken as she'd ever seen anyone in her life and looked as though he'd been run over by a carriage. She'd left him sleeping in the foyer, unable to move him any further... and then when he had woken in the morning, he had dashed out of the house, foregoing even his cane to sprint away without a word.
She could guess where he'd been the night before. She would have had words with him over that. But his neglect today had been... she doesn't know what it was. Hurtful. After the discussion they'd had the week before, it hurt that he still hadn't thought of her when he'd dashed off like that. She doesn't understand how he could be that way, John, who is typically so caring and thoughtful. She might be only recently married to him, but she knows him well enough. This uncaring demeanor is not typical, and it hurts.
That would have been bad enough. But now he's telling her that he has to leave again, no doubt only telling her because she is present and thus impossible to avoid.
Much of the day, she had wondered if she'd done something. What could she possibly have done to deserve this treatment? Would he not tell her if he was displeased with her or something she'd done? But after several hours of that, her worry had turned back to anger. No. She had done nothing, which leaves no excuse for his behavior.
She waits until he turns to look at her to continue, her mouth forming a hard line. She does not have an explosive temper; she never has. But she has no qualms making her displeasure known. "You do realize that tonight is the night my parents are here for supper to celebrate my father's return from Paris." She stares at him, wondering how he could have missed their presence. "They are downstairs this very minute."
Watson freezes in the act of knotting his tie, paling slightly. Damn, he had forgotten. Her father had returned from Paris the day before, when he'd been off with Holmes... and tonight is the dinner. Mr. and Mrs. Morstan already downstairs, and here he is, running off from them again.
The guilt stabs him in the gut for the umpteenth time, familiar and yet still something he's certain he will never become accustomed to. But it doesn't change the fact that he's leaving. He'd hoped to write her a note, to leave word of where he's going without having to argue, wanting to keep his mind clear before the night's events. But that, alas, is no longer possible.
She's hurt, and he'd been the one to hurt her. But there's nothing he can do about it just this second. "Mary, I can't stay," he says, the feeling returning to his eyes for the first time as he finishes with his tie and turns to face her. It's obvious that he truly regrets it, but there is no contest. "Two men will die tonight unless the murderer is stopped." He steps closer, taking her hands; she doesn't pull away, but they hang limply in his grasp, and he winces all the same.
"Holmes and I had a horrible argument and physical fight last evening, which were the cause of my drunkenness and the fact that I acted a cad this morning. I'm so terribly sorry. He administered the same paralytic the murderer has made use of to himself and sent me the antidote, and I had to get to him before the dose proved fatal, after which I regrettably fell unconscious before I could do more than send word back with Charley." That is the long and short of it; there is more, but it's nothing he can tell her without hurting her, and he knows it.
Pained, he continues on. He has no time to delve further into it, in any case. "I must go tonight. Holmes faces a deadly foe, and I cannot sit idly by while two innocent men could lose their lives. He'll leave with or without me in fifteen minutes, and has not revealed his destination to me." Loosing his grip on one of her hands, he reaches up to touch her face. "Mary, I will beg your forgiveness once I return, but I simply cannot wait. I'm sorry."
There is absolutely nothing Mary can say in the face of that, and they both know it. How can she be angry with him for leaving when he is going to quite literally save lives? She can't demand that he stay and let the detective go on his own, since that is his work and not John's, because lives are at stake and that would be petty of her. She has always thought her husband brave, and not simply because of his time with the army. After that time, which had been a duty to his country, he had returned to England and proceeded to save lives here, expecting no reward or payment of any kind. Simply because his friend was working on these cases and he could help.
No, she has no ground to stand on against this. But that does not change the fact that she is livid with him for the other things he has done. Explanation or not. She is not surprised to hear his explanation, either, of the things the detective had done and their fight, all of that. The detective, much as she may have come to be amused by him, is quite mad, and it seems as though everything he does is just a little more ridiculous than the last, and she knows John is drawn into it. It's exciting and interesting, and how could he not be?
But that does not excuse her husband for his actions, and she thinks he realizes that. She removes her other hand from his grip, nodding curtly. "Go, then," she says, and it is clear she will not stop him or argue, but she has not forgiven him for the rest. "And be careful, John."
Watson stares down at his wife, who had pulled away from him, although his hand is still resting on her cheek. "I will," he promises, and then before he can stop himself he leans in, resting his lips against her temple. She would not want a real kiss just now, and he knows it... to be honest, neither does he. But he does love his wife, and his confusion for the past few weeks has hurt him, and would hurt her, if he were to tell her. It's hurt Holmes, trapped all three of them in this, and it's Watson's fault.
"I'm sorry," he whispers against her skin, and he's apologizing for more than his behavior in the past twenty-four hours. For all of this, he is sorry. He's been as unfair to her as he has to Holmes.
Before she can respond, he's going out the door and down the stairs, walking stick tucked beneath his arm as he heads for his office, unlocking the drawer where he keeps his revolver and then staring, finding it empty save for his case of extra bullets. It's then that he realizes that his revolver is likely still in the entrance hall from where he'd collapsed that morning. Managing to avoid stepping through his mother-in-law's line of sight, he retrieves the weapon and is out the door, shoving his gloves into his pocket.
He reaches Baker Street at two minutes to half-past, hurrying up the stairs again to find Holmes putting on his coat. Grasping his own, as well as his hat, he raises a brow. "Don't forget your revolver," is all the greeting he offers, feeling the tension draining out of him once again now that he's escaped Cavendish Place for the night. That is not the feeling he should have and he knows it, but he doesn't have time to dissect the emotion at the moment.
"Revolver," Holmes repeats, immediately turning back around and shuffling through some of the papers on his desk before finding the very thing there (obviously Watson's reminder was necessary). He checks it quickly before pulling on his hat (otherwise he might have to comb his hair), moving past Watson to the door, though he pauses to hand him one of the syringes on his way.
Two syringes, after all. Who else would he give it to but Watson?
But he neither pauses to consider Watson's reappearance or to double-check anything at all, now focused very completely on the resolution of this case. There is no time, no space in his mind for other thoughts right now. This has to be done correctly- as only he can be certain it will be- and it has to be done tonight. Watson is here, and that is comforting, but anything else surrounding that is irrelevant at present.
So, as they would have any other case in times past, Holmes leads the way quickly out of the flat and onto the street, his pace quick to keep time with his thoughts and his plan and Watson easily keeping up despite his leg. It doesn't trouble him as much when he has a goal, when he's out with Holmes on a case, a fact with Holmes has certainly noticed but never pointed out. They're silent for most of the way there, Holmes clearly lost in thoughts and plans, and Watson not feeling the need to share his own thoughts, until they make it to another residential neighborhood and Holmes turns down an alleyway rather than into a street, making his way through the place as though it were familiar to him.
He's quieter while they do this, his movements changing to those of a person not wanting to be noticed, and Watson catches on quickly, following his lead without having to be told until they come to a fence surrounding the back of a building; Holmes navigates to one corner of the fence where the bottom appears to have rotted off, ducking under and making his way to a back window and rapping lightly before turning to Watson.
"Watson," he says as the window opens, revealing a man who does not look at all surprised to see either of them standing there, but rather glances at them before stepping back and allowing Holmes to climb inside. "I'd like you to meet one of tonight's victims. Mr. Wickham, how good to see you alive and unmurdered thus far." He briefly shakes the man's hand. "This is Dr. John Watson."
Climbing through the window after Holmes, Watson straightens, tucking his walking stick under his arm again and shaking hands with the slight man before him, who looks unnerved but still calm. The pieces are slowly falling into place as Watson realizes what exactly Holmes must be intending.
"Pleasure," he says politely, stepping back and sending his friend a look. "Do you intend to enlighten me now, or shall I remain in the dark until the murderer actually knocks upon the door?"
"Oh, no," Holmes says, his eyes widening rather dramatically. "We can't have that, of course not. Please allow me to explain."
Now that he has an audience to explain the intricacies of this entire case to, Holmes is immediately focused solely upon the problem at hand, his eyes distant and mind elsewhere as he walks step-by-step through the case for his audience. And there must be an audience, of course, or else his grand explanation (and it is grand as he can make it) would be all for naught.
"We are here tonight because the police have discovered four scenes of murder, totaling eight men," he begins, gesturing wildly when necessary and often also when not as he paces about the room (a kitchen). "Each with a week and a day, and then another day, and then another between them and so on and so forth. And it has been a week and five days since the last, marking the night of another murder. You and Mr. Akers, Mr. Wickham, are the next intended victims, which would bring the total number of murders to five, with ten men dead."
He glances at Mr. Wickham, who has paled a little, though he is hiding it well. "Of course he shan't succeed, no need to worry," he says offhandedly, patting the man on the back, and then continues on. "Ten men dead," he repeats as he walks behind Mr. Wickham and towards and around Watson before he returns to his spot in front of the both of them, trying to get himself back on track. Ah yes, the number of murders. "Except this night does not mark the fifth murder, but the sixth. The police, despite their honorable record of diligence, regretfully did not think to look beyond the murders that bore exactly the same markers as the others."
Here he pulls off his hat, running a hand through his hair as he stares at the wall. "Each of the murder scenes had been the same: two men dead, one paralyzed, one with his throat cut, the first man then mutilated and murdered violently, left to die a slow and painful death. Always two men, always in one or both of their homes, and yet no connection between any of the four murders. No connection, that is, save for their proclivity for regarding other men the way one would typically regard members of the fairer sex." He pauses. "In that they sleep with one another. Not platonically." Sadly, that is actually Holmes' version of editing his thoughts. Holmes continues on, ignoring any reaction from either man. "And that is the crux of this case, you see, of this man, which is why the police would never have solved this, the general incompetence of Scotland Yard aside."
Watson's brows are raised by this point, although he had sent Mr. Wickham an apologetic look when Holmes had, once again, proven that he possesses not the least amount of tact. Wickham had shaken his head, seemingly slightly amused despite the gravity of the situation, and Watson just sighs, turning his attention back to Holmes, who has continued on anyway.
Familiar enough with serial murderers now, after his long experience working with Holmes, Watson knows that when a pause is so dramatic, a response is required. His mouth twitches slightly as he eyes his friend, hat already askew, obviously entirely in his element.
Watson does spend a moment wondering how on earth Holmes had introduced himself to Mr. Wickham (and presumably Mr. Akers); it can't have been pretty. In fact, Watson can think of several terrible scenarios and is certain Holmes would have acted out the worst of them, and likely would have come up with something even worse. He's actually rather afraid to ask.
"Of course," he says, referring to Scotland Yard's incompetence, which Holmes remarks upon quite frequently (not without reason, though Watson often thinks that it's perhaps unfair to make fun of them for not possessing such a logical brain amongst them to equal Holmes', for if that were true then Holmes would be out of a job). But his friend is clearly waiting for someone to ask him to reveal the grand mystery of the murderer, and Watson is well aware that this is his role. "Why would they not have solved it, aside from that?"
"Because, thank you Watson, he had done this before," Holmes explains, depositing his hat very emphatically on the nearby table. "Exactly a week before the first murder the police had assumed belonged to this investigation, the first murder was committed. They did not think to connect the first murder, because they did not consider the man who had committed the acts."
Of course, Holmes had spent hours, days even, just considering the man himself, even before he had determined who the murderer was and had begun to follow him. Considering the clues the man had left behind without knowing it, the clues he wasn't able to destroy by wandering about the crime scene, himself and his colleagues destroying evidence by the footstep.
"He is a man who feels that he is doing right," he says after a pause, suddenly appearing to come back to himself, as he had vacated the premises for a moment. He turns to regard first Mr. Wickham, and then Watson. "Because he was wronged."
This, this is the part that the police would never have pieced together, both because they would never have suspected one of their own, and because Holmes is sure less than a forth of them had determined the reasoning behind the man's killing of these men. And they would never have found the previous murder. "The first murder was a crime of passion. You may have read about it in the paper. A priest and a young boy, found dead in a confessional. The boy was shot in the head, the priest, in the stomach."
He allows another pause to allow that to sink in before continuing on. "Our man had gone to confession, had discovered the priest was not as holy a man as he proclaimed to be, and he snapped, killing both the priest and his victim." What he means by all of this is left to subtext, and yet very clear: the priest had been molesting the young boy when he was discovered by the murderer. And yet though he clearly does not care for this any more than any sane person, Holmes recounts the gruesome details with coolly, recounting facts without becoming emotionally involved. "You see, our man had suffered at the hands of a similar, depraved man- undoubtedly also a priest or some sort of equally respected figure- when he was a young man or child. It was wrong, but he took the blame upon himself and seemed to move on."
Here Holmes pauses, picking up his hat again and inspecting it closely before looking back up at his audience. "It was why he entered law enforcement. He wanted to right the wrongs done him as a child. But when he saw it happening again before his eyes, his mind gave out. He killed them both and fled."
Another pause as Holmes stares now at the wall, completely lost in the story of this other man, a man who he now knows almost better than himself, whose mind he has been chasing and trying to inhabit for weeks, his obsession until solved. "But when he killed them, it opened for him another avenue for justice. And so began the systematic murders of men he considered evil, for crimes against God and himself. That is why he would kill one with a slit throat and torture the other. The first is a mercy, so they do not experience what he did by the hands of the other man, the one he sees as the aggressor."
"He perfected his methods," Holmes says, still lost in the other world, in this other man. "Being an officer of the law, all of his victims would allow him into their homes unquestioned. He would need only his badge and hat, and off-duty could walk into any home in London. But how to kill both men? It was two against one, and so he was forced to find a way to paralyze the first, the one he considered the danger. He did so with a compound created from items he took from evidence at Scotland Yard, signed out not in his name but with the signature of one of his colleagues, poorly forged."
"He would enter unchallenged, paralyze the first man, and cut the throat of the second where he stood," Holmes finishes, now staring at the floor and seeing not the wooden floorboards but the nights of the murders, the dying gurgle of the first man and he terror in the eyes of the second, unable to move while he watched the other die, while he watched himself be mutilated and killed. "Before he went to work on the second. He left before the second man died of his wounds, then came back the next day with Lestrade and his men, investigating the murders and destroying the evidence of his foul deeds with ease."
Impressed as always despite himself, Watson nods slowly. Holmes' deductions will no doubt turn out to be precisely on the mark as always, and he does not question any of them. He had, at first, years ago, but had been proved wrong each time, and he has since learned his lesson, trusting his friend implicitly, not doubting his life in Holmes' hands.
"A tragic story," he points out quietly. "But a mad form of justice that does nothing but harm the innocent." He sends Mr. Wickham an encouraging nod. "Don't worry, Sir. Mr. Holmes has extensive experience in catching such men. All will be well." He claims some modest experience himself, of course, but doesn't point it out aloud; they make a formidable team, Holmes and Watson, and always have.
And always will, the small voice reminds him. He sighs silently, forcing himself to remain in the present; such an exercise is not really difficult at all, not now that they are here and each moment counts. "Where is Mr. Akers at the present time?" he asks Mr. Wickham before returning his attention to Holmes and eyeing the small bulge in the side pocket of his friend's coat. Considering Mr. Wickham's dark hair, he can only presume his friend's plan, now that the mystery has been resolved.
"And where shall I be concealed as you open the door?" he asks, raising a brow. "Am I to play Mr. Akers or remain hidden?" Which also raises the question... "Have you informed Lestrade of any of this at all?"
Watson addressing him pulls Holmes back to the present, to reality, and he blinks, taking a moment to understand and process what the doctor had asked.
"Of course not," Holmes says, as though that is the most ridiculous question Watson could ask. He has always put on a great show of distaste for the Chief Inspector, Holmes has. Of course, deep down Holmes might actually feel some tiny bit of affection for the man, because he at the very least trusts Lestrade to do what is right and has called on him for aid in some of his mad schemes. Not to mention, Holmes' only way of show affection is to be a terrible bastard to the person in question, which he is to Lestrade on an alarmingly constant basis.
Before he can go on, Mr. Wickham speaks up, responding to Watson's question of a moment before. "He is to make a show of coming back from his office in half an hour, as Mr. Holmes instructed," he says, glancing over at Holmes, who nods to him.
"Then the both of them are to leave the way we entered when he appears," Holmes explains. "And they will remain hidden unless something goes horribly awry." Now he points to Watson with his hat. "You, Watson, will be Mr. Akers, but as you do not look the part at all, you must remain hidden from view until I have him inside."
Watson nods, walking about the lowest level of the house until he decides, after a brief pause, that the rear drawing room will serve best, as Holmes has no doubt already deduced. "I shall wait just past the entrance to the parlor, where I can't be seen," he says, pointing with his walking stick at the open doorway. "You can lead him in here, saying that I'm sitting here, and we can take him down, two on one."
He can feel the syringe in his pocket, bouncing against his leg in its leather case. "Less risk," he says pointedly. "No need to make sure the antidote works yet again."
Holmes is agreeable to this plan, and so Watson removes his own overcoat and jacket, the better to be able to move more easily. His revolver he keeps with him in its holster, the syringe in his waistcoat pocket, and he is thus prepared. Holmes is pacing, clearly deep in thought, and Mr. Wickham looks as though he might be ill. "Sir, I am a doctor, I must insist that you sit. You don't look well at all."
He raises a brow at Holmes. "Just for the sake of knowing, which one of us will he try to drug straight off, and whose throat will immediately be slit?"
"My throat," Holmes says without pausing in his movements, obviously not bothered by the idea of a man aiming to slit his throat. "You he will try to paralyze."
The reasoning behind this, of course, is simple and well thought out: if he should think Holmes was Mr. Akers, he would immediately paralyze the detective, leaving Watson alone to deal with him. However, based on his previous attacks, the man has always paralyzed the first man before slitting the throat of the other, forcing him to watch as the other man dies, to see what he has done, in the murderer's mind.
Thus, to get him inside and for him to face both of them at once, Holmes would have to be Mr. Wickham. As explained, the murderer always sees one man of the pair as the aggressor. Holmes, having determined quickly upon meeting both men together that Mr. Akers would be the aggressor in his mind, must therefore play Wickham.
The man in question does as he's asked, sitting down and putting his head in his hands to wait. Holmes continues pacing, although Wickham is afforded a brief glance before he begins pacing again, still speaking to Watson. "But make no mistake," he warns. "The man is no fool. As soon as he sees through the charade, he will not hold to his pattern, but rather fight for his life as any man or beast cornered would."
"Naturally," Watson concurs, having expected that. His voice is low, but there is a note of anticipation in it, and he looks over at Holmes, his eyes a darker shade of blue than their usual in the dim light. A rush of anticipation goes through him as he meets the detective's eyes. "I hope so."
The violence that had come out in spurts multiple times over the course of the past night and day is playing just beneath his skin once again, the sort of thing that he'd once expended in his work with Holmes and their fairly frequent confrontations with various members of London's underbelly. But for the past few months he has had no outlet, and considering the buildup of his frustrations over the past few weeks... well.
It would be a lie to say that he is not anticipating tonight's encounter. Beneath a simple desire to hit something is, as well, a fury at the crimes this man has committed that he cannot explain, one more confusing item to add to a long list he's been forming of late. It's an anger that no logical explanation of the reasoning behind them will assuage; Watson wants very dearly to beat this man into the ground before he's given into Lestrade's custody.
That unrecognizable look has returned to Holmes' eye, and Watson is absorbed for a moment in attempting to decipher it, but finally he looks away, pulling out his revolver and checking it over once more, missing the glance Mr. Wickham had given them both a moment before, during which he had looked both nervous and somehow less worried.
Unsurprisingly, this glance and Wickham's expression does not go unnoticed by Holmes, but he does not respond to it outwardly. Rather, he continues pacing, now fighting a frown that goes as unexplained as the short burst of quiet laughter that comes from him a moment later. This is not unusual, however, when Holmes is absorbed in his own thoughts, and a moment later he sits down next to Mr. Wickham and begins work on his disguise.
Time passes rather more quickly than one would think, and sure enough, soon there is the sound of a key in the front lock, the door opening and closing, and someone hurrying back to the kitchen, where they have for some reason congregated. Another man appears in the doorway a moment later, looking first at Wickham, then Holmes and finally Watson.
At this both Holmes and Wickham stand, but before anyone can say anything at all, Holmes cuts in abruptly with demands. "Mr. Akers, this is Dr. Watson. Watson, Mr. Akers. Kindly switch hats." He points at Watson and Akers, then crosses his arms over one another (still pointing) to indicate that they should switch. Then he turns to Wickham and Akers, not doubting that his orders will be followed. "And now, be scarce. Remember, if something should go terribly awry, go straight to Chief Inspector Lestrade and explain everything to him and him alone."
Watson nods to the other man, shaking his hand quickly as they switch hats, muttering pleasantries. Holmes claps Mr. Wickham on the shoulder and the other two head for the rear window through which Holmes and Watson had entered, Mr. Akers going first and turning to wait for Mr. Wickham, who takes an extra moment to hop down to the ground.
Watson lets out a slow breath as the other two men conceal themselves in the alley, turning to meet Holmes' eyes and nod. "He'll be watching the front of the house," he mutters, pausing a moment to rest a hand on his friend's shoulder before heading back down the hallway, pausing in the hall entrance to the parlor. There is no question of waiting for a signal, no warning to take care. Both men have worked together for far too long for any of that to be necessary.
It's less than five minutes before there's a loud knock on the front door, obviously intended to startle. Holmes hurries down the hallway, looking exactly like Mr. Wickham (a bit taller, but there's no help for that) as he does nothing so much as bustle to the door, making Watson stifle a smile despite himself, moving back into the shadows near the entrance to the drawing room, hidden from view from either that room or the hallway.
He has his walking stick clenched in his fist, quite ready, doesn't even think about drawing his revolver. He sure as hell won't need it.
~~~~~
>> Part Seven
Authors: sarisa_rahe and agaryulnaer86
Rating: R
Pairing: Holmes/Watson, pre-slash
Disclaimer: Still not ours.
Summary: Watson feels trapped and guilty, the story of the murderer is revealed, and Holmes proves yet again that tact is not his strong suit.
Spoilers: Movie.
Warnings: Rated for descriptions of molestation/rape of young boys. It does not go into depth, but do NOT read if this is going to upset you. Also, mild descriptions of gruesome murders.
Word Count: ~8,270
Authors' Notes: Epic-fic, part 6/~14.
>> Part One
>> Part Two
>> Part Three
>> Part Four
>> Part Five
~~~~~
It's the middle of the afternoon before Watson wakes, once again, to the smell of smoke. This hasn't really been an uncommon occurrence in his life, though, and so when he cracks an eye open and doesn't see anything on fire, he rolls back over and tries to go back to sleep.
Rolling over, however, might not have been the best idea, because although he recalls falling asleep on the floor (and possibly literally on his closest friend), he'd somehow been transported to the settee while in the land of the hungover and unconscious. Thus, when he tries to roll over, he rolls right off the edge of the small couch, landing on the floor with an abnormally loud thump.
There's a brief moment of silence while he tries to ascertain what exactly had happened, but then he groans loudly, having landed right on the bruises left over from their fight the night before. Specifically the ones caused by decimating that old chair. Clenching his eyes shut for a moment, he forces himself to roll onto his back and sit up, looking around, immediately recalling his friend and how he came to be asleep on the parlor floor. "Holmes?"
No immediate response. With a grunt, he hauls himself to his feel, wrinkling his nose at the smell permeating from his skin and clothes. Christ, he needs a wash. He smells... like stale sweat and regurgitated alcohol. Pungent, to say the least. Turning, he finally spots his friend, through a crack in the closed curtains in front of Holmes' bedroom, working away at his lab equipment. He opens the curtain slightly and steps up into the room, appreciating the thought behind keeping the drapes closed. "Thank you," he says hoarsely, coughing. It feels more than slightly as though he's swallowed sanding paper. "Have you succeeded?"
"Very nearly," Holmes says without looking up; his tone suggests that there is no question in his mind as to whether he will succeed soon. It has only taken a bit longer than he had intended, mainly due to his sitting with Watson passed out on his shoulder for half an hour before moving him to the settee. That had been interesting. Watson is damn heavy, and Holmes had yet to completely recover his strength.
It had taken twenty minutes. And Holmes had stubbed his toe, as well as having managed to bowl over Gladstone with Watson's legs. He feels quite certain Watson does not recall any of this, however, as he had been snoring at the time.
It's another minute or so before he affords Watson any more attention than responding to his question, however, when the solution bubbling in front of him finally spouts smoke and turns the required blue-green. Holmes lets out a small, triumphant "hah!" before turning to Watson, at which point he raises an eyebrow.
Now, Holmes knows quite well that he often looks... less than presentable. In fact, after the night before and this morning, not only is he covered in bruises and sweat, he's still wearing the same shirt and has certainly not combed his hair in over a week. His hands are still a light blue color, and now that he's rolled the sleeves of his shirt up to his elbows, the site he had injected the paralytic into his own arm is quite visible as a darker blue mark taking up half of his forearm.
None of that matters, though, because Watson looks much worse. Holmes isn't certain if that is amazing or frightening. "You look like death warmed over several times." Well, no one had ever accused Sherlock Holmes of possessing tact.
All he receives in response is a yawn, which Watson muffles with his own forearm. "You're too kind," he croaks when he has the use of his jaw again. But he knows he looks terrible; this isn't actually news. He'd be shocked if he looked any better than death warmed over, to be honest.
But his clothes are all at Cavendish Place, and since thinking of that makes him think of his wife, he shoves that away for the moment, concentrating on what Holmes has just done. "That looks like more than enough, then, providing he doesn't actually intend to inject ten men."
He drags a hand through his hair, mimicking Holmes' common gesture, and then sighs, relieved that his headache has receded, at least. Holmes won't have contacted Lestrade yet, then, or the inspector would almost certainly be breaking down the door in search of answers. And there are other things weighing on his mind, things that need to be discussed. Their confrontation the night before, for example.
After a moment of silence, during which Holmes is fiddling with something on the table, putting the liquid into syringes, he manages to actually introduce the topic. "Holmes, last night, at the Punchbowl..." If only he'd actually thought about what he'd planned to say about it... "I'm deeply sorry for my behavior during the past few weeks. I never intended..." He doesn't know. To hurt his friend, not that Holmes would ever acknowledge that, even if Watson could get the words out. He's trapped himself quite neatly, hasn't he? In everything.
As soon as this topic is introduced, Holmes falters just a little in his dealing with the antidote, but that is the only reaction he gives until Watson finishes. He would much prefer that they not discuss the night before, and as such keeps his eyes on what he is doing rather than looking at the doctor. Somehow, not looking at Watson makes conversation simpler. Holmes does not question why that is so, because he has no answer and he knows it.
But then Watson is finished, and Holmes finds himself at a loss and yet expected to respond. Watson does not say what he had never intended, but Holmes doesn't need to hear it. He doesn't need apologies, either, doesn't quite know what to do with one. He is not used to Watson being the one who should be apologizing, not that Holmes often bothers with apologies in so many words. What's more, he isn't certain Watson knows what it is he is apologizing for, and as such it makes his apology ineffective.
And yet, Holmes still does not know how to respond. Relationships of any sort are so much not his forte as to make conversations like this next to impossible. Neither he nor Watson is particularly comfortable with emotional issues, to say the least, but Watson is somehow both more versed in dealing with his own emotions and exceedingly dense about all of it, all at once. It's maddening, or it would be if Holmes hadn't resolved not to care. Case, case, he has a case.
"There is no need for apologies, Watson, I had not intended to imply that that was necessary," he says, still unable to even so much as glance up at the other man. Hopefully that will be enough to stop this.
"You didn't need to imply anything," Watson says with a frown. "I... I've upset you, and I've behaved in such a way that I feel an apology is more than necessary. I've begun to question... things... and took my frustrations out on you last night, and before that I've expected you to act as though nothing is different to soothe my confusion, which is... unfair. To say the least."
He turns away slightly. "I can't expect you to pretend along with me that nothing is changed whenever I need to escape from my duties. That... has been cruel of me."
But there's nothing he can do about any of it. He's well aware that he can't go on as he has been, can't remain in the in-between for the rest of his life. He'd taken vows, made a commitment to Mary, and he has to honor that. But he can't help but feel that this isn't the normal frustrations felt by most men giving up their bachelor freedoms for marital bliss. The time before the wedding had been so hectic that there had been no time for a brief thought, much less contemplation, and the honeymoon had been more a vacation than anything else.
It seems ridiculous that two weeks returned to begin his new life and he wants nothing more than to return to the old one. Is it normal to dread the idea of going to dinner at the end of the day and spending a quiet evening in front of the fire with a newspaper? To never unsheathe the blade hidden in his walking stick for more than to slice open a package, ridiculous as that idea seems?
That the idea of Mary carrying his child, of being tied to one house with one family and never the freedom to simply step out for the night makes him cringe? To never engage in any sort of a fight with a group of criminals, or feel the satisfaction of preventing one more bastard from inflicting hurt upon the innocent? He might wish for a wife that wouldn't mind if he spent his nights gallivanting off, a wife who didn't require his presence at the head of the table for dinner or in church on Sundays, but that is merely him wishing for no further responsibilities for another person. No dependents.
He doesn't know. He doesn't know. He doesn't know what he wants, and none of it matters because he's an honorable man who is not capable of breaking his word, and why hadn't he had these thoughts before he'd asked Mary to marry him?!
Because he'd been so busy convincing Holmes that this was what he wanted, and that it was happening whether Holmes liked it or not.
He's been silent for several minutes, lost in his brooding, but he straightens very abruptly, shoving aside the curtains again and stalking down into the parlor and over to his office (yes, his office, dammit, this is his office!), where he paces for a minute or two, staring out at the familiar view of Baker Street... and then turns without warning to lash out, his fist connecting with one of the cupboards, cracking the unfortunate wood. But he hits it again, and a third time, splitting his knuckles before pulling back with a hiss, his frustration spent for the moment.
It wasn't until Watson had stalked off, out of his line of vision, that Holmes had turned, looking after him. Of course, by then Watson was in the sitting room and then his office, but Holmes could hear the doctor stalking off. He's well accustomed to the sound of Watson stalking off in one direction or another; typically, however, it's Holmes' fault, or at least Watson perceives that that is so. This is altogether new.
But Watson is gone, into his office- and Holmes, too, still thinks of it as Watson's office, which is why it has remained bare rather than taking on any of the detective's not inconsiderable mess- and Holmes does not know what that should mean, except that Watson is frustrated. Holmes does, however, jump a little when he hears... that would be the cupboard breaking from contact with Watson's fist.
Against his will, Holmes finds himself highly interested by this reaction, focusing more on listening to Watson in the other room than his antidote, but he finishes with that quickly anyway. Yes, yes, he had told himself that he was through with the case he had styled around Watson, but... well, it is a blessing and a failing that Holmes is not truly done with anything until he has solved it to his own standard. His mind, as usual, will not let any small detail go.
And so when he moves to sit on his bed, staring down at the two small syringes he had placed on the table, and his pipe makes an appearance, Holmes finds as he lights it absently that he is not thinking about the case and his plans for later that evening, but rather about the frustrated doctor in the next room. And a moment later, when his violin also materializes and he begins absently plucking at the strings in what might eventually become a song rather than notes at random to match his thoughts, he begins to wonder how long it will be before Watson realizes the time and that he has not thought to send word to Mary.
Sure enough, there is silence from the office for a few minutes, an eerie silence after the violence that had echoed through the flat a moment or two before. But finally, a defeated-looking Watson emerges from his office, the urge to strike something faded for the moment. He makes his way around the furniture and Gladstone to find Holmes with his violin and stares at the other man, his eyes strangely deadened.
"I'm going to change," he announces in a low voice, more of a monotone than anything else. "When are we leaving?"
There is no question of whether or not he's accompanying his friend, no distinction of it being only Holmes who is going. He simply is, he's decided, and Holmes will just have to deal with that. So will Mary. And so he continues to stare at his friend, waiting for a response. If he were to display any of his thoughts to anyone at all just now... well, he just doesn't wish to.
Holmes stares back at him for a brief moment, shifting from staring off into space to staring up at the doctor with his usual intense clarity so quickly that no transition is obvious. But then he removes one hand from his violin to check his pocket watch briefly, which is then shut with a snap and replaced.
"Half past," he says shortly, "Which is in forty minutes."
That said, he resumes plucking aimlessly at the violin strings, absolutely no song or rhythm in mind. He does not say that Watson is not invited, as he had not been the night before. He does not comment on the way the doctor's hand is bleeding, or the fact that he had just damaged a cupboard in a room that technically no longer belongs to him. He does not ask if Watson is allowed to go.
But he does wonder at the peculiar look in his eyes, or rather, lack thereof. While Watson often expresses himself with his entire face, his expressions, Holmes being more given to showing responses only through his eyes, Holmes knows Watson's looks better than anyone, knows how much more goes on behind his expressions. This is shutting that off, the things behind his expressions, an almost deliberate way of keeping Holmes specifically from noticing anything... which is enough for Holmes to notice and draw conclusions from anyway, but he does not tell Watson that. He is hardly suicidal.
Holmes has no idea what Watson had determined in his office, but he had decided that he is coming with Holmes whether Holmes likes it or not, and that does speak volumes. And it is also why there are two syringes instead of just the one.
~~~~~
Nodding slightly, Watson turns on his heel and stalks off, snatching up his jacket and walking stick from the armchair. He hadn't had a waistcoat in the first place, and he might as well leave his overcoat, as it's May and he'll be back in forty minutes. The trip to Cavendish places goes far more quickly than he would have liked, but he doesn't hesitate as he goes directly up the stairs and through the door, thankful that his key had still been in his jacket pocket from the night before, as Mary has the door quite locked.
Sparing a thought to remind himself to thank Charley with an extra shilling the next time he saw the lad, he lets himself inside and aims straight for the stairs, well aware that he has only ten minutes to wash and prepare himself before he has to leave. And in those ten minutes, he also has to find some way to reassure Mary... who cannot, he reminds himself, be the recipient of his anger. She is not the one at fault, here. Nor is Holmes. He, Watson, is the only one to blame for this situation. Mary undoubtedly has no idea that anything is even wrong. But Watson, at least, has finally realized that something is.
Of course, he hadn't expected to find Mary folding laundry in the master bedroom. He swears silently, but then digs in his metaphorical heels. They can have it out as much as she'd like, later, but he has to go. "Mary." He sets his walking stick aside and strips off his shirt, knowing he has no time to run a bath. So he moves to the sink instead, grabbing the soap and doing his best to wash his torso without looking back at his wife.
She is silent, staring at him and then going back to her folding, and he sighs. "I'm so very sorry for last night, and this morning, and I promise you may punish me however you like, I realize what a cad I've been and that you've had no word since I ran out, but every second truly counted." As he's saying all this, he splashes water to rinse the soap from his skin, shucking the rest of his clothes, save his underwear, with no regard for her sensibilities. Normally he'd have begged her pardon, married or not, lovers or not, but he has no time.
Throwing open the wardrobe, he pulls out one of his older suits and a clean shirt, not the finer things he's chosen since they marriage, but those of sturdier quality that he'd preferred beforehand, his favorite gray tweeds, the comfortable (while still stylish!) trousers, waistcoat, and jacket. His boots are laced once again and he's retrieved his gloves, his small tool kit, and is reminding himself to get his service revolver before he realizes that she still has not spoken a word. "Mary, I'm truly sorry, but I must go, I shall explain everything to you later--"
"John," Mary says, frozen and now staring at him, one of his shirts still in hand. Her voice is quiet, but even in that one word she manages to convey her anger, disappointment, confusion and overall frustration with him.
When he left yesterday, she had been pleased; Mary is not blind, after all, to her husband's moods. Since the debacle the week before when he had disappeared for eleven hours, he had been contrite enough to stay away from the detective, but he had been unhappy. So as his wife, a woman who loves him and wishes to see him happy, she was glad to see him go, and glad that he had learned his lesson. She was told where he would be, was afforded an explanation and promise of a note if he should be too late. She had been happy with that.
But then he had not returned all night, and when he did return, he was still drunken as she'd ever seen anyone in her life and looked as though he'd been run over by a carriage. She'd left him sleeping in the foyer, unable to move him any further... and then when he had woken in the morning, he had dashed out of the house, foregoing even his cane to sprint away without a word.
She could guess where he'd been the night before. She would have had words with him over that. But his neglect today had been... she doesn't know what it was. Hurtful. After the discussion they'd had the week before, it hurt that he still hadn't thought of her when he'd dashed off like that. She doesn't understand how he could be that way, John, who is typically so caring and thoughtful. She might be only recently married to him, but she knows him well enough. This uncaring demeanor is not typical, and it hurts.
That would have been bad enough. But now he's telling her that he has to leave again, no doubt only telling her because she is present and thus impossible to avoid.
Much of the day, she had wondered if she'd done something. What could she possibly have done to deserve this treatment? Would he not tell her if he was displeased with her or something she'd done? But after several hours of that, her worry had turned back to anger. No. She had done nothing, which leaves no excuse for his behavior.
She waits until he turns to look at her to continue, her mouth forming a hard line. She does not have an explosive temper; she never has. But she has no qualms making her displeasure known. "You do realize that tonight is the night my parents are here for supper to celebrate my father's return from Paris." She stares at him, wondering how he could have missed their presence. "They are downstairs this very minute."
Watson freezes in the act of knotting his tie, paling slightly. Damn, he had forgotten. Her father had returned from Paris the day before, when he'd been off with Holmes... and tonight is the dinner. Mr. and Mrs. Morstan already downstairs, and here he is, running off from them again.
The guilt stabs him in the gut for the umpteenth time, familiar and yet still something he's certain he will never become accustomed to. But it doesn't change the fact that he's leaving. He'd hoped to write her a note, to leave word of where he's going without having to argue, wanting to keep his mind clear before the night's events. But that, alas, is no longer possible.
She's hurt, and he'd been the one to hurt her. But there's nothing he can do about it just this second. "Mary, I can't stay," he says, the feeling returning to his eyes for the first time as he finishes with his tie and turns to face her. It's obvious that he truly regrets it, but there is no contest. "Two men will die tonight unless the murderer is stopped." He steps closer, taking her hands; she doesn't pull away, but they hang limply in his grasp, and he winces all the same.
"Holmes and I had a horrible argument and physical fight last evening, which were the cause of my drunkenness and the fact that I acted a cad this morning. I'm so terribly sorry. He administered the same paralytic the murderer has made use of to himself and sent me the antidote, and I had to get to him before the dose proved fatal, after which I regrettably fell unconscious before I could do more than send word back with Charley." That is the long and short of it; there is more, but it's nothing he can tell her without hurting her, and he knows it.
Pained, he continues on. He has no time to delve further into it, in any case. "I must go tonight. Holmes faces a deadly foe, and I cannot sit idly by while two innocent men could lose their lives. He'll leave with or without me in fifteen minutes, and has not revealed his destination to me." Loosing his grip on one of her hands, he reaches up to touch her face. "Mary, I will beg your forgiveness once I return, but I simply cannot wait. I'm sorry."
There is absolutely nothing Mary can say in the face of that, and they both know it. How can she be angry with him for leaving when he is going to quite literally save lives? She can't demand that he stay and let the detective go on his own, since that is his work and not John's, because lives are at stake and that would be petty of her. She has always thought her husband brave, and not simply because of his time with the army. After that time, which had been a duty to his country, he had returned to England and proceeded to save lives here, expecting no reward or payment of any kind. Simply because his friend was working on these cases and he could help.
No, she has no ground to stand on against this. But that does not change the fact that she is livid with him for the other things he has done. Explanation or not. She is not surprised to hear his explanation, either, of the things the detective had done and their fight, all of that. The detective, much as she may have come to be amused by him, is quite mad, and it seems as though everything he does is just a little more ridiculous than the last, and she knows John is drawn into it. It's exciting and interesting, and how could he not be?
But that does not excuse her husband for his actions, and she thinks he realizes that. She removes her other hand from his grip, nodding curtly. "Go, then," she says, and it is clear she will not stop him or argue, but she has not forgiven him for the rest. "And be careful, John."
Watson stares down at his wife, who had pulled away from him, although his hand is still resting on her cheek. "I will," he promises, and then before he can stop himself he leans in, resting his lips against her temple. She would not want a real kiss just now, and he knows it... to be honest, neither does he. But he does love his wife, and his confusion for the past few weeks has hurt him, and would hurt her, if he were to tell her. It's hurt Holmes, trapped all three of them in this, and it's Watson's fault.
"I'm sorry," he whispers against her skin, and he's apologizing for more than his behavior in the past twenty-four hours. For all of this, he is sorry. He's been as unfair to her as he has to Holmes.
Before she can respond, he's going out the door and down the stairs, walking stick tucked beneath his arm as he heads for his office, unlocking the drawer where he keeps his revolver and then staring, finding it empty save for his case of extra bullets. It's then that he realizes that his revolver is likely still in the entrance hall from where he'd collapsed that morning. Managing to avoid stepping through his mother-in-law's line of sight, he retrieves the weapon and is out the door, shoving his gloves into his pocket.
He reaches Baker Street at two minutes to half-past, hurrying up the stairs again to find Holmes putting on his coat. Grasping his own, as well as his hat, he raises a brow. "Don't forget your revolver," is all the greeting he offers, feeling the tension draining out of him once again now that he's escaped Cavendish Place for the night. That is not the feeling he should have and he knows it, but he doesn't have time to dissect the emotion at the moment.
"Revolver," Holmes repeats, immediately turning back around and shuffling through some of the papers on his desk before finding the very thing there (obviously Watson's reminder was necessary). He checks it quickly before pulling on his hat (otherwise he might have to comb his hair), moving past Watson to the door, though he pauses to hand him one of the syringes on his way.
Two syringes, after all. Who else would he give it to but Watson?
But he neither pauses to consider Watson's reappearance or to double-check anything at all, now focused very completely on the resolution of this case. There is no time, no space in his mind for other thoughts right now. This has to be done correctly- as only he can be certain it will be- and it has to be done tonight. Watson is here, and that is comforting, but anything else surrounding that is irrelevant at present.
So, as they would have any other case in times past, Holmes leads the way quickly out of the flat and onto the street, his pace quick to keep time with his thoughts and his plan and Watson easily keeping up despite his leg. It doesn't trouble him as much when he has a goal, when he's out with Holmes on a case, a fact with Holmes has certainly noticed but never pointed out. They're silent for most of the way there, Holmes clearly lost in thoughts and plans, and Watson not feeling the need to share his own thoughts, until they make it to another residential neighborhood and Holmes turns down an alleyway rather than into a street, making his way through the place as though it were familiar to him.
He's quieter while they do this, his movements changing to those of a person not wanting to be noticed, and Watson catches on quickly, following his lead without having to be told until they come to a fence surrounding the back of a building; Holmes navigates to one corner of the fence where the bottom appears to have rotted off, ducking under and making his way to a back window and rapping lightly before turning to Watson.
"Watson," he says as the window opens, revealing a man who does not look at all surprised to see either of them standing there, but rather glances at them before stepping back and allowing Holmes to climb inside. "I'd like you to meet one of tonight's victims. Mr. Wickham, how good to see you alive and unmurdered thus far." He briefly shakes the man's hand. "This is Dr. John Watson."
Climbing through the window after Holmes, Watson straightens, tucking his walking stick under his arm again and shaking hands with the slight man before him, who looks unnerved but still calm. The pieces are slowly falling into place as Watson realizes what exactly Holmes must be intending.
"Pleasure," he says politely, stepping back and sending his friend a look. "Do you intend to enlighten me now, or shall I remain in the dark until the murderer actually knocks upon the door?"
"Oh, no," Holmes says, his eyes widening rather dramatically. "We can't have that, of course not. Please allow me to explain."
Now that he has an audience to explain the intricacies of this entire case to, Holmes is immediately focused solely upon the problem at hand, his eyes distant and mind elsewhere as he walks step-by-step through the case for his audience. And there must be an audience, of course, or else his grand explanation (and it is grand as he can make it) would be all for naught.
"We are here tonight because the police have discovered four scenes of murder, totaling eight men," he begins, gesturing wildly when necessary and often also when not as he paces about the room (a kitchen). "Each with a week and a day, and then another day, and then another between them and so on and so forth. And it has been a week and five days since the last, marking the night of another murder. You and Mr. Akers, Mr. Wickham, are the next intended victims, which would bring the total number of murders to five, with ten men dead."
He glances at Mr. Wickham, who has paled a little, though he is hiding it well. "Of course he shan't succeed, no need to worry," he says offhandedly, patting the man on the back, and then continues on. "Ten men dead," he repeats as he walks behind Mr. Wickham and towards and around Watson before he returns to his spot in front of the both of them, trying to get himself back on track. Ah yes, the number of murders. "Except this night does not mark the fifth murder, but the sixth. The police, despite their honorable record of diligence, regretfully did not think to look beyond the murders that bore exactly the same markers as the others."
Here he pulls off his hat, running a hand through his hair as he stares at the wall. "Each of the murder scenes had been the same: two men dead, one paralyzed, one with his throat cut, the first man then mutilated and murdered violently, left to die a slow and painful death. Always two men, always in one or both of their homes, and yet no connection between any of the four murders. No connection, that is, save for their proclivity for regarding other men the way one would typically regard members of the fairer sex." He pauses. "In that they sleep with one another. Not platonically." Sadly, that is actually Holmes' version of editing his thoughts. Holmes continues on, ignoring any reaction from either man. "And that is the crux of this case, you see, of this man, which is why the police would never have solved this, the general incompetence of Scotland Yard aside."
Watson's brows are raised by this point, although he had sent Mr. Wickham an apologetic look when Holmes had, once again, proven that he possesses not the least amount of tact. Wickham had shaken his head, seemingly slightly amused despite the gravity of the situation, and Watson just sighs, turning his attention back to Holmes, who has continued on anyway.
Familiar enough with serial murderers now, after his long experience working with Holmes, Watson knows that when a pause is so dramatic, a response is required. His mouth twitches slightly as he eyes his friend, hat already askew, obviously entirely in his element.
Watson does spend a moment wondering how on earth Holmes had introduced himself to Mr. Wickham (and presumably Mr. Akers); it can't have been pretty. In fact, Watson can think of several terrible scenarios and is certain Holmes would have acted out the worst of them, and likely would have come up with something even worse. He's actually rather afraid to ask.
"Of course," he says, referring to Scotland Yard's incompetence, which Holmes remarks upon quite frequently (not without reason, though Watson often thinks that it's perhaps unfair to make fun of them for not possessing such a logical brain amongst them to equal Holmes', for if that were true then Holmes would be out of a job). But his friend is clearly waiting for someone to ask him to reveal the grand mystery of the murderer, and Watson is well aware that this is his role. "Why would they not have solved it, aside from that?"
"Because, thank you Watson, he had done this before," Holmes explains, depositing his hat very emphatically on the nearby table. "Exactly a week before the first murder the police had assumed belonged to this investigation, the first murder was committed. They did not think to connect the first murder, because they did not consider the man who had committed the acts."
Of course, Holmes had spent hours, days even, just considering the man himself, even before he had determined who the murderer was and had begun to follow him. Considering the clues the man had left behind without knowing it, the clues he wasn't able to destroy by wandering about the crime scene, himself and his colleagues destroying evidence by the footstep.
"He is a man who feels that he is doing right," he says after a pause, suddenly appearing to come back to himself, as he had vacated the premises for a moment. He turns to regard first Mr. Wickham, and then Watson. "Because he was wronged."
This, this is the part that the police would never have pieced together, both because they would never have suspected one of their own, and because Holmes is sure less than a forth of them had determined the reasoning behind the man's killing of these men. And they would never have found the previous murder. "The first murder was a crime of passion. You may have read about it in the paper. A priest and a young boy, found dead in a confessional. The boy was shot in the head, the priest, in the stomach."
He allows another pause to allow that to sink in before continuing on. "Our man had gone to confession, had discovered the priest was not as holy a man as he proclaimed to be, and he snapped, killing both the priest and his victim." What he means by all of this is left to subtext, and yet very clear: the priest had been molesting the young boy when he was discovered by the murderer. And yet though he clearly does not care for this any more than any sane person, Holmes recounts the gruesome details with coolly, recounting facts without becoming emotionally involved. "You see, our man had suffered at the hands of a similar, depraved man- undoubtedly also a priest or some sort of equally respected figure- when he was a young man or child. It was wrong, but he took the blame upon himself and seemed to move on."
Here Holmes pauses, picking up his hat again and inspecting it closely before looking back up at his audience. "It was why he entered law enforcement. He wanted to right the wrongs done him as a child. But when he saw it happening again before his eyes, his mind gave out. He killed them both and fled."
Another pause as Holmes stares now at the wall, completely lost in the story of this other man, a man who he now knows almost better than himself, whose mind he has been chasing and trying to inhabit for weeks, his obsession until solved. "But when he killed them, it opened for him another avenue for justice. And so began the systematic murders of men he considered evil, for crimes against God and himself. That is why he would kill one with a slit throat and torture the other. The first is a mercy, so they do not experience what he did by the hands of the other man, the one he sees as the aggressor."
"He perfected his methods," Holmes says, still lost in the other world, in this other man. "Being an officer of the law, all of his victims would allow him into their homes unquestioned. He would need only his badge and hat, and off-duty could walk into any home in London. But how to kill both men? It was two against one, and so he was forced to find a way to paralyze the first, the one he considered the danger. He did so with a compound created from items he took from evidence at Scotland Yard, signed out not in his name but with the signature of one of his colleagues, poorly forged."
"He would enter unchallenged, paralyze the first man, and cut the throat of the second where he stood," Holmes finishes, now staring at the floor and seeing not the wooden floorboards but the nights of the murders, the dying gurgle of the first man and he terror in the eyes of the second, unable to move while he watched the other die, while he watched himself be mutilated and killed. "Before he went to work on the second. He left before the second man died of his wounds, then came back the next day with Lestrade and his men, investigating the murders and destroying the evidence of his foul deeds with ease."
Impressed as always despite himself, Watson nods slowly. Holmes' deductions will no doubt turn out to be precisely on the mark as always, and he does not question any of them. He had, at first, years ago, but had been proved wrong each time, and he has since learned his lesson, trusting his friend implicitly, not doubting his life in Holmes' hands.
"A tragic story," he points out quietly. "But a mad form of justice that does nothing but harm the innocent." He sends Mr. Wickham an encouraging nod. "Don't worry, Sir. Mr. Holmes has extensive experience in catching such men. All will be well." He claims some modest experience himself, of course, but doesn't point it out aloud; they make a formidable team, Holmes and Watson, and always have.
And always will, the small voice reminds him. He sighs silently, forcing himself to remain in the present; such an exercise is not really difficult at all, not now that they are here and each moment counts. "Where is Mr. Akers at the present time?" he asks Mr. Wickham before returning his attention to Holmes and eyeing the small bulge in the side pocket of his friend's coat. Considering Mr. Wickham's dark hair, he can only presume his friend's plan, now that the mystery has been resolved.
"And where shall I be concealed as you open the door?" he asks, raising a brow. "Am I to play Mr. Akers or remain hidden?" Which also raises the question... "Have you informed Lestrade of any of this at all?"
Watson addressing him pulls Holmes back to the present, to reality, and he blinks, taking a moment to understand and process what the doctor had asked.
"Of course not," Holmes says, as though that is the most ridiculous question Watson could ask. He has always put on a great show of distaste for the Chief Inspector, Holmes has. Of course, deep down Holmes might actually feel some tiny bit of affection for the man, because he at the very least trusts Lestrade to do what is right and has called on him for aid in some of his mad schemes. Not to mention, Holmes' only way of show affection is to be a terrible bastard to the person in question, which he is to Lestrade on an alarmingly constant basis.
Before he can go on, Mr. Wickham speaks up, responding to Watson's question of a moment before. "He is to make a show of coming back from his office in half an hour, as Mr. Holmes instructed," he says, glancing over at Holmes, who nods to him.
"Then the both of them are to leave the way we entered when he appears," Holmes explains. "And they will remain hidden unless something goes horribly awry." Now he points to Watson with his hat. "You, Watson, will be Mr. Akers, but as you do not look the part at all, you must remain hidden from view until I have him inside."
Watson nods, walking about the lowest level of the house until he decides, after a brief pause, that the rear drawing room will serve best, as Holmes has no doubt already deduced. "I shall wait just past the entrance to the parlor, where I can't be seen," he says, pointing with his walking stick at the open doorway. "You can lead him in here, saying that I'm sitting here, and we can take him down, two on one."
He can feel the syringe in his pocket, bouncing against his leg in its leather case. "Less risk," he says pointedly. "No need to make sure the antidote works yet again."
Holmes is agreeable to this plan, and so Watson removes his own overcoat and jacket, the better to be able to move more easily. His revolver he keeps with him in its holster, the syringe in his waistcoat pocket, and he is thus prepared. Holmes is pacing, clearly deep in thought, and Mr. Wickham looks as though he might be ill. "Sir, I am a doctor, I must insist that you sit. You don't look well at all."
He raises a brow at Holmes. "Just for the sake of knowing, which one of us will he try to drug straight off, and whose throat will immediately be slit?"
"My throat," Holmes says without pausing in his movements, obviously not bothered by the idea of a man aiming to slit his throat. "You he will try to paralyze."
The reasoning behind this, of course, is simple and well thought out: if he should think Holmes was Mr. Akers, he would immediately paralyze the detective, leaving Watson alone to deal with him. However, based on his previous attacks, the man has always paralyzed the first man before slitting the throat of the other, forcing him to watch as the other man dies, to see what he has done, in the murderer's mind.
Thus, to get him inside and for him to face both of them at once, Holmes would have to be Mr. Wickham. As explained, the murderer always sees one man of the pair as the aggressor. Holmes, having determined quickly upon meeting both men together that Mr. Akers would be the aggressor in his mind, must therefore play Wickham.
The man in question does as he's asked, sitting down and putting his head in his hands to wait. Holmes continues pacing, although Wickham is afforded a brief glance before he begins pacing again, still speaking to Watson. "But make no mistake," he warns. "The man is no fool. As soon as he sees through the charade, he will not hold to his pattern, but rather fight for his life as any man or beast cornered would."
"Naturally," Watson concurs, having expected that. His voice is low, but there is a note of anticipation in it, and he looks over at Holmes, his eyes a darker shade of blue than their usual in the dim light. A rush of anticipation goes through him as he meets the detective's eyes. "I hope so."
The violence that had come out in spurts multiple times over the course of the past night and day is playing just beneath his skin once again, the sort of thing that he'd once expended in his work with Holmes and their fairly frequent confrontations with various members of London's underbelly. But for the past few months he has had no outlet, and considering the buildup of his frustrations over the past few weeks... well.
It would be a lie to say that he is not anticipating tonight's encounter. Beneath a simple desire to hit something is, as well, a fury at the crimes this man has committed that he cannot explain, one more confusing item to add to a long list he's been forming of late. It's an anger that no logical explanation of the reasoning behind them will assuage; Watson wants very dearly to beat this man into the ground before he's given into Lestrade's custody.
That unrecognizable look has returned to Holmes' eye, and Watson is absorbed for a moment in attempting to decipher it, but finally he looks away, pulling out his revolver and checking it over once more, missing the glance Mr. Wickham had given them both a moment before, during which he had looked both nervous and somehow less worried.
Unsurprisingly, this glance and Wickham's expression does not go unnoticed by Holmes, but he does not respond to it outwardly. Rather, he continues pacing, now fighting a frown that goes as unexplained as the short burst of quiet laughter that comes from him a moment later. This is not unusual, however, when Holmes is absorbed in his own thoughts, and a moment later he sits down next to Mr. Wickham and begins work on his disguise.
Time passes rather more quickly than one would think, and sure enough, soon there is the sound of a key in the front lock, the door opening and closing, and someone hurrying back to the kitchen, where they have for some reason congregated. Another man appears in the doorway a moment later, looking first at Wickham, then Holmes and finally Watson.
At this both Holmes and Wickham stand, but before anyone can say anything at all, Holmes cuts in abruptly with demands. "Mr. Akers, this is Dr. Watson. Watson, Mr. Akers. Kindly switch hats." He points at Watson and Akers, then crosses his arms over one another (still pointing) to indicate that they should switch. Then he turns to Wickham and Akers, not doubting that his orders will be followed. "And now, be scarce. Remember, if something should go terribly awry, go straight to Chief Inspector Lestrade and explain everything to him and him alone."
Watson nods to the other man, shaking his hand quickly as they switch hats, muttering pleasantries. Holmes claps Mr. Wickham on the shoulder and the other two head for the rear window through which Holmes and Watson had entered, Mr. Akers going first and turning to wait for Mr. Wickham, who takes an extra moment to hop down to the ground.
Watson lets out a slow breath as the other two men conceal themselves in the alley, turning to meet Holmes' eyes and nod. "He'll be watching the front of the house," he mutters, pausing a moment to rest a hand on his friend's shoulder before heading back down the hallway, pausing in the hall entrance to the parlor. There is no question of waiting for a signal, no warning to take care. Both men have worked together for far too long for any of that to be necessary.
It's less than five minutes before there's a loud knock on the front door, obviously intended to startle. Holmes hurries down the hallway, looking exactly like Mr. Wickham (a bit taller, but there's no help for that) as he does nothing so much as bustle to the door, making Watson stifle a smile despite himself, moving back into the shadows near the entrance to the drawing room, hidden from view from either that room or the hallway.
He has his walking stick clenched in his fist, quite ready, doesn't even think about drawing his revolver. He sure as hell won't need it.
~~~~~
>> Part Seven