Letters, or the Case of the Cerulean Syringe, Part Sixteen
Title: Letters, or the Case of the Cerulean Syringe, Part Sixteen
Author: agaryulnaer86 and sarisa_rahe
Rating: R
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Disclaimer: Not ours. Sigh.
Summary: In which Mr. West and Mr. Abbey arrive at the nick of time.
Spoilers: Movie... probably?
Warnings: Violence.
Word Count: 8,536
Author's Notes: Epic-fic, part 16. Long delayed, our sincerest apologies... real life intruded again, and quite rudely, in fact. Le sigh.
Parts One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten, Eleven, Twelve, Thirteen, Fourteen, and Fifteen
They take the walk back to Kingsway at a quick pace; Holmes is impatient, which is not surprising in the least, but Watson also seems happy to keep them moving. Say what you want about his confusion and indecisiveness of the last few months, but once Watson becomes involved in a case, he has always been reliable. Even when Holmes doesn’t involve him in his plans (when, not if), even if Holmes tells him to do something that sounds outlandish with no explanation whatsoever, Holmes can count on Watson to do what he asks.
In fact, Holmes muses, Watson is probably the only reliable thing in any part of his life. He’s certainly the most reliable person, although one can always count on Mycroft to be where one expects him, doing what one expects of him. But that, Holmes concludes, is not quite the same.
“They might very well be there, or someone might,” Holmes points out when they’re nearing the building. “If this was planned, which it undoubtedly was, they would have used that window to watch their victims more than once, indicating that they have recurring access.” Otherwise, it would be abandoned and they had broken in, but Holmes does not believe that is the case.
Watson looks up at the window, which while not on the ground floor and therefore useful for them to peer through, is only half a story higher than they are. "We've no way to find out of they're within or not," he points out. "Not without actually going inside, which would reveal our motives rather quickly."
Holmes is merely looking at him, and Watson glances back at the window, measuring the distance in his mind... and sighing. "One of these days," he says shortly, "I'm going to climb onto your shoulders."
That earns him a snort and no more as they approach the building, and Watson sets his walking stick aside for the moment, along with his hat (and if he loses either, he'll blame Holmes entirely) and braces his back against the brick wall, weaving his fingers together to form a stirrup. Holmes steps up onto his hands and then up onto his shoulders, clinging to the bricks above Watson's head like a limpet.
"All right?" he asks hoarsely, steadying himself under his friend's weight. It's not an uncomfortable strain, and not even painful after his years of getting into similar and worse scrapes at Holmes' side. It's been worse without a problem, and will be again. But the window isn't high enough that Holmes needs to stand the entire way, and he ends up with his knees resting on Watson's shoulders, putting his ladder in a rather uncomfortable position.
Luckily, they're far enough back that even in the day they wouldn't be visible to passerby on the street; in the night, it's not an issue. But if Watson looks up at all, he's put in rather close proximity to an area of Holmes' anatomy that he's become rather familiar with over the course of the past day and night, and he feels that it's rather unfair that it's only him being tortured. "Sadist," he mutters under his breath. In a more audible but still quiet voice, he asks, "Anyone in there?"
Grinning rather like a perverse mixture of a small child who had gotten into the cookie jar and a terrible tease, Holmes nevertheless has no problem keeping himself focused on the room. After all, he can’t stay here all night; this has to be done quickly or risk being spotted or Watson getting tired of him and ducking down to leave him hanging on to the bricks (this sort of thing has happened in the past).
A quick look in the window proves that there is no light source in the room, or in any rooms adjacent that he can see. The only light reflected seems to be coming from the alley they’re in right now. Of course, someone might be in there in the pitch, sleeping perhaps, but Holmes doubts it.
“No,” he whispers back, climbing right back down Watson as though he were a tree. Well, he has broad enough shoulders, and despite his war wounds, the man is sturdy as they come. Of course, as soon as he’s back on the ground, Holmes can’t help the evil grin he flashes at Watson. Pure, calculating evil. “Not a soul.”
Watson just rolls his eyes towards the heavens (not that he could see them through the cloud cover), choosing not to rise to the bait but instead turning to lead the way to the building's door. As agreed upon on the walk over, Holmes again picks the lock so as not to leave evidence of a break-in and alert the building's occupants. Also, if there is anyone inside, the noise of someone kicking in the door would be a dead giveaway as to their position.
But it only takes Holmes a moment to open the lock, and then they're slipping inside, taking a brief moment to allow their eyes to adjust to the darkness. The house is simply laid-out, with two rooms leading to the stairs and another, the one overlooking the alley, opening off of the half-floor landing.
Watson follows Holmes, not wanting to accidentally step in any evidence or Lord knew what else; if he'd charged on ahead, he'd undoubtedly have ruined or spoiled some evidence.
Holmes quickly picks his way to the stairs in the darkness; he works well in the dark. Either he was born that way, or over the years has conditioned himself to it. It doesn’t matter, because it works well in the end. He often finds himself in strange places in the dark, pitch black at the worst. One’s sense of hearing and smell picks up the slack, if one lets them.
Holmes does, and also keeps his eyes wide open, allow them time to adjust. By the time they quietly make their way up the stairs and to the doorway to the room with the window, his eyes are beginning to pick out shapes in the darkness beyond the largest ones, the basic layout of the rooms.
Careful as he never is unless examining evidence, Holmes pushes the door open, sticking his head inside and examining the dark room as best he can before stepping in, Watson on his heels. The first thing he notices: two chairs, both near the window. The second? Empty glasses. Two. Near the window. Holmes can’t help that his eyebrows go up. “Interesting.”
Glancing around behind him and able to make out much more in here, what with the window uncovered, Watson notes the chairs and glasses as well, moving over to peer down at them but careful not to touch, as always. Holmes consistently becomes greatly angered when evidence is disturbed, and Watson understands why, of course. If anyone interferes with evidence then it loses its value, no longer being exactly as the culprit had left it.
Of course, Scotland Yard wins the prize for mucking about and ruining all potential evidence that they possibly can. Lestrade and his men can be helpful, yes, in certain instances, but for the most part they're a hindrance and only complicate matters, which is why Holmes rarely brings them in until the end of any given investigation.
"Coal ash," he notes, seeing footprints on the floor. He really doesn't need to say it aloud, as Holmes has of course already noticed, but still, he does like to prove that still he possesses his meagre deduction skills. But no coal ash, he notes, near the chairs and glasses. Only over by a chair in the corner. "Who else was here?"
“Yaxley’s friend and attacker,” Holmes says, pointing to the chair in the corner with the coal ash, though he is not looking at that chair. He has already wandered over to the window, inspected the glasses by sight and scent (so far he hasn’t tasted anything), and inspected both chairs in the same manner.
Now, as he speaks, Holmes is half underneath the first chair, head hidden as he inspects the floor beneath it. It’s not as easy as usual to crawl around on the floor, considering his recent wounds, but Holmes doesn’t seem to notice or mind. Not while he’s investigating. A moment later, his head reappears over the side of the chair to look at Watson.
“These two,” he says, meaning the people who had inhabited the two chairs near the window, “hired him.” With that he turns, inspecting the view from the window into the alley below.
Watson frowns. "But if they hired him, did one of them assist him in the kidnapping? Or is there evidence of a third man?" Frustrated at the fact that despite their efforts, this night has not been very revealing at all, he stares at the chair in the corner and then at the two next to the window.
"And unless you see something I don't, we've still no idea who the men were who hired him, or in fact who was here at all. We're no closer to finding Miss Winstone," he says flatly. "Unless you've spotted something revealing that you're choosing not to tell me just now."
“No,” Holmes says after a moment, ignoring the last and focusing on Watson’s question of another man. Slowly, he turns from the window to inspect the glasses again. “One of these two aided him. The other remained in this room.”
He points to the glasses. “The second glass is empty due to evaporation. There was no time to finish it, unlike the first.” He turns back to the window. “One can see clearly the scene of the crime from here, as well as the direction from which Yaxley and Miss Winstone would have approached. This first person was a lookout.”
"And so he was probably the one who did the hiring, or he was the more important of the two," Watson says flatly. "He wouldn't risk getting his hands dirty or being seen. Perhaps the other man worked for him, as well." He wants to bang his stick down, but that would alert anyone they might have missed who could still be in the house.
A girl kidnapped, another destitute, and a lad stabbed and likely dying. They've no time, and yet this seems to be telling them nothing. Nothing they can use to find her, now, at any rate. "Anything else?"
Of course there is always something else; there are many something elses, but Holmes leaves those for the time being. “Yes and no,” Holmes says, a vague answer that is vague for a reason. He eyes the frustrated look on Watson’s face and says nothing about it, knowing the other man will undoubtedly remain frustrated until the conclusion of the mystery. This one has been bothering him. It would take a blind fool not to have noticed as much.
“There is one thing we must determine,” Holmes says, heading for the door with a pat to Watson’s shoulder as he passes. Were the doctor to take a moment to consider the way that is phrased, he would notice the finality of the statement, as though that thing they must determine is the very last piece of a puzzle.
But Holmes does not pause to let Watson think about it; rather, he continues out the door, setting a quick pace as he always does when he is in the midst of an investigation. “To Scotland Yard with all haste.”
Watson hurries after Holmes, exactly as the detective had known he would, not taking the time to consider that statement but simply catching up and then concentrating on the journey to Scotland Yard, which at nearly two miles isn't a short walk. But they make it in only a little more than half of an hour, Holmes pounding loudly on the front doors until a bewildered constable opens it to ask what rubbish they're on about.
They're let in some ten minutes later, when Clarkey comes down to meet them, and Holmes makes for the morgue without delay, not waiting for Watson nor the curious Clarkey. Watson trails after, frowning at his friend's back. "You don't think Miss Winstone is dead?" he asks in a low voice once they reach the basement.
“Not yet, no,” Holmes mumbles, clearly only partially paying attention to Watson. Of course he has no way of knowing that for certain, yet, as her captors could be murdering her at this moment, but the odds are in their favor... right now. They won’t remain so if they take their sweet time; Holmes knows that there will be no guarantee after tonight that she will remain alive, if she still is.
But no, Miss Winstone is not the body he is looking for. And he certainly is looking for a body, because as soon as he dashes into the morgue, Holmes begins an almost frantic search through the bodies, not pausing to let the overpowering smell of decaying flesh bother him at all. Rather, he begins moving around the cold room, stopping at each body to pull the sheet off of the deceased, peer at the dead man or woman for a moment, frown and mutter to himself, and at last move on to the next without regard for the dignity of either living or deceased.
Finally, though, after this has gone on for some minutes (with both Clarkey and Watson watching him, not certain if they should help or try to make him stop), Holmes pulls the sheet partially off of one body, stares down at the dead man before him, and then pulls the sheet entirely off of him to inspect the rest of his body. Clearly he has found what he was looking for, because if that didn’t make his discovery obvious, his eyes lighting on the knife wound to the man’s gut a moment later does.
Or at least it does when he demands, “How long has this man been dead and why did no one think it might be significant?”
Clarkey only looks more puzzled at that demand, while Watson reaches Holmes and places a handkerchief over his nose, leaning down to note the coal dust on the corpse's hands and shirt. "Coal ash," he says, startled. "Yaxley's friend." He straightens, peering over at Holmes. "How did you know he was dead?"
The constable is terribly confused by this point. "Anton Briggs, sir. His wife found him dead in the alley outside his house just this morning. And you're right, doctor; he worked at Paddington as an engineer." He removes his helmet, rubbing at his fair hair. "And it's significant enough, sir, the Inspector put Athelney Jones on the case."
That provokes a snort from Watson; when he had accompanied Holmes in the pursuit of the Great Agra Treasure several years ago, their second investigation in fact, Jones had done nothing but hamper their efforts, bluster about a great deal and arrest innocent men, and then claim the glory for the true arrest in its entirety when in fact Holmes had orchestrated the entire thing. "Christ, not that buffoon again."
By this point, Holmes looks somewhere between ready to hit someone or laugh; in the end he settles on scowling at Clarkey, and then at the corpse in front of them, mumbling something about the incompetency that Scotland Yard houses and perpetuates. Found dead this morning. Winstone could be hours dead by now. This morning!
Struggling with the desire to shake Clarkey and demand someone answer for this ineptitude- even though he knows this is not the man’s fault- Holmes finally shakes his head, looking up at Watson, who he recalls had asked him a question. “I didn’t,” he explains. This is the truth; Holmes hadn’t known whether he was dead or not, only that it was likely that he would be, and soon. “But now that we know he is deceased, time is undoubtedly growing short.” Miss Winstone’s life... and possibly several others... depend upon speed.
Now he turns to Clarkey. “There are two young people whose lives are in danger,” he says shortly. “They absolutely must be guarded for the next few hours.” Clarkey nods, taking down the addresses of the hospital Yaxley is currently in... and the flat the Winstone cousins live in.
“But more than that,” Holmes says before Clarkey can leave to deal with this, “I believe I know the location of a kidnapped girl, and would greatly appreciate the assistance of Scotland Yard’s finest to apprehend her kidnappers and the murderers of this man.”
Startled despite knowing that, after his long acquaintance with Sherlock Holmes, he really should not be surprised by anything the man suddenly announces, Clarkey nods. "Right away, sir. I'll inform the Inspector and we'll leave at once." He turns, hurrying out of the room as quickly as he can and leaving Watson to stare over at Holmes.
"So you'll be gloating once we're there, I assume," he says dryly. Holmes just raises his brows for a brief second's innocent smile and, glancing at the open doorway, leans over to pat Watson's cheek and then kiss him before sprinting off after Clarkey. Watson is left standing there for a moment in shock before he gathers his wits enough to take off after Holmes, reaching the front courtyard just as constables are piling into two Maria's, Lestrade already berating Holmes for not informing him of all of this before just now.
Silent and wide-eyed, Watson climbs into the Maria after Lestrade, ending up across from Holmes, still too in shock at that blatant public... dear Lord... to even check over his service revolver, as he usually does when heading into a likely confrontation. When he glances up, Holmes is staring at him, vague amusement hidden in his brown eyes, and Watson's blue ones narrow in turn. There will be retribution for that.
Later, though. It needs must be later.
“Think of it as saving you the trouble,” Holmes says, suddenly cutting off Lestrade, who had been on a bit of a tirade about Holmes never informing him of these things ahead of time and who does he think he is and etcetera, no one is actually listening, least of all Holmes. Who manages to somehow look more amused by Watson’s narrowing his eyes, and yet Holmes does not smile. A smile would probably go unnoticed by everyone but Watson- or at least ignored, as Holmes can often get away with unexplained bursts of amusement- but he is focused right now on the specifics of the case.
And Lestrade has now progressed into glowering, although his indignant sputtering died off after Holmes had told him that he didn’t want to “interrupt the processes of the Yard’s greatest minds," to be replaced by some mild confusion as to whether or not that was intended as an insult.
He hasn't figured it out by the time they make it to the address Holmes had specified, which turns out to be... the home of Miss Caroline Baker.
At this point, Lestrade turns to Holmes, demanding an explanation. "You believe there is a girl being held here against her will?" he asks, and Holmes nods. Lestrade looks over at the house. "Where?"
Holmes blinks back at him. "I haven't the slightest," he says, as though that should be obvious. "If you'll give me a minute or two to investigate while you prepare your men, I'm sure I'll discover her whereabouts, however." Preferably without the... help of Scotland Yard.
Clearing his throat quietly, Watson follows Holmes out of the Maria; they're around the corner and so not visible, and he glances over at the other man once they're far enough away. "I'll have my revenge later," he growls almost inaudibly. "What the hell were you thinking, you idiot, in Scotland Yard--"
But he's forced to cut himself off as they walk right up the front step and Holmes rings the bell. A moment later, a man in a poorly-made suit answers the door, blinking at them.
"Mr. West and Mr. Abbey of the Dispatch to see Miss Baker, sir," Watson says immediately, adopting a charming smile. "We had a few questions for her, to follow up our interview of this morning." He glances over at Holmes, and his smile becomes slightly vicious, although only someone who knew him well (such as the man standing next to him) would recognize the malice. "Mr. Abbey is quite... eager to see Miss Baker again, you see, and so I pray she forgives our intrusion. The man has been unbearable all day, unable to think of anything but her."
"It's true," Holmes says, eyes immediately wide and just barely this side of love-stricken idiocy. He doesn't glance over at Watson, but he sees the vicious look on the other man's face anyway. This would bother Holmes more if he didn't recall Watson's fit of jealous rage when Holmes had been speaking to (flirting with) Miss Baker that morning.
The man- who is undoubtedly supposed to be some approximation of a butler- looks skeptical, but after a moment allows them entrance. They step inside, being led quickly to a sitting room before the man leaves with assurances that he will alert Miss Baker to their presence. Watson nods politely; Holmes is staring about the room, sure to keep the ridiculous look on his face even while the look in his eyes is sharp.
Sitting room. They wouldn't keep her near this room, but there are things to be noted. Two glasses, made use of earlier in the night. The floor recently swept, as it had been in the foyer. To remove the coal ash, he's certain, when he spies a dark spot on a nearby chair. Mr. Yaxley's friend was in this room; since then, the floors have been swept and the glasses used for another guest.
Watson has just enough time to notice the same and wonder if he should ask Holmes if they'd killed Briggs here when Caroline Baker sweeps into the room, already dressed in a low-cut gown and wearing facepaint. "Mr. Abbey!" she exclaims, all charm and pleasure, stepping forward to offer both of her hands to Holmes, who bends to kiss them. Watson bows slightly as well, polite despite his burning dislike of this conniving woman (now a kidnapper and murderess, as well).
"I didn't see either of you at the performance this evening!" She looks terribly distraught, suddenly. "I am glad to see you, though. Bruce, will you open the brandy? It's a wonderful vintage," she confides to them as the large man in the suit glowers and pops open a bottle of brandy merely with his hands. To her credit, Miss Baker displays no nervousness whatsoever.
Not even attempting to field any questions about the performance, though, Watson waits for Holmes. This one is up to him, being the lovesick one, of course.
"Miss Baker, I beg your forgiveness," Holmes begins, wearing suddenly the most heart-wrenchingly pitiful expression a man could wear, an expression Watson has seen on occasion himself, although never quite so pronounced. Holmes often wears it to get his way, because he knows that it works.
"We were indeed present to witness you in all your glory- not a soul in the world could have kept me from your performance tonight. But afterward, I was informed that our story had to take precedence over... congratulating you." His expression is still terribly pitiful, even as he is clearly blaming Watson; his eyes beg her forgiveness better than any excuses ever could. Holmes knows quite well what he is doing, although it may not appear that way.
And a moment later, he is proven right yet again, because this technique clearly works on Miss Baker as well as it seems to work on everyone he's ever tried it on. She takes one look at his enormous brown eyes and immediately forgives him. "Mr. Abbey, of course you have my forgiveness," she says. "I understand how important the work you do is."
Holmes beams at the praise; Watson has to swallow a grimace, and wonders how on earth they're meant to discover anything in this place with the woman sitting right there. Not The Woman, however, which is something to be thankful for. He's certain Holmes can outwit one evil bitch of an actress.
Well, if Holmes does get himself invited into her boudoir, as it were, he supposes that would give him a chance to bean this Bruce fellow and free the girl. There might be an easier way, of course. But that does seem the surest, much as it disgusts him; Holmes has gone further in the pursuit of cases and Watson knows it, but that doesn't mean he has to like it.
"Please forgive me my insistence on completing our work," he says smoothly. "Fortunately for Mr. Abbey's wish to see you, however, that work has brought us to your doorstep."
Miss Baker practically purrs, shifting a bit farther back onto the couch and managing, with the tiniest and nearly unnoticeable shift in her weight, to accentuate her bosom, which is already very obviously displayed in her bodice. "Well," she says quietly, the greed visible in her eyes as well as an obvious attempt on seduction that is very focused on Holmes. "I should be grateful for your efforts."
Clearing his throat, Watson stands, exchanging a brief glance with Holmes as Miss Baker glances down and smoothes her skirts. "Miss, if I might impose upon you to use your lavatory--"
"Of course. Bruce?" She dismisses Watson with a wave of her hand, and then stands herself, holding out a hand for Holmes as Watson steps into the hallway after the larger man. "Mr. Abbey. I would be happy to give you anything you need--perhaps we would be more comfortable upstairs?" Her smile is wicked, and Watson glances over his shoulder to see Holmes take her hand without even a pause.
Steaming inwardly, the doctor forces a composed expression back onto her face as Bruce leads him farther back into the house. Miss Winstone could be anywhere down here, in the basement, in a closet... but first, he needs to get rid of Bruce.
Dear Miss Baker leads Holmes out of the room and up a set of stairs slowly, turning to look at him every once in awhile and giving him a catlike grin that Holmes knows should probably have him week-kneed with anticipation. Most men would be. Sherlock Holmes, however, is taking stock of everything they pass, sharp eyes catching every detail with lightening speed as he lets himself be pulled up the stairs. He is assessing her movements, her words, her dress, determining all of the places she could hide a firearm or other weapon, calculating how long it would take Watson to dispose of Bruce, how many other inhabitants there must be in this household and how likely they are to intrude upon Miss Baker when she has a... guest.
They reach the top of the stairs and turn a corner and suddenly they're kissing; Holmes is certain he had something to do with that because he has her against a wall, but she has her arm on his shirt, she pulled him into her. Her eyes close and Holmes' pop open, eyeing the doors in the hall, the furniture, everything, careful to keep from pressing up against her because that would give his disinterest away.
A distant second to his other considerations, Holmes considers their kissing, her arms about his neck, all logic and evaluation of the events, completely detached. She is enjoying herself, not acting- there are physical reactions one cannot fake- but Holmes is no more seduced than if he'd been kissing a portrait or a chair. Certainly he appreciates her form, had appreciated the view he'd had of it that morning, but there's nothing interesting about her. And so, disinterested, his mind continues on to other matters, the way it always does... the way it didn't with Watson, and before that, to a lesser degree, the Woman. Holmes has observed that other, less logical people's minds are clouded by activities of this nature, but had never observed the phenomenon in himself.
Not until the night before. If he had had time to mull over that, to focus on it, Holmes might be shaken by the idea, to be truthful. He's spent a great deal of time and effort in his life attempting to quiet his mind, with minimal success. But then a few minutes with Watson, and Holmes could barely remember his own name. To a man whose mind is his greatest and worst asset, the idea that someone else might have that much control over him... is frightening. But also horribly fascinating. Irresistible. Amazing.
He is still thinking on this when Miss Baker pulls back, smiling lazily up at him. "In a hurry, Mr. Abbey?" she purrs, then chastises him with a pout. "I'm not some simple chamber maid, to be taken in a hallway."
Holmes smiles back at her, eyes widening in feigned innocence. Well, feigned feigned innocence, if one wants to be technical. "Miss Baker," he says, lowering his voice in a calculated show of arousal. "I have every intention of spending every bit as much time on you as you deserve."
The catlike smile returns, and the actress takes his hand, pulling him to a nearby door; her bedroom, Holmes sees when she pushes open the door. A quick glance reveals an attached powder room, and an equally quick calculation proves without a doubt that this powder room has another door, the one next to her bedroom's in the hallway. A plan forms lightening-fast in Holmes' mind as he is literally dragged by his shirt into the room, the door shut behind him.
She has his coat off before he knows what is going on; Holmes makes quick work of the laces on her bodice after some effort on both of their parts to begin the removal of her clothes. But then, before things can progress any further (and in fact have progressed just far enough that she could not leave the room without taking the time to right her clothes), Holmes pulls away with a sly grin of his own. "Stay exactly as you are," he insists, voice still low, breathing hard. "I'll be right back."
And then he turns, dashing into the adjoining room and shutting the door behind him. As soon as the door is shut, however, the haste of a man in the throws of lust immediately turns into the haste of a man completely absorbed in a plan, his breathing evening and quieting as though a switch was turned on. Holmes locks the door to the bedroom behind him and listens, ear to the door into the hallway for a moment before quietly opening it and shutting it behind himself. Thirty seconds later, the key he'd stolen from her bodice quietly locks both doors and a nearby chair is placed in front of the powder room door, along with a chaise from the other side of the hallway guarding the door to Miss Baker's room.
Dropping the key into his pocket (and not noticing his lack of a coat), Holmes takes off at a controlled dash down the hallway and then the stairs. Time to find Watson, and then Miss Winstone.
On the ground floor, Watson trails behind Bruce until the man reaches what is clearly the lavatory; very casually, he lifts his walking stick like a cricket bat and hits the man on the temple with a loud crack.
Bruce drops to the wooden floor like a stone, hitting with a thump, and Watson immediately reaches down, dragging the man's dead weight into the lavatory and locking the door, shoving a chair beneath the handle so it can't be opened. It's enough time for Holmes to reach the ground floor again, though, because Watson straightens to see him coming... clad in only his shirtsleeves, and with red lip paint on his neck and all around his mouth.
Jaw tightening, Watson looks away very deliberately, staring around. Miss Winstone is the priority. No matter that he can't tell, what with how baggy Holmes' trousers are, whether or not the other man had enjoyed himself. He's certain nothing had been finished between Holmes and the actress, at least, since it had only been less than a few minutes, but still... well. To say that he's jealous, even though Holmes had clearly been doing it as an act, would be putting it mildly, but he doesn't say a word about it beyond a brief phrase in a low murmur.
"You've got lip rouge." He touches his mouth, turning to stalk off down the hallway. "Where do you think they have her?"
Not having been concerned in the least about where the woman had been putting her mouth while he was trying to dispose of her without hurting her (she is a woman, after all), Holmes pauses when Watson indicates that he has rouge on him. He spends a brief moment using his shirtsleeve to wipe at his face before deciding that he doesn't care enough to worry about it until Miss Winstone is found. It's only a matter of time before either of the people they'd incapacitated appears... or worse, someone else.
"A basement room, most likely," Holmes mutters back to Watson, spotting the way the other man purposefully doesn't look at him, the way his jaw is clenched, and for a brief moment finds himself in the uncommon position of feeling rather poorly about what he'd done. Of course, this lasts all of a second before Holmes' mind moves on to other things, assessing the rooms around them.
"Or a secret room," he mumbles, "somewhere in the middle of the house, else the neighbors would be able to hear her shouting. Hurry," he says, beginning to duck into a room to check it, but then pauses. "There should be another man about soon if he isn't already. Bruce is not her accomplice."
"The second man from the Kingsway," Watson mutters back, understanding immediately. He nods, slipping into a second room to check it, but they both come up empty. The result is the same for the remainder of their search on the ground floor, and Watson finally decides that they must try the basement. In agreement, the two men head back towards the kitchen... and then they freeze as they hear heavy boots coming up the stairs, followed by the creak of a door... and a confused voice swearing, having noticed the chair in front of the bathroom door.
There's no French accent nor a green jacket, but Watson has no trouble recognizing the man now in the kitchen from his vantage point, hidden in the hall. Baudin. Somehow, he is entirely unsurprised. Signaling Holmes, he points, and the detective nods his agreement, disappearing into the connected parlor to come upon the man from behind as Watson steps out into the hallway, wearing a welcoming smile and twirling his walking stick in a relaxed manner.
"Monsieur Baudin," he says in a friendly sort of way, intending to disarm the man with his calm. He smiles. "Here to celebrate the fine success of tonight's programme?"
It takes a clearly confused and highly suspicious Mr. Baudin a moment of staring at Watson to recognize him as one of the journalists from that morning; they had never given introductions to Baudin, and so he has no name to give the face and yet recognizes him all the same. The recognition hits his face even as he is beginning to come towards Watson, taking slow steps with the intent of reaching him without causing a fuss.
But no one there is fooled as to his true intent, even as he speaks in forced congeniality to the doctor. "You," he begins, faltering, and not bothering to pick up his accent, because he assumes that in a minute it won't matter. "You must forgive me, I wasn't expecti-"
He's cut off with a grunt and a choking sound, as from behind Holmes bursts out of adjoining parlor and literally jumps onto the much larger man's back, wrapping his arm around the larger man's neck to cut off his air supply while he wraps his legs around the man's torso to keep himself from being flung off.
"Taxmen," Holmes manages to gasp to the flailing man as he holds on for dear life, "are soon to be the least of your problems, Monsieur Baudin."
Baudin flails about, choked and unable to even gasp for air, and Watson ducks beneath the flailing hands, swinging his leg back and, with no masculine sympathy whatsoever, kicks the man hard in the groin. This is followed by a sharp rap to the man's temple (notably not on the side where Holmes' head is also currently located), and Baudin drops to the floor, senseless, with Holmes beneath him.
Moving forward with alacrity, Watson helps roll the large man (not so quite as large as Dredger, thank the Lord) off of Holmes' lower half, and they charge down into the dark basement, which is lit only by a small gas lamp. Its corners are shadowed, Watson glances at Holmes, who looks nearly sinister in the dim light, his eyes like black pits. He can only hear one person breathing.
"Miss Winstone?" he calls quietly.
Holmes shares a glance with Watson, but only briefly before beginning to search the place thoroughly for the missing girl. He can't hear her, either, but Holmes doesn't doubt that she's gagged and probably unconscious... at best. The worst... the worst might also be a reality, but either way she is down here.
They begin their search; neither man calls out for her after Watson's first attempt, preferring to remain quiet in order to listen intently to everything around them- necessary, since vision is highly impaired. It feels like it's been minutes, long minutes, to Holmes as he searches in the dark, his heartbeat fast (too fast) and aching from Baudin falling back on his already broken ribs, making it difficult to breathe again. But adrenaline keeps him running, adrenaline and the rush (mania) of a case nearing its end.
And then... his foot steps on something that is not the same as the stone floor around it, and Holmes' gaze snaps immediately down to the ground, his eyes trying to make out shapes in the darkness but unable. Frustrated, he half dives to the floor, reaching around blindly until he feels... wood. Wooden floor, no not the floor, a door. "Watson," he calls sharply, scrambling to find the handle he knows must be there and discovering it just as the other man appears next to him.
Watson brings the lamp with him, dropping down onto his knees and setting it down as he helps Holmes to lift up the large trapdoor. A hidden cellar, perhaps, for smuggling? This is an older house; it's entirely possible. But all he can think about now is that they must get within; there is a crash from the floor above them, and a great deal of male yelling.
"Lestrade grew impatient," he says unnecessarily as they manage to lift the heavy door, shoving it back so it lands on the stone floor with a bang. Holmes takes the lamp and starts down the brief set of stairs first, Watson on his heels as the boots of at least ten constables pound on the floorboards above them.
At first, he barely recognizes the pile of rags on the floor as a girl and not just some laundry, but the lamp glints on tangled hair, and he drops down next to her immediately. "Holmes, your knife." It's placed in his hand without delay, and he quickly cuts the gag and the cord binding her hands, rolling Miss Winstone carefully onto her back. Her eyes flicker woozily at him as he checks her temperature; too high.
"Miss Winstone," he says gently, "Harriet Winstone. I'm a doctor. You're going to be all right; we've brought the police to rescue you." She blinks owlishly at him, clearly only partially conscious and too dazed to realize what's going on, so he leans over her, quickly checking for injuries. Bruises and lesions are all he can see from a superficial inspection. Too many of those, but she seems, astoundingly, to be for the most part uninjured.
Save for the puncture marks on her forearm. She's obviously not Holmes, but he can't miss them anyway. "They've drugged her," he says in a low voice. "Morphine, I suspect. To keep her quiet." He touches her forehead. "And something to make her burn. She needs the hospital immediately."
Nodding, Holmes spends a moment eyeing her up and down himself before standing and hurrying back to the stairs. Lestrade and his men will have found Baudin, undoubtedly, probably Bruce, and no doubt Miss Baker will begin shouting from upstairs if she hasn't already. Yes, they must all be apprehended, but the girl is more important.
So Holmes climbs the stairs to the actual basement, taking the few stairs quickly, and then calls up for Lestrade. "The girl is down here!" he shouts, rather more loudly than he imagines is healthy considering how difficult it's been to breathe lately, but he doesn't mind particularly. Especially not when Lestrade and Clarkey appear and he directs them to the partially-hidden cellar.
Lestrade swears when he spots her; Clarkey immediately helps Watson lift her, and then the constable begins the process of carrying her up the stairs, leaving Lestrade with the two men below while Holmes looks around the rest of the room, wanting to be certain nothing is missed before Lestrade's men inevitably ruin the crime scene.
"Well?" Lestrade says after a moment, eyeing Holmes.
Holmes blinks at him. "Well?"
"Well," Lestrade repeats through gritted teeth, "isn't now the point where you tell me what the bloody hell is going on?"
"Oh," Holmes says. "Well, yes, if you insist."
"The short version," Lestrade begs, once again through clenched teeth.
Holmes blinks, considering that, and then marches on. Short version. "The actress Miss Baker who owns this house had been planning to murder her lover's- Lord Darnley's- wife. Miss Winstone discovered her plot, informed her fiance Mr. Yaxley, who in turn informed your recent corpse, Anton Briggs. Briggs then went to Baker and offered her this information, entering into a contract with the actress and her director, Mr. Baudin (who is upstairs currently), to remove the obstacle of Miss Winstone. Yaxley was stabbed in the process, and they brought Miss Winstone here, where they attempted to discover if she had told anyone else before killing her. Short enough?"
Lestrade blinks at him, taking a long time to process all of this, mainly because Holmes had been speaking so quickly that half of what he'd said had been borderline incomprehensible. "And how did you determine all of this?"
Holmes gives him a sideways look. "You asked for the short version, Inspector, it would take days to impart to you every observation and deduction that led to this conclusion even if you appreciated the logic. I assume you found Mr. Baudin and Bruce, but did your men take Miss Baker into custody? She should be locked in a room upstairs. I imagine she'll be shrieking about it any minute now."
Blinking, Lestrade shakes his head very slowly. "If you'll excuse me, Mr. Holmes, Doctor," he says politely, "I will locate her immediately." A kidnapper and attempted murderess. Well, it's not shocking; he really should have known, having been roused from dinner with his wife because Sherlock Holmes had arrived crowing about yet another solved investigation. He really shouldn't be surprised by these things anymore... he supposes he's lucky that his wife finds it all to be so amusing.
Left alone in the sub-cellar, Watson doesn't miss the difficulty Holmes has in breathing. "We're going to the hospital with them in the maria," he says shortly. "One of the Irregulars can bring word to Miss Winstone that her cousin is alive, and you, old boy, are going to have your ribs wrapped." Pause. He sighs. "Again."
He sees Holmes about to protest and scowls at the other man, his expression vaguely menacing in the lamplight. "Miss Baker, eh?"
Having been about to protest that his ribs are already wrapped, since Watson had not allowed him to remove the wrappings, Holmes instead shrinks a bit at the look on Watson's face, actually shutting his mouth (for a moment) and keeping his protest to himself. Now that they're left alone and things are finished... Holmes does recognize that his breathing is not as it should be. He would sigh if he wasn't slightly worried by the look on Watson's face.
"I suspected it might have been her from the beginning," Holmes admits neutrally; he's telling the truth. Otherwise, why would he have bothered pretending to be a journalist, when he would have been able to get much better, more straightforward answers about the whole matter as a detective?
That does not seem to be helping. Holmes isn't certain he's ever seen Watson look quite like that before; he doesn't quite know, at this particular moment, what to make of it. "Her career was failing. She was seeking another way to create stability for herself: Lord Darnley. He'll never know, but we saved Lady Darnley's life tonight."
Watson's jaw clenches. "I agree. Well done. Good show, old boy." His voice is tight, and he stares at Holmes, wondering if he should be shocked that Holmes had not grasped his meaning. Or had chosen to ignore it. He's not entirely certain which scenario would be worse.
Lady Darnley's life. They'd saved it, this evening. And the life of one innocent young woman, who will hopefully have a fiancé to wake up to, and vice versa. But Watson can't help but feel a familiar twisting in his gut, one that won't release no matter how desperately he tries to relax his abdominal muscles.
He has no cause to be angry. No right to feel jealousy. Shagging twice doesn't entail any sort of claim on anyone at all. He has no right to even begin to wonder if Miss Baker had done... things he'd been unable to do. It's true that they'd only been up there for a few minutes, but a few minutes was enough time for Holmes to clearly be kissing the other woman and to have lip rouge on his throat, as well.
Sure he can feel Watson's mood radiating from where he stands, a few steps away (or he would be if he believed in such nonsense), Holmes stares back at him for a moment before looking away, unable to meet the doctor's accusing eyes. He's angry. Holmes knows why he's angry, or at least thinks he can determine why Watson is angry, and yet is having a difficult time both coming to terms with it- because it is still hard for him to believe that Watson would care at all in that fashion, after years of surety that Watson would never come around- and determining what he should do about it.
Is he expected to do anything at all? This is the sort of area where Holmes has no expertise whatsoever, and he knows it and it shows clearly every time. He flails inexpertly around, trying to determine correct responses and each time falls short because he has so little practice in actually bothering to care what other people think or feel.
"Watson..." he begins after an uncomfortable moment, staring at his own feet and wondering why he began saying anything because he has no idea what he's going to say and now Watson is expecting him to say something. "Nothing came of it. I would never have... even if she had not been a murderess. I was distracting her... for the case..." He trails off, exceedingly uncomfortable and at a loss. It's always for the case, isn't it? That's his motive, always. Unfailingly, the case comes before everything else. He has no other defense than the simple truth of it.
Watson closes his eyes, rubbing his temples. "I know," he says quietly. "I'm sorry." Well, he's not sorry for being angry, but abruptly he's sorry for making Holmes feel guilty for something he shouldn't have to feel guilty about. He has no claim on Sherlock Holmes beyond that of friendship, really. By his own definition, their new... arrangement, such as it is, is almost exactly alike to their friendship of the past seven years,
They've not said a word about things changing, about not pursuing any other activities with other people. And even if they had, Watson could never blame the man when he did something while working on a case. So essentially, this entire issue he's trying to understand is moot, to put it flatly.
"Let's go," he says, nodding at the small ladder and taking the lamp from Holmes, not entirely certain that his friend is very steady on his feet at the moment.
Not certain at all that the matter is indeed over with that, Holmes nevertheless nods, accepting that and navigating carefully back up to the basement, and then the first floor. He always accepts it when Watson indicates that a serious matter is done with, never presses or argues even when he wonders if he should, because Holmes can absolutely not distinguish between when pressing an issue is necessary and when it would be inappropriate. This is true for all conversations and arguments, and shows daily in his inability to give in when it would be wise. But when the matter is important... he errs on the side of caution and keeps quiet, too afraid to do more damage.
And so they do go, Holmes uncommonly quiet as the police officers hurry about the place, destroying evidence as though their jobs didn't require it and looking for any more witnesses; they've already taken the three suspects (Bruce was taken as well as the other two) out of the house in chains.
By the time they reach the maria that will be taking Holmes to the hospital whether he likes it or not, Holmes is beginning to see why Watson is so insistent about him having his ribs wrapped again. His breathing, which had been returning to normal, is right back to where he started several days ago. Very annoying, to suddenly be aware and care about the healthy functioning of his body again. But he is, because the case is over and Watson is upset, the sort of upset that matters, not the sort he is when Holmes lights his things on fire or tricks him into giving in to his ludicrous demands. It's been two days, barely, and he's managed to upset Watson. If his ribs didn't hurt, Holmes would sink down into the seat.
And he does not remember until they are already three blocks away that his jacket is still in Miss Baker's room, forgotten.
Part Seventeen
Author: agaryulnaer86 and sarisa_rahe
Rating: R
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Disclaimer: Not ours. Sigh.
Summary: In which Mr. West and Mr. Abbey arrive at the nick of time.
Spoilers: Movie... probably?
Warnings: Violence.
Word Count: 8,536
Author's Notes: Epic-fic, part 16. Long delayed, our sincerest apologies... real life intruded again, and quite rudely, in fact. Le sigh.
Parts One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten, Eleven, Twelve, Thirteen, Fourteen, and Fifteen
They take the walk back to Kingsway at a quick pace; Holmes is impatient, which is not surprising in the least, but Watson also seems happy to keep them moving. Say what you want about his confusion and indecisiveness of the last few months, but once Watson becomes involved in a case, he has always been reliable. Even when Holmes doesn’t involve him in his plans (when, not if), even if Holmes tells him to do something that sounds outlandish with no explanation whatsoever, Holmes can count on Watson to do what he asks.
In fact, Holmes muses, Watson is probably the only reliable thing in any part of his life. He’s certainly the most reliable person, although one can always count on Mycroft to be where one expects him, doing what one expects of him. But that, Holmes concludes, is not quite the same.
“They might very well be there, or someone might,” Holmes points out when they’re nearing the building. “If this was planned, which it undoubtedly was, they would have used that window to watch their victims more than once, indicating that they have recurring access.” Otherwise, it would be abandoned and they had broken in, but Holmes does not believe that is the case.
Watson looks up at the window, which while not on the ground floor and therefore useful for them to peer through, is only half a story higher than they are. "We've no way to find out of they're within or not," he points out. "Not without actually going inside, which would reveal our motives rather quickly."
Holmes is merely looking at him, and Watson glances back at the window, measuring the distance in his mind... and sighing. "One of these days," he says shortly, "I'm going to climb onto your shoulders."
That earns him a snort and no more as they approach the building, and Watson sets his walking stick aside for the moment, along with his hat (and if he loses either, he'll blame Holmes entirely) and braces his back against the brick wall, weaving his fingers together to form a stirrup. Holmes steps up onto his hands and then up onto his shoulders, clinging to the bricks above Watson's head like a limpet.
"All right?" he asks hoarsely, steadying himself under his friend's weight. It's not an uncomfortable strain, and not even painful after his years of getting into similar and worse scrapes at Holmes' side. It's been worse without a problem, and will be again. But the window isn't high enough that Holmes needs to stand the entire way, and he ends up with his knees resting on Watson's shoulders, putting his ladder in a rather uncomfortable position.
Luckily, they're far enough back that even in the day they wouldn't be visible to passerby on the street; in the night, it's not an issue. But if Watson looks up at all, he's put in rather close proximity to an area of Holmes' anatomy that he's become rather familiar with over the course of the past day and night, and he feels that it's rather unfair that it's only him being tortured. "Sadist," he mutters under his breath. In a more audible but still quiet voice, he asks, "Anyone in there?"
Grinning rather like a perverse mixture of a small child who had gotten into the cookie jar and a terrible tease, Holmes nevertheless has no problem keeping himself focused on the room. After all, he can’t stay here all night; this has to be done quickly or risk being spotted or Watson getting tired of him and ducking down to leave him hanging on to the bricks (this sort of thing has happened in the past).
A quick look in the window proves that there is no light source in the room, or in any rooms adjacent that he can see. The only light reflected seems to be coming from the alley they’re in right now. Of course, someone might be in there in the pitch, sleeping perhaps, but Holmes doubts it.
“No,” he whispers back, climbing right back down Watson as though he were a tree. Well, he has broad enough shoulders, and despite his war wounds, the man is sturdy as they come. Of course, as soon as he’s back on the ground, Holmes can’t help the evil grin he flashes at Watson. Pure, calculating evil. “Not a soul.”
Watson just rolls his eyes towards the heavens (not that he could see them through the cloud cover), choosing not to rise to the bait but instead turning to lead the way to the building's door. As agreed upon on the walk over, Holmes again picks the lock so as not to leave evidence of a break-in and alert the building's occupants. Also, if there is anyone inside, the noise of someone kicking in the door would be a dead giveaway as to their position.
But it only takes Holmes a moment to open the lock, and then they're slipping inside, taking a brief moment to allow their eyes to adjust to the darkness. The house is simply laid-out, with two rooms leading to the stairs and another, the one overlooking the alley, opening off of the half-floor landing.
Watson follows Holmes, not wanting to accidentally step in any evidence or Lord knew what else; if he'd charged on ahead, he'd undoubtedly have ruined or spoiled some evidence.
Holmes quickly picks his way to the stairs in the darkness; he works well in the dark. Either he was born that way, or over the years has conditioned himself to it. It doesn’t matter, because it works well in the end. He often finds himself in strange places in the dark, pitch black at the worst. One’s sense of hearing and smell picks up the slack, if one lets them.
Holmes does, and also keeps his eyes wide open, allow them time to adjust. By the time they quietly make their way up the stairs and to the doorway to the room with the window, his eyes are beginning to pick out shapes in the darkness beyond the largest ones, the basic layout of the rooms.
Careful as he never is unless examining evidence, Holmes pushes the door open, sticking his head inside and examining the dark room as best he can before stepping in, Watson on his heels. The first thing he notices: two chairs, both near the window. The second? Empty glasses. Two. Near the window. Holmes can’t help that his eyebrows go up. “Interesting.”
Glancing around behind him and able to make out much more in here, what with the window uncovered, Watson notes the chairs and glasses as well, moving over to peer down at them but careful not to touch, as always. Holmes consistently becomes greatly angered when evidence is disturbed, and Watson understands why, of course. If anyone interferes with evidence then it loses its value, no longer being exactly as the culprit had left it.
Of course, Scotland Yard wins the prize for mucking about and ruining all potential evidence that they possibly can. Lestrade and his men can be helpful, yes, in certain instances, but for the most part they're a hindrance and only complicate matters, which is why Holmes rarely brings them in until the end of any given investigation.
"Coal ash," he notes, seeing footprints on the floor. He really doesn't need to say it aloud, as Holmes has of course already noticed, but still, he does like to prove that still he possesses his meagre deduction skills. But no coal ash, he notes, near the chairs and glasses. Only over by a chair in the corner. "Who else was here?"
“Yaxley’s friend and attacker,” Holmes says, pointing to the chair in the corner with the coal ash, though he is not looking at that chair. He has already wandered over to the window, inspected the glasses by sight and scent (so far he hasn’t tasted anything), and inspected both chairs in the same manner.
Now, as he speaks, Holmes is half underneath the first chair, head hidden as he inspects the floor beneath it. It’s not as easy as usual to crawl around on the floor, considering his recent wounds, but Holmes doesn’t seem to notice or mind. Not while he’s investigating. A moment later, his head reappears over the side of the chair to look at Watson.
“These two,” he says, meaning the people who had inhabited the two chairs near the window, “hired him.” With that he turns, inspecting the view from the window into the alley below.
Watson frowns. "But if they hired him, did one of them assist him in the kidnapping? Or is there evidence of a third man?" Frustrated at the fact that despite their efforts, this night has not been very revealing at all, he stares at the chair in the corner and then at the two next to the window.
"And unless you see something I don't, we've still no idea who the men were who hired him, or in fact who was here at all. We're no closer to finding Miss Winstone," he says flatly. "Unless you've spotted something revealing that you're choosing not to tell me just now."
“No,” Holmes says after a moment, ignoring the last and focusing on Watson’s question of another man. Slowly, he turns from the window to inspect the glasses again. “One of these two aided him. The other remained in this room.”
He points to the glasses. “The second glass is empty due to evaporation. There was no time to finish it, unlike the first.” He turns back to the window. “One can see clearly the scene of the crime from here, as well as the direction from which Yaxley and Miss Winstone would have approached. This first person was a lookout.”
"And so he was probably the one who did the hiring, or he was the more important of the two," Watson says flatly. "He wouldn't risk getting his hands dirty or being seen. Perhaps the other man worked for him, as well." He wants to bang his stick down, but that would alert anyone they might have missed who could still be in the house.
A girl kidnapped, another destitute, and a lad stabbed and likely dying. They've no time, and yet this seems to be telling them nothing. Nothing they can use to find her, now, at any rate. "Anything else?"
Of course there is always something else; there are many something elses, but Holmes leaves those for the time being. “Yes and no,” Holmes says, a vague answer that is vague for a reason. He eyes the frustrated look on Watson’s face and says nothing about it, knowing the other man will undoubtedly remain frustrated until the conclusion of the mystery. This one has been bothering him. It would take a blind fool not to have noticed as much.
“There is one thing we must determine,” Holmes says, heading for the door with a pat to Watson’s shoulder as he passes. Were the doctor to take a moment to consider the way that is phrased, he would notice the finality of the statement, as though that thing they must determine is the very last piece of a puzzle.
But Holmes does not pause to let Watson think about it; rather, he continues out the door, setting a quick pace as he always does when he is in the midst of an investigation. “To Scotland Yard with all haste.”
Watson hurries after Holmes, exactly as the detective had known he would, not taking the time to consider that statement but simply catching up and then concentrating on the journey to Scotland Yard, which at nearly two miles isn't a short walk. But they make it in only a little more than half of an hour, Holmes pounding loudly on the front doors until a bewildered constable opens it to ask what rubbish they're on about.
They're let in some ten minutes later, when Clarkey comes down to meet them, and Holmes makes for the morgue without delay, not waiting for Watson nor the curious Clarkey. Watson trails after, frowning at his friend's back. "You don't think Miss Winstone is dead?" he asks in a low voice once they reach the basement.
“Not yet, no,” Holmes mumbles, clearly only partially paying attention to Watson. Of course he has no way of knowing that for certain, yet, as her captors could be murdering her at this moment, but the odds are in their favor... right now. They won’t remain so if they take their sweet time; Holmes knows that there will be no guarantee after tonight that she will remain alive, if she still is.
But no, Miss Winstone is not the body he is looking for. And he certainly is looking for a body, because as soon as he dashes into the morgue, Holmes begins an almost frantic search through the bodies, not pausing to let the overpowering smell of decaying flesh bother him at all. Rather, he begins moving around the cold room, stopping at each body to pull the sheet off of the deceased, peer at the dead man or woman for a moment, frown and mutter to himself, and at last move on to the next without regard for the dignity of either living or deceased.
Finally, though, after this has gone on for some minutes (with both Clarkey and Watson watching him, not certain if they should help or try to make him stop), Holmes pulls the sheet partially off of one body, stares down at the dead man before him, and then pulls the sheet entirely off of him to inspect the rest of his body. Clearly he has found what he was looking for, because if that didn’t make his discovery obvious, his eyes lighting on the knife wound to the man’s gut a moment later does.
Or at least it does when he demands, “How long has this man been dead and why did no one think it might be significant?”
Clarkey only looks more puzzled at that demand, while Watson reaches Holmes and places a handkerchief over his nose, leaning down to note the coal dust on the corpse's hands and shirt. "Coal ash," he says, startled. "Yaxley's friend." He straightens, peering over at Holmes. "How did you know he was dead?"
The constable is terribly confused by this point. "Anton Briggs, sir. His wife found him dead in the alley outside his house just this morning. And you're right, doctor; he worked at Paddington as an engineer." He removes his helmet, rubbing at his fair hair. "And it's significant enough, sir, the Inspector put Athelney Jones on the case."
That provokes a snort from Watson; when he had accompanied Holmes in the pursuit of the Great Agra Treasure several years ago, their second investigation in fact, Jones had done nothing but hamper their efforts, bluster about a great deal and arrest innocent men, and then claim the glory for the true arrest in its entirety when in fact Holmes had orchestrated the entire thing. "Christ, not that buffoon again."
By this point, Holmes looks somewhere between ready to hit someone or laugh; in the end he settles on scowling at Clarkey, and then at the corpse in front of them, mumbling something about the incompetency that Scotland Yard houses and perpetuates. Found dead this morning. Winstone could be hours dead by now. This morning!
Struggling with the desire to shake Clarkey and demand someone answer for this ineptitude- even though he knows this is not the man’s fault- Holmes finally shakes his head, looking up at Watson, who he recalls had asked him a question. “I didn’t,” he explains. This is the truth; Holmes hadn’t known whether he was dead or not, only that it was likely that he would be, and soon. “But now that we know he is deceased, time is undoubtedly growing short.” Miss Winstone’s life... and possibly several others... depend upon speed.
Now he turns to Clarkey. “There are two young people whose lives are in danger,” he says shortly. “They absolutely must be guarded for the next few hours.” Clarkey nods, taking down the addresses of the hospital Yaxley is currently in... and the flat the Winstone cousins live in.
“But more than that,” Holmes says before Clarkey can leave to deal with this, “I believe I know the location of a kidnapped girl, and would greatly appreciate the assistance of Scotland Yard’s finest to apprehend her kidnappers and the murderers of this man.”
Startled despite knowing that, after his long acquaintance with Sherlock Holmes, he really should not be surprised by anything the man suddenly announces, Clarkey nods. "Right away, sir. I'll inform the Inspector and we'll leave at once." He turns, hurrying out of the room as quickly as he can and leaving Watson to stare over at Holmes.
"So you'll be gloating once we're there, I assume," he says dryly. Holmes just raises his brows for a brief second's innocent smile and, glancing at the open doorway, leans over to pat Watson's cheek and then kiss him before sprinting off after Clarkey. Watson is left standing there for a moment in shock before he gathers his wits enough to take off after Holmes, reaching the front courtyard just as constables are piling into two Maria's, Lestrade already berating Holmes for not informing him of all of this before just now.
Silent and wide-eyed, Watson climbs into the Maria after Lestrade, ending up across from Holmes, still too in shock at that blatant public... dear Lord... to even check over his service revolver, as he usually does when heading into a likely confrontation. When he glances up, Holmes is staring at him, vague amusement hidden in his brown eyes, and Watson's blue ones narrow in turn. There will be retribution for that.
Later, though. It needs must be later.
“Think of it as saving you the trouble,” Holmes says, suddenly cutting off Lestrade, who had been on a bit of a tirade about Holmes never informing him of these things ahead of time and who does he think he is and etcetera, no one is actually listening, least of all Holmes. Who manages to somehow look more amused by Watson’s narrowing his eyes, and yet Holmes does not smile. A smile would probably go unnoticed by everyone but Watson- or at least ignored, as Holmes can often get away with unexplained bursts of amusement- but he is focused right now on the specifics of the case.
And Lestrade has now progressed into glowering, although his indignant sputtering died off after Holmes had told him that he didn’t want to “interrupt the processes of the Yard’s greatest minds," to be replaced by some mild confusion as to whether or not that was intended as an insult.
He hasn't figured it out by the time they make it to the address Holmes had specified, which turns out to be... the home of Miss Caroline Baker.
At this point, Lestrade turns to Holmes, demanding an explanation. "You believe there is a girl being held here against her will?" he asks, and Holmes nods. Lestrade looks over at the house. "Where?"
Holmes blinks back at him. "I haven't the slightest," he says, as though that should be obvious. "If you'll give me a minute or two to investigate while you prepare your men, I'm sure I'll discover her whereabouts, however." Preferably without the... help of Scotland Yard.
Clearing his throat quietly, Watson follows Holmes out of the Maria; they're around the corner and so not visible, and he glances over at the other man once they're far enough away. "I'll have my revenge later," he growls almost inaudibly. "What the hell were you thinking, you idiot, in Scotland Yard--"
But he's forced to cut himself off as they walk right up the front step and Holmes rings the bell. A moment later, a man in a poorly-made suit answers the door, blinking at them.
"Mr. West and Mr. Abbey of the Dispatch to see Miss Baker, sir," Watson says immediately, adopting a charming smile. "We had a few questions for her, to follow up our interview of this morning." He glances over at Holmes, and his smile becomes slightly vicious, although only someone who knew him well (such as the man standing next to him) would recognize the malice. "Mr. Abbey is quite... eager to see Miss Baker again, you see, and so I pray she forgives our intrusion. The man has been unbearable all day, unable to think of anything but her."
"It's true," Holmes says, eyes immediately wide and just barely this side of love-stricken idiocy. He doesn't glance over at Watson, but he sees the vicious look on the other man's face anyway. This would bother Holmes more if he didn't recall Watson's fit of jealous rage when Holmes had been speaking to (flirting with) Miss Baker that morning.
The man- who is undoubtedly supposed to be some approximation of a butler- looks skeptical, but after a moment allows them entrance. They step inside, being led quickly to a sitting room before the man leaves with assurances that he will alert Miss Baker to their presence. Watson nods politely; Holmes is staring about the room, sure to keep the ridiculous look on his face even while the look in his eyes is sharp.
Sitting room. They wouldn't keep her near this room, but there are things to be noted. Two glasses, made use of earlier in the night. The floor recently swept, as it had been in the foyer. To remove the coal ash, he's certain, when he spies a dark spot on a nearby chair. Mr. Yaxley's friend was in this room; since then, the floors have been swept and the glasses used for another guest.
Watson has just enough time to notice the same and wonder if he should ask Holmes if they'd killed Briggs here when Caroline Baker sweeps into the room, already dressed in a low-cut gown and wearing facepaint. "Mr. Abbey!" she exclaims, all charm and pleasure, stepping forward to offer both of her hands to Holmes, who bends to kiss them. Watson bows slightly as well, polite despite his burning dislike of this conniving woman (now a kidnapper and murderess, as well).
"I didn't see either of you at the performance this evening!" She looks terribly distraught, suddenly. "I am glad to see you, though. Bruce, will you open the brandy? It's a wonderful vintage," she confides to them as the large man in the suit glowers and pops open a bottle of brandy merely with his hands. To her credit, Miss Baker displays no nervousness whatsoever.
Not even attempting to field any questions about the performance, though, Watson waits for Holmes. This one is up to him, being the lovesick one, of course.
"Miss Baker, I beg your forgiveness," Holmes begins, wearing suddenly the most heart-wrenchingly pitiful expression a man could wear, an expression Watson has seen on occasion himself, although never quite so pronounced. Holmes often wears it to get his way, because he knows that it works.
"We were indeed present to witness you in all your glory- not a soul in the world could have kept me from your performance tonight. But afterward, I was informed that our story had to take precedence over... congratulating you." His expression is still terribly pitiful, even as he is clearly blaming Watson; his eyes beg her forgiveness better than any excuses ever could. Holmes knows quite well what he is doing, although it may not appear that way.
And a moment later, he is proven right yet again, because this technique clearly works on Miss Baker as well as it seems to work on everyone he's ever tried it on. She takes one look at his enormous brown eyes and immediately forgives him. "Mr. Abbey, of course you have my forgiveness," she says. "I understand how important the work you do is."
Holmes beams at the praise; Watson has to swallow a grimace, and wonders how on earth they're meant to discover anything in this place with the woman sitting right there. Not The Woman, however, which is something to be thankful for. He's certain Holmes can outwit one evil bitch of an actress.
Well, if Holmes does get himself invited into her boudoir, as it were, he supposes that would give him a chance to bean this Bruce fellow and free the girl. There might be an easier way, of course. But that does seem the surest, much as it disgusts him; Holmes has gone further in the pursuit of cases and Watson knows it, but that doesn't mean he has to like it.
"Please forgive me my insistence on completing our work," he says smoothly. "Fortunately for Mr. Abbey's wish to see you, however, that work has brought us to your doorstep."
Miss Baker practically purrs, shifting a bit farther back onto the couch and managing, with the tiniest and nearly unnoticeable shift in her weight, to accentuate her bosom, which is already very obviously displayed in her bodice. "Well," she says quietly, the greed visible in her eyes as well as an obvious attempt on seduction that is very focused on Holmes. "I should be grateful for your efforts."
Clearing his throat, Watson stands, exchanging a brief glance with Holmes as Miss Baker glances down and smoothes her skirts. "Miss, if I might impose upon you to use your lavatory--"
"Of course. Bruce?" She dismisses Watson with a wave of her hand, and then stands herself, holding out a hand for Holmes as Watson steps into the hallway after the larger man. "Mr. Abbey. I would be happy to give you anything you need--perhaps we would be more comfortable upstairs?" Her smile is wicked, and Watson glances over his shoulder to see Holmes take her hand without even a pause.
Steaming inwardly, the doctor forces a composed expression back onto her face as Bruce leads him farther back into the house. Miss Winstone could be anywhere down here, in the basement, in a closet... but first, he needs to get rid of Bruce.
Dear Miss Baker leads Holmes out of the room and up a set of stairs slowly, turning to look at him every once in awhile and giving him a catlike grin that Holmes knows should probably have him week-kneed with anticipation. Most men would be. Sherlock Holmes, however, is taking stock of everything they pass, sharp eyes catching every detail with lightening speed as he lets himself be pulled up the stairs. He is assessing her movements, her words, her dress, determining all of the places she could hide a firearm or other weapon, calculating how long it would take Watson to dispose of Bruce, how many other inhabitants there must be in this household and how likely they are to intrude upon Miss Baker when she has a... guest.
They reach the top of the stairs and turn a corner and suddenly they're kissing; Holmes is certain he had something to do with that because he has her against a wall, but she has her arm on his shirt, she pulled him into her. Her eyes close and Holmes' pop open, eyeing the doors in the hall, the furniture, everything, careful to keep from pressing up against her because that would give his disinterest away.
A distant second to his other considerations, Holmes considers their kissing, her arms about his neck, all logic and evaluation of the events, completely detached. She is enjoying herself, not acting- there are physical reactions one cannot fake- but Holmes is no more seduced than if he'd been kissing a portrait or a chair. Certainly he appreciates her form, had appreciated the view he'd had of it that morning, but there's nothing interesting about her. And so, disinterested, his mind continues on to other matters, the way it always does... the way it didn't with Watson, and before that, to a lesser degree, the Woman. Holmes has observed that other, less logical people's minds are clouded by activities of this nature, but had never observed the phenomenon in himself.
Not until the night before. If he had had time to mull over that, to focus on it, Holmes might be shaken by the idea, to be truthful. He's spent a great deal of time and effort in his life attempting to quiet his mind, with minimal success. But then a few minutes with Watson, and Holmes could barely remember his own name. To a man whose mind is his greatest and worst asset, the idea that someone else might have that much control over him... is frightening. But also horribly fascinating. Irresistible. Amazing.
He is still thinking on this when Miss Baker pulls back, smiling lazily up at him. "In a hurry, Mr. Abbey?" she purrs, then chastises him with a pout. "I'm not some simple chamber maid, to be taken in a hallway."
Holmes smiles back at her, eyes widening in feigned innocence. Well, feigned feigned innocence, if one wants to be technical. "Miss Baker," he says, lowering his voice in a calculated show of arousal. "I have every intention of spending every bit as much time on you as you deserve."
The catlike smile returns, and the actress takes his hand, pulling him to a nearby door; her bedroom, Holmes sees when she pushes open the door. A quick glance reveals an attached powder room, and an equally quick calculation proves without a doubt that this powder room has another door, the one next to her bedroom's in the hallway. A plan forms lightening-fast in Holmes' mind as he is literally dragged by his shirt into the room, the door shut behind him.
She has his coat off before he knows what is going on; Holmes makes quick work of the laces on her bodice after some effort on both of their parts to begin the removal of her clothes. But then, before things can progress any further (and in fact have progressed just far enough that she could not leave the room without taking the time to right her clothes), Holmes pulls away with a sly grin of his own. "Stay exactly as you are," he insists, voice still low, breathing hard. "I'll be right back."
And then he turns, dashing into the adjoining room and shutting the door behind him. As soon as the door is shut, however, the haste of a man in the throws of lust immediately turns into the haste of a man completely absorbed in a plan, his breathing evening and quieting as though a switch was turned on. Holmes locks the door to the bedroom behind him and listens, ear to the door into the hallway for a moment before quietly opening it and shutting it behind himself. Thirty seconds later, the key he'd stolen from her bodice quietly locks both doors and a nearby chair is placed in front of the powder room door, along with a chaise from the other side of the hallway guarding the door to Miss Baker's room.
Dropping the key into his pocket (and not noticing his lack of a coat), Holmes takes off at a controlled dash down the hallway and then the stairs. Time to find Watson, and then Miss Winstone.
On the ground floor, Watson trails behind Bruce until the man reaches what is clearly the lavatory; very casually, he lifts his walking stick like a cricket bat and hits the man on the temple with a loud crack.
Bruce drops to the wooden floor like a stone, hitting with a thump, and Watson immediately reaches down, dragging the man's dead weight into the lavatory and locking the door, shoving a chair beneath the handle so it can't be opened. It's enough time for Holmes to reach the ground floor again, though, because Watson straightens to see him coming... clad in only his shirtsleeves, and with red lip paint on his neck and all around his mouth.
Jaw tightening, Watson looks away very deliberately, staring around. Miss Winstone is the priority. No matter that he can't tell, what with how baggy Holmes' trousers are, whether or not the other man had enjoyed himself. He's certain nothing had been finished between Holmes and the actress, at least, since it had only been less than a few minutes, but still... well. To say that he's jealous, even though Holmes had clearly been doing it as an act, would be putting it mildly, but he doesn't say a word about it beyond a brief phrase in a low murmur.
"You've got lip rouge." He touches his mouth, turning to stalk off down the hallway. "Where do you think they have her?"
Not having been concerned in the least about where the woman had been putting her mouth while he was trying to dispose of her without hurting her (she is a woman, after all), Holmes pauses when Watson indicates that he has rouge on him. He spends a brief moment using his shirtsleeve to wipe at his face before deciding that he doesn't care enough to worry about it until Miss Winstone is found. It's only a matter of time before either of the people they'd incapacitated appears... or worse, someone else.
"A basement room, most likely," Holmes mutters back to Watson, spotting the way the other man purposefully doesn't look at him, the way his jaw is clenched, and for a brief moment finds himself in the uncommon position of feeling rather poorly about what he'd done. Of course, this lasts all of a second before Holmes' mind moves on to other things, assessing the rooms around them.
"Or a secret room," he mumbles, "somewhere in the middle of the house, else the neighbors would be able to hear her shouting. Hurry," he says, beginning to duck into a room to check it, but then pauses. "There should be another man about soon if he isn't already. Bruce is not her accomplice."
"The second man from the Kingsway," Watson mutters back, understanding immediately. He nods, slipping into a second room to check it, but they both come up empty. The result is the same for the remainder of their search on the ground floor, and Watson finally decides that they must try the basement. In agreement, the two men head back towards the kitchen... and then they freeze as they hear heavy boots coming up the stairs, followed by the creak of a door... and a confused voice swearing, having noticed the chair in front of the bathroom door.
There's no French accent nor a green jacket, but Watson has no trouble recognizing the man now in the kitchen from his vantage point, hidden in the hall. Baudin. Somehow, he is entirely unsurprised. Signaling Holmes, he points, and the detective nods his agreement, disappearing into the connected parlor to come upon the man from behind as Watson steps out into the hallway, wearing a welcoming smile and twirling his walking stick in a relaxed manner.
"Monsieur Baudin," he says in a friendly sort of way, intending to disarm the man with his calm. He smiles. "Here to celebrate the fine success of tonight's programme?"
It takes a clearly confused and highly suspicious Mr. Baudin a moment of staring at Watson to recognize him as one of the journalists from that morning; they had never given introductions to Baudin, and so he has no name to give the face and yet recognizes him all the same. The recognition hits his face even as he is beginning to come towards Watson, taking slow steps with the intent of reaching him without causing a fuss.
But no one there is fooled as to his true intent, even as he speaks in forced congeniality to the doctor. "You," he begins, faltering, and not bothering to pick up his accent, because he assumes that in a minute it won't matter. "You must forgive me, I wasn't expecti-"
He's cut off with a grunt and a choking sound, as from behind Holmes bursts out of adjoining parlor and literally jumps onto the much larger man's back, wrapping his arm around the larger man's neck to cut off his air supply while he wraps his legs around the man's torso to keep himself from being flung off.
"Taxmen," Holmes manages to gasp to the flailing man as he holds on for dear life, "are soon to be the least of your problems, Monsieur Baudin."
Baudin flails about, choked and unable to even gasp for air, and Watson ducks beneath the flailing hands, swinging his leg back and, with no masculine sympathy whatsoever, kicks the man hard in the groin. This is followed by a sharp rap to the man's temple (notably not on the side where Holmes' head is also currently located), and Baudin drops to the floor, senseless, with Holmes beneath him.
Moving forward with alacrity, Watson helps roll the large man (not so quite as large as Dredger, thank the Lord) off of Holmes' lower half, and they charge down into the dark basement, which is lit only by a small gas lamp. Its corners are shadowed, Watson glances at Holmes, who looks nearly sinister in the dim light, his eyes like black pits. He can only hear one person breathing.
"Miss Winstone?" he calls quietly.
Holmes shares a glance with Watson, but only briefly before beginning to search the place thoroughly for the missing girl. He can't hear her, either, but Holmes doesn't doubt that she's gagged and probably unconscious... at best. The worst... the worst might also be a reality, but either way she is down here.
They begin their search; neither man calls out for her after Watson's first attempt, preferring to remain quiet in order to listen intently to everything around them- necessary, since vision is highly impaired. It feels like it's been minutes, long minutes, to Holmes as he searches in the dark, his heartbeat fast (too fast) and aching from Baudin falling back on his already broken ribs, making it difficult to breathe again. But adrenaline keeps him running, adrenaline and the rush (mania) of a case nearing its end.
And then... his foot steps on something that is not the same as the stone floor around it, and Holmes' gaze snaps immediately down to the ground, his eyes trying to make out shapes in the darkness but unable. Frustrated, he half dives to the floor, reaching around blindly until he feels... wood. Wooden floor, no not the floor, a door. "Watson," he calls sharply, scrambling to find the handle he knows must be there and discovering it just as the other man appears next to him.
Watson brings the lamp with him, dropping down onto his knees and setting it down as he helps Holmes to lift up the large trapdoor. A hidden cellar, perhaps, for smuggling? This is an older house; it's entirely possible. But all he can think about now is that they must get within; there is a crash from the floor above them, and a great deal of male yelling.
"Lestrade grew impatient," he says unnecessarily as they manage to lift the heavy door, shoving it back so it lands on the stone floor with a bang. Holmes takes the lamp and starts down the brief set of stairs first, Watson on his heels as the boots of at least ten constables pound on the floorboards above them.
At first, he barely recognizes the pile of rags on the floor as a girl and not just some laundry, but the lamp glints on tangled hair, and he drops down next to her immediately. "Holmes, your knife." It's placed in his hand without delay, and he quickly cuts the gag and the cord binding her hands, rolling Miss Winstone carefully onto her back. Her eyes flicker woozily at him as he checks her temperature; too high.
"Miss Winstone," he says gently, "Harriet Winstone. I'm a doctor. You're going to be all right; we've brought the police to rescue you." She blinks owlishly at him, clearly only partially conscious and too dazed to realize what's going on, so he leans over her, quickly checking for injuries. Bruises and lesions are all he can see from a superficial inspection. Too many of those, but she seems, astoundingly, to be for the most part uninjured.
Save for the puncture marks on her forearm. She's obviously not Holmes, but he can't miss them anyway. "They've drugged her," he says in a low voice. "Morphine, I suspect. To keep her quiet." He touches her forehead. "And something to make her burn. She needs the hospital immediately."
Nodding, Holmes spends a moment eyeing her up and down himself before standing and hurrying back to the stairs. Lestrade and his men will have found Baudin, undoubtedly, probably Bruce, and no doubt Miss Baker will begin shouting from upstairs if she hasn't already. Yes, they must all be apprehended, but the girl is more important.
So Holmes climbs the stairs to the actual basement, taking the few stairs quickly, and then calls up for Lestrade. "The girl is down here!" he shouts, rather more loudly than he imagines is healthy considering how difficult it's been to breathe lately, but he doesn't mind particularly. Especially not when Lestrade and Clarkey appear and he directs them to the partially-hidden cellar.
Lestrade swears when he spots her; Clarkey immediately helps Watson lift her, and then the constable begins the process of carrying her up the stairs, leaving Lestrade with the two men below while Holmes looks around the rest of the room, wanting to be certain nothing is missed before Lestrade's men inevitably ruin the crime scene.
"Well?" Lestrade says after a moment, eyeing Holmes.
Holmes blinks at him. "Well?"
"Well," Lestrade repeats through gritted teeth, "isn't now the point where you tell me what the bloody hell is going on?"
"Oh," Holmes says. "Well, yes, if you insist."
"The short version," Lestrade begs, once again through clenched teeth.
Holmes blinks, considering that, and then marches on. Short version. "The actress Miss Baker who owns this house had been planning to murder her lover's- Lord Darnley's- wife. Miss Winstone discovered her plot, informed her fiance Mr. Yaxley, who in turn informed your recent corpse, Anton Briggs. Briggs then went to Baker and offered her this information, entering into a contract with the actress and her director, Mr. Baudin (who is upstairs currently), to remove the obstacle of Miss Winstone. Yaxley was stabbed in the process, and they brought Miss Winstone here, where they attempted to discover if she had told anyone else before killing her. Short enough?"
Lestrade blinks at him, taking a long time to process all of this, mainly because Holmes had been speaking so quickly that half of what he'd said had been borderline incomprehensible. "And how did you determine all of this?"
Holmes gives him a sideways look. "You asked for the short version, Inspector, it would take days to impart to you every observation and deduction that led to this conclusion even if you appreciated the logic. I assume you found Mr. Baudin and Bruce, but did your men take Miss Baker into custody? She should be locked in a room upstairs. I imagine she'll be shrieking about it any minute now."
Blinking, Lestrade shakes his head very slowly. "If you'll excuse me, Mr. Holmes, Doctor," he says politely, "I will locate her immediately." A kidnapper and attempted murderess. Well, it's not shocking; he really should have known, having been roused from dinner with his wife because Sherlock Holmes had arrived crowing about yet another solved investigation. He really shouldn't be surprised by these things anymore... he supposes he's lucky that his wife finds it all to be so amusing.
Left alone in the sub-cellar, Watson doesn't miss the difficulty Holmes has in breathing. "We're going to the hospital with them in the maria," he says shortly. "One of the Irregulars can bring word to Miss Winstone that her cousin is alive, and you, old boy, are going to have your ribs wrapped." Pause. He sighs. "Again."
He sees Holmes about to protest and scowls at the other man, his expression vaguely menacing in the lamplight. "Miss Baker, eh?"
Having been about to protest that his ribs are already wrapped, since Watson had not allowed him to remove the wrappings, Holmes instead shrinks a bit at the look on Watson's face, actually shutting his mouth (for a moment) and keeping his protest to himself. Now that they're left alone and things are finished... Holmes does recognize that his breathing is not as it should be. He would sigh if he wasn't slightly worried by the look on Watson's face.
"I suspected it might have been her from the beginning," Holmes admits neutrally; he's telling the truth. Otherwise, why would he have bothered pretending to be a journalist, when he would have been able to get much better, more straightforward answers about the whole matter as a detective?
That does not seem to be helping. Holmes isn't certain he's ever seen Watson look quite like that before; he doesn't quite know, at this particular moment, what to make of it. "Her career was failing. She was seeking another way to create stability for herself: Lord Darnley. He'll never know, but we saved Lady Darnley's life tonight."
Watson's jaw clenches. "I agree. Well done. Good show, old boy." His voice is tight, and he stares at Holmes, wondering if he should be shocked that Holmes had not grasped his meaning. Or had chosen to ignore it. He's not entirely certain which scenario would be worse.
Lady Darnley's life. They'd saved it, this evening. And the life of one innocent young woman, who will hopefully have a fiancé to wake up to, and vice versa. But Watson can't help but feel a familiar twisting in his gut, one that won't release no matter how desperately he tries to relax his abdominal muscles.
He has no cause to be angry. No right to feel jealousy. Shagging twice doesn't entail any sort of claim on anyone at all. He has no right to even begin to wonder if Miss Baker had done... things he'd been unable to do. It's true that they'd only been up there for a few minutes, but a few minutes was enough time for Holmes to clearly be kissing the other woman and to have lip rouge on his throat, as well.
Sure he can feel Watson's mood radiating from where he stands, a few steps away (or he would be if he believed in such nonsense), Holmes stares back at him for a moment before looking away, unable to meet the doctor's accusing eyes. He's angry. Holmes knows why he's angry, or at least thinks he can determine why Watson is angry, and yet is having a difficult time both coming to terms with it- because it is still hard for him to believe that Watson would care at all in that fashion, after years of surety that Watson would never come around- and determining what he should do about it.
Is he expected to do anything at all? This is the sort of area where Holmes has no expertise whatsoever, and he knows it and it shows clearly every time. He flails inexpertly around, trying to determine correct responses and each time falls short because he has so little practice in actually bothering to care what other people think or feel.
"Watson..." he begins after an uncomfortable moment, staring at his own feet and wondering why he began saying anything because he has no idea what he's going to say and now Watson is expecting him to say something. "Nothing came of it. I would never have... even if she had not been a murderess. I was distracting her... for the case..." He trails off, exceedingly uncomfortable and at a loss. It's always for the case, isn't it? That's his motive, always. Unfailingly, the case comes before everything else. He has no other defense than the simple truth of it.
Watson closes his eyes, rubbing his temples. "I know," he says quietly. "I'm sorry." Well, he's not sorry for being angry, but abruptly he's sorry for making Holmes feel guilty for something he shouldn't have to feel guilty about. He has no claim on Sherlock Holmes beyond that of friendship, really. By his own definition, their new... arrangement, such as it is, is almost exactly alike to their friendship of the past seven years,
They've not said a word about things changing, about not pursuing any other activities with other people. And even if they had, Watson could never blame the man when he did something while working on a case. So essentially, this entire issue he's trying to understand is moot, to put it flatly.
"Let's go," he says, nodding at the small ladder and taking the lamp from Holmes, not entirely certain that his friend is very steady on his feet at the moment.
Not certain at all that the matter is indeed over with that, Holmes nevertheless nods, accepting that and navigating carefully back up to the basement, and then the first floor. He always accepts it when Watson indicates that a serious matter is done with, never presses or argues even when he wonders if he should, because Holmes can absolutely not distinguish between when pressing an issue is necessary and when it would be inappropriate. This is true for all conversations and arguments, and shows daily in his inability to give in when it would be wise. But when the matter is important... he errs on the side of caution and keeps quiet, too afraid to do more damage.
And so they do go, Holmes uncommonly quiet as the police officers hurry about the place, destroying evidence as though their jobs didn't require it and looking for any more witnesses; they've already taken the three suspects (Bruce was taken as well as the other two) out of the house in chains.
By the time they reach the maria that will be taking Holmes to the hospital whether he likes it or not, Holmes is beginning to see why Watson is so insistent about him having his ribs wrapped again. His breathing, which had been returning to normal, is right back to where he started several days ago. Very annoying, to suddenly be aware and care about the healthy functioning of his body again. But he is, because the case is over and Watson is upset, the sort of upset that matters, not the sort he is when Holmes lights his things on fire or tricks him into giving in to his ludicrous demands. It's been two days, barely, and he's managed to upset Watson. If his ribs didn't hurt, Holmes would sink down into the seat.
And he does not remember until they are already three blocks away that his jacket is still in Miss Baker's room, forgotten.
Part Seventeen