Chapter Text
Seventeen. Sixteen. Fifteen.
Pause. Holmes tilts his head. Ah - Mrs Hudson saying farewell, no doubt.
Fourteen. Thirteen. Twelve.
In a mad scramble, he kicks his syringe off the side-table and under the settee whilst shoving the scatter of empty bottles of seven-per-cent solution beneath his chair. They number easily into the double digits, and he finds some perverse pleasure into keeping evidence of his weakness in constant view.
Eleven. Ten. Nine.
It has been a month and fourteen days since he last saw Watson. It was a Tuesday, as he recalls. No, a Wednesday. Yes, a Wednesday, for it was the day he broke the bow of his Stradivarius. A Wednesday, fair weather for moving. That night it had turned to rain.
Eight. He waits for it - and there it is, the tell-tale creak on the seventh stair. Predictability causes him to smile. It's pleasant to know things.
Six. Five. Four.
He takes up the paper. It rustles loudly as he opens it, and he leans back into a studied pose of relaxation.
Three. Two. One. Four shuffling steps. The turn of the handle.
Watson opens the door and Holmes pretends not to notice.
The good doctor clears his throat, and Holmes considers ignoring even that. "Oh, Watson, it's you." He turns an acidic smile on his erstwhile flatmate. "Is it time for my check-up already?"
Watson looks decidedly uncomfortable, shifting his weight from foot to foot and seeming confused by the marked lack of a tantrum on Holmes's part. He has every right to be nervous. A month, an entire month has passed, without so much as a word. This is not an irrational reaction, for Holmes simply does not do irrational. It would imply a lack of logic.
"Holmes," he says cheerfully. "How have you been?"
"Terribly ill. I almost died."
A gratifying crease appears between Watson's tidy brows as he steps closer. "Have you really?"
"For all you know, I have." Holmes sets aside the paper and picks up instead his violin. He begins plucking in tuneless agitation.
Exasperation replaces concern. Watson's face is absurdly easy to read. "Holmes, it's only been a month. You were perfectly aware I was moving. It isn't as if I deserted you."
"Have a seat, Watson. Tell me of your present state of affairs. Or are you so remarkably busy you must dash off again at once?"
Already Watson is pinching the bridge of his nose, and that isn't the reaction Holmes had hoped for at all. Watson isn't typically this easily provoked, but the signs are clear enough to read. Dark circles under the eyes. He hasn't been sleeping. He has, however, put on the slightest bit of weight; it isn't unflattering. Many meals with Mary, many evenings with Mary, many nights with Mary.
Holmes sets aside his violin. Music is distasteful.
"The practice is busy, as it so happens. Thank you for asking, in that rather roundabout fashion. And have you been keeping busy?"
"Of course." Holmes nudges the small mountain of empty glass vials further under his chair with his heel. That isn't the sort of occupation Watson would find acceptable. "The Glastonbury case - you read of it in the paper, I presume?"
"That was you? I wouldn't have thought you'd have been interested."
Petty robbery, easily solved. So easily the Yard had done it on their own. Holmes does not correct Watson's misconception.
"After all these years, I still manage to surprise you. How delightful. Will you be staying for luncheon, then? Shall I ring Nanny and have her send up--"
"No, actually," Watson interrupts, and Holmes can tell from the slant of his gaze that the next few words will be displeasing. "I'm meant to be lunching with Mary today. I only stopped by for a moment. There were some books I left in my room I find I have need of."
"I threw them away."
"What?" Watson's outrage is instant, and palpable. It is so nice to be able to provoke a reaction.
"Watson, please, be reasonable. You had left, perhaps with no intention of ever returning--"
"Holmes, you cannot possibly believe I would never return--"
"And with these rooms being as expensive as they are, and the criminal element of London decidedly lacklustre as of late, who knows how I might foot the bill? I might have needed to take on another lodger. Honestly, Watson, it was rather inconsiderate of you, leaving your belongings about."
(The belongings left behind comprise: three yellow-back novels; an old rugby ball; five books of practical medical knowledge; a spare bag of medical supplies; a collection of newspaper clippings; one pair of boots, too small; a waistcoat, now in Holmes' wardrobe; a shirt, now ridiculously wrinkled, crumpled beneath Holmes' pillow.)
The vein in Watson's forehead has made an abrupt appearance, and Holmes wonders how he manages so easily to provoke such a state of ire in his friend these days. It really is staggering.
"You, take on another lodger. As if anyone would be demented enough to share a room with you."
"You were."
"Luckily I came to my senses!" Watson bellows, exiting the room in high colour.
Holmes drags a hand over his face. "Watson, don't be hasty," he calls, rising to follow. How the doctor could be idiotic enough to think that Holmes could possibly have been so careless as to bin his belongings is beyond him.
Watson slams the door to his room, evidently displeased upon finding it empty. Of course Holmes couldn't leave all his things lying about, the few scant articles somehow making the entire apartment feel deserted.
"Watson," he murmurs, tone apologetic.
"Holmes, really, how could you?" There is such a look of exasperation and weariness on Watson's face that it is nearly unbearable to hold. Holmes' lips twitch. He has lost his hold on Watson entirely.
"I didn't. There." He indicates the wardrobe in the corner, in which Watson's belongings - apart from his shirt and waistcoat - are neatly packed. He watches as Watson crosses to the wardrobe, relief evident in the curve of his shoulders. Holmes wants to tell him he couldn't have, but he doesn't. He isn't fond of wasting words.
Watson clears his throat after taking up the books and straightens, stands awkwardly. "May I leave the others for now?"
"As long as you like," Holmes replies immediately. "Watson, surely you must know you are always welcome here."
"You have made it abundantly clear," comes the muttered reply.
Holmes squeezes his eyes shut as Watson brushes past. Thinks of things he could say, things he could do. None of them would help. "You're leaving already?" he asks, catching up with Watson in the sitting room.
"I thought I might stay, but is there any point? You will only continue to be absolutely, intolerably, insufferably opposed to my impending marriage, though why you should be so set against my future happiness is truly puzzling, I must confess."
Is that what he thinks? Fascinating. Untrue, but fascinating. "I am not opposed to your happiness, Watson. Merely your marriage." He retrieves the box of cigars from the coal scuttle and passes one to Watson, motioning him into his chair. It is still Watson's chair. Holmes only last week shooed a client out of it at the cost of a case.
Though Watson accepts, he seems somewhat surprised at having done so. He sinks into his chair and Holmes feels a knot in his chest loosen some small degree. "I cannot for the life of me think why you should dislike Mary so."
Holmes lights his cigar. Watson really is terribly unobservant at times. "It isn't that I dislike her - though I do. Women are not to be trusted, Watson, not the best of them. They are emotional, unpredictable, and --"
"And not so dissimilar to yourself," says Watson, lips quirking into something like a smile. He has exhaled his anger in transparent blue puffs. The smoke curls around his head like a halo and he seems relaxed, even amused. Holmes feels himself follow suit.
"Watson," he says gravely, "I do hope you're not attempting to tell me that I'm pretty."
Watson laughs, fully and unexpectedly, and it is the most glorious sound Holmes has heard in one month and fourteen days. His attention is pulled away the precise moment the laugh turns from something loud and involuntarily to a throaty, appreciative chuckle. Footsteps on the stairs. He begins his count.
"We have visitors, Watson. Two of them. Women, unless I am mistaken, and one of them is wearing either new shoes or very uncomfortable old ones. You'll do me the honour of listening in on the consultation, surely?" He allows himself to express on his face the uncertainty he feels. Watson will appreciate it, he thinks.
Or he could be mistaken. Watson looks away. "Holmes, we've been through this."
"One last case. For old time’s sake."
"We've had our last case. The Lord Blackwood case. It wouldn't be right, rushing into fistfights or gunfights or who knows what all else and leaving Mary at home to worry. I'm a doctor, Holmes, not-- not whatever you think I am."
"I thought merely that you were my friend, Watson. If I am mistaken..." He realises he's probably attempting to draw guilt rather too strongly, but it is somehow more acceptable to admit the truth when one can rest assured it will be written off as histrionics.
Watson's level look tells him he's pushing the boundaries of the doctor's good humour. It seems appropriate to offer a suitable rebuttal: Holmes says nothing, only gives Watson the earnest and very sincere look of pleading that has proved so very useful in the past.
With a sigh, Watson relents. "All right. I'll stay long enough to hear their story. Then I really must go."
Holmes continues to gaze, nodding in understanding.
"I mean it, Holmes. I really do," Watson protests, but the corners of his lips are threatening to tilt upward.
"And I wouldn't dream of imposing," says Holmes.
Watson snorts.
• • •
“Pray, start at the beginning. Omit nothing.”
“It’s awful,” says the lady introduced as Mrs Anna Sullivan. She is short and round all over, from the kind, plump face to the fullness of her figure. Her hair falls in golden ringlets over her splotchy red cheeks. She has been crying, and still is. Her green frock speaks of money in the same subtle manner her red-rimmed eyes speak of tragedy. Holmes does not get a good look at her shoes, but can infer from the state of the bottom of both women’s dresses that they arrived in a carriage. “There was— was a shot—” she begins tremulously, before Mrs Nora Winscott interrupts.
“Perhaps I had best tell this story. Mrs Sullivan tends to blather on the best of days. Charles Winscott, Mr Holmes, is my husband. Her brother. And it would seem he has gone missing.” The venomous look shot in Mrs Sullivan’s direction by Mrs Winscott is not lost.
Like her companion, Mrs Nora Winscott’s appearance speaks of class and money. Yet there is a sharpness to her appearance, from the angular features of her face to the thin rigidity of her posture. Her eyes show no sign of tears, merely shrewdness. She does much writing; it is evident from her sleeve. Right-handed.
“Mr Winscott had retired to his study—” she continues.
“When?” asks Holmes.
“Just past one, it must have been. We had just taken luncheon. Perhaps an hour later, there came a crash from his bedroom. I thought he had simply knocked something over, so we paid no mind. But then, several minutes after that, there was a gunshot. It was frightening, I am sure you can understand, as my husband owns no firearms. So we fetched a manservant then hastened to the room, only to find no one there. Not even Mr Winscott. The grounds were searched and all the rooms, but there was no sign of him.” She speaks clearly and seems more puzzled than distraught.
“Did you notice anything of interest in the room? The source of the crash, perhaps?”
“Oh, yes - he had broken a vase. But there was nothing else. Nothing.”
“I should like a look myself,” says Holmes, rising. “You have a carriage waiting, do you not?”
Mrs Sullivan looks faintly surprised, marking the first time since her entrance that Holmes has seen her look anything but near sobbing. It is a marked improvement.
“Why, yes, how did you —”
“I heard it arrive.” The look of astonishment falls from her face; clearly, she is thinking Oh, of course.
(Next time, he vows, his reply will be, “It’s magic.”)
Watson, he notices, has risen from his chair and is inching toward the door. When caught, he looks guilty.
“Watson?”
“Holmes, I’ve told you—” he begins with a sigh.
“Now see here, these women need comforting!" Holmes says with great indignation. "Look how distressed they are. As you said yourself, you are a doctor. Is it not your profession - nay, your very life's work - to ease suffering wherever you may find it?"
“Holmes, really…” Watson’s eyes dart to the women, still on the settee.
“Watson, I fail to see how you can be so selfish in the face of such desolation,” he proclaims, extending his hand toward the tremulous Mrs Sullivan. “This poor chap may never be found without your assistance. Lost forever! Is that a risk you’re willing to take?”
Mrs Sullivan begins sobbing. Watson glares at Holmes but has his handkerchief out.
Holmes turns to fetch his hat and cane, trying not to hum. It is then he catches Mrs Winscott regarding Watson rather appraisingly, and he finds himself clenching his jaw. As he brushes past, he leans in to whisper, “He’s engaged. Very. I wouldn’t bother.”
“Why, I never—”
“Shall we?” he interrupts brightly, then attempts to tone down his pleasure at the disapproving look he receives from Watson. Smiling when presented with a case generally isn’t the best of reactions - how often he forgets. Holmes gives Watson an apologetic smile, raking a hand through his hair. They aren’t out the door yet; best not to push his luck. The four set off: Watson exasperated, Mrs Sullivan still prettily weeping, Mrs Winscott perturbed, Holmes euphoric.
There is a potential murder to investigate. The regular police are not yet involved. A carriage is waiting to speed them away. And in the end, Watson caves.
Every day should be so grand.
• • •
The door to Charles Winscott’s bedroom is opened. Immediately, Watson sneezes. Dust, glorious dust, has settled in a thin layer on the surfaces of tables and a wooden wardrobe, has collected in notched grooves on the posts of the elaborately carved bed, is even now swimming in the breeze before the window and dancing in the light, and - better yet - covering the grainy floorboards.
“Your housekeeper is atrocious,” says Holmes. “Kindly give her my regards.”
“Mr Winscott prefers his room remain untouched,” Mrs Winscott informs him rather coldly.
“Mr Holmes meant no offence,” Watson assures her. “What he lacks in civility he makes up for in results. It is my professional opinion he was dropped on his head as a child and has been rendered thus. Please, pay him no mind.”
Holmes steps in and throws his arm out when the ladies attempt to follow. A sharp noise of protestation escapes his throat, as if he were scolding a dog. They have been in here already; he can tell by their tracks. Now it's his turn.
He leaves Watson to make excuses for his behaviour and drops to the floor, peering closer. Narrow boots shuffled around the door: the valet. Flocked by dainty boots: the women. A small, expensive set of boots - which, he quickly realises - match perfectly the soles of those sitting by the end of the bed. Barefoot steps around the bed only, the same size.
And another set of steps. Quite large. He traces them backwards, from the bed to the window. Atop the sideboard, beside a fallen and broken vase and just beneath the open window, there remains the perfect outline of a boot. "Watson."
Watson is by him in an instant. "What have you found?"
"Do you recognise this?" he asks, indicating the style of tread. "Your notebook," he says, extending his hand, not bothering to wait for a reply.
He quickly sketches the shape and pattern, then snaps the book shut and passes it to Watson. It is not known to him. Something to learn. And yet. He follows the steps with his eyes - back to the bed, then...
"Where has the rug gone?" he asks.
"What?" Mrs Sullivan walks around the edge of the bed; Holmes does not bother being annoyed by her entrance. "Oh! The rug is missing!"
“Yes, how very observant. I take it you did not yourselves move it, then.” There is upon the floor a sharp outline in the shape of a rectangle which, as it leads away from the bed, blurs into into smudged indiscernibilty. The large footsteps appear sporadically around the clean streak which cuts from those two sharp corners to the wardrobe. Holmes follows, shadowing the footsteps with his own. It becomes apparent their maker was staggering as he walked.
He flings open the doors to the wardrobe. A surprising lack of garments are stored within, the sizes of which indicates a short but rather wide owner. “Where did your husband keep the rest of his clothing, Mrs Winscott?”
“It’s all there. He never paid much mind to what he was wearing.”
“Is it then likely he would possess a shirt stained with some small amount of blood?” Holmes enquires, glancing over his shoulder.
The wide-eyed look of Mrs Winscott is enough of a reply. Not likely, then. Several drops stain the wardrobe’s bottom, dried but still tacky to the touch. Holmes stands back for a moment, simply surveying the monstrous piece of furniture - hulking and ominous, looking as if it were carved whole from a tree trunk. Abruptly, he climbs in and shuts the door.
He sees but ignores rather baffled looks the women are giving him as he hops out and crosses back to the bed. There is a large indentation in the centre of the mattress.
“And where do you sleep, Mrs Winscott?”
An indignant huff preludes her speech. “I fail to see how that is any of your concern, Mr Holmes.”
“I see. And is Mr Winscott fond of sleeping in the day time?”
“Never,” Mrs Sullivan says. “Even as a child, Charles wasn’t one for naps. ‘There’s too much to do for me to be sleeping,’ he’d say, though all he ever seemed to be doing was going through those strange books of his.”
“Strange books?” asks Watson.
The counterpane is wrinkled as if it has been stretched toward the window. Holmes’ hand roams lightly over the surface, over the intricate stitching, coming to rest at what would seem nothing more than an insignificant hole, fairly lost in the design, were it not for the dark, damp patch surrounding it. The stain streaks along with the creases, as if reaching toward the window, and is lost.
Mrs Sullivan is engaged in a lengthy and poetic discourse on the subject of the aforementioned ‘strange books,’ their topics spanning from astronomy and chemistry to engineering and architecture. Holmes interrupts. “Who should want to harm Mr Winscott? Are either of you aware of enemies he might have had?”
Mrs Sullivan seems astonished by the question, appalled that he should even think Mr Winscott capable of instilling anything but love and awe in those with whom he was acquainted.
“Is this Mr Winscott’s pocket-watch?” He holds aloft the object in question, its gleaming gold surface seemingly unmarred by either scratch nor scrape.
“It is! But what on earth could it be doing there? Charles never leaves it, never even takes it off during the day time,” says Mrs Sullivan, working herself into a minor panic.
Holmes looks to Mrs Winscott for confirmation; she nods. “He winds it before sleep, unfailingly. That is the only time in all the years I’ve known him that he has removed it during the day.”
“Watson, tell me what you think.” Holmes hands the watch to him before sinking to his knees and peering about beneath the bed. “And a light, if you would be so kind.” A lit candle is passed to him momentarily, though by its light he can see nothing but an even greater accumulation of dust.
“This is remarkable,” murmurs Watson, turning the watch over in his hands. “It looks never to have even been used. I think I can infer nothing from it, Holmes”
“On the contrary, I think that should say a great deal. Only one other watch have I seen in such superb condition once being passed into circulation, and that is the watch which the Yard gifted me with last autumn, still in the box, somewhere in my study. This watch belonged to a careful man. Possibly too careful to go careening into furniture and knocking over vases.” He holds the watch to his ear and hears the steady ticking. Taking the key in hand, he winds it - less than two turns, for it will go no further. “Interesting,” he says, and sets it back where he found it.
“What have you discovered, Holmes?”
Holmes returns to the sideboard. He nudges the vase with his foot, pushing aside the bulk of the shattered remains, and places his hands flat on the sideboard. Solid. Easily strong enough to support one man’s weight. They room is on the first storey, some distance from the ground; he can see the garden, grass brittle with cold, through the open window.
“Watson, I wonder if you might be so kind as to assist me. It is an unlikely notion, but best to rule it out conclusively. Place your weight here.” Holmes leans forward, lifting himself off the balls of his feet and placing his weight almost entirely upon the table.
The warm weight of Watson behind him is a surprise, though it will no doubt serve his purposes better to have the weight centralised in such a manner, rather than having Watson to either side. Arms align with his and Watson pushes gently, bodily, into him as he bears down upon the table. The pressure is slight yet overwhelming; Holmes realises his eyes have closed only from the brilliant starburst behind them - and a faint cracking which he is certain has erupted from his own mind, for it is decidedly fractured. But no - the table. He comes back to himself, remembers to breathe. “That’s enough,” he says, hardly above a whisper.
Watson steps away, stealing back his warmth, and clears his throat.
Though his eyes are intent upon the surface of the sideboard and his hands ghost over it as if seeking some clue, Holmes finds himself shaken and unable to focus. With effort, he draws his concentration back. The polished tabletop gleams through the tracks in the dust: the now-smeared footprint, the blurred smears from his fingertips, the outline of Watson’s hands.
Watson. Watson, just behind him, warm and necessary and completely unnerving.
Holmes perceives his proximity too sharply now, as if Watson’s move to Cavendish Place and subsequent removal of his constant presence now makes contact with him all the more potent. Holmes turns these distilled sensations over in his mind as he had the watch with his hands, seeking answers to questions he has yet to formulate.
Even now, the impression persists. A pleasant apprehension that tightens his abdomen. The shudder that accompanied his harsh, involuntary inhalation. And when Watson places his hand upon Holmes’ wrist as if to steady him, asking if anything is amiss, a tingle spreads out from the top of his hand where fingertips kiss bare flesh - the prickle of gooseflesh. Shattered cognition. Thoughts eclipsed by sensation. By Watson.
The look Holmes shoots in the doctor’s direction is accusatory. Helpless. He jerks his hand away and turns his attention back to the bed, an aimless gesture that serves no purpose other than to give himself a moment to collect his thoughts. That he should need to do such a thing at all is frankly terrifying. He stares at the intricate pattern criss-crossing the fabric and rubs his face.
Sideboard. Sideboard. Sideboard. Footprint - yes. One man entered. None left, at least not by that route. Of course.
“I’d like to see outside,” he says.
• • •
The ground is too hard to have left any useful impressions, though it is evident someone was here. A trellis overgrown with winter-dead roses served as a ladder. Crushed blossoms mark the ascent. Holmes’ theory is confirmed: one man entered. There are incomplete footprints made by clotted dirt which match the one seen upon the sideboard.
Now he knows to look for it, he finds scattered dirt in the foyer. A footprint descending the stairs.
“Someone was here. Tall, as indicated by the length of his stride. Wearing some variety of heavy boots. Working class, I would surmise, as they are in shabby condition. The soles are quite worn. Where he is, I cannot yet say, but I imagine he knows what came to be of Mr Winscott.”
Mrs Winscott looks faintly nauseous.
“When can you find him?” asks Mrs Sullivan earnestly. “You will find him, won’t you?”
Holmes rubs the back of his head, too aware of Watson standing beside him on the landing, elbow brushing his casually. “To request I put a timetable on such a thing is to ask the impossible, Mrs Sullivan. As of yet I have little to go on. I assure you, however, I will find the body.”
At Mrs Sullivan’s horrified shriek, he realises what he has said and holds his hands up in a gesture meant to be soothing, but which he realises belatedly looks rather more like a sign of surrender. “That is, I will find your brother. Mr Winscott. Don’t listen to me, please - blood and the absence of a rug roughly the size of a man’s height is no indicator of--” His voice trails off. Three pairs of eyes are regarding him with varying degrees of horror. “I wonder, might I see his study?”
Watson is largely silent, though helpful, until they are ushered into the study. “Holmes,” he says quietly, leaning disconcertingly close as he speaks, “how long do you expect this might take?”
“Have I not just answered that question?”
Though Mrs Sullivan was sent off with a serving girl to rest her frayed nerves, Mrs Winscott remains behind to answer any questions. She watches them curiously. Her eyes seem drawn to Watson, more often than not, and there they tend to linger - a fact which sets Holmes' teeth inexplicably on edge.
“Searching here, I meant, as you very well know,” says Watson, unamused. “You will recall I have plans.”
“Not long. Be patient, my dear Watson. If you keep snapping your watch shut in such an agitated manner, you shall certainly break it.”
“Perhaps if I had no cause to be agitated,” Watson replies through gritted teeth, “I might find myself able to refrain. We have been at this nearly two hours, Holmes. What precisely do you expect to find here, might I ask?”
“In here? Very likely nothing,” murmurs Holmes, eyes roaming the bookshelves. Leather-bound volumes gleam in the dim light - a varied assortment indeed, as indicated earlier by Mrs Sullivan. Had Mr Winscott read half of them and understood them, Holmes has little doubt he would make an interesting conversationalist, if nothing else. He can see nothing that might provide motive for murder, however, and turns his attention to the desk.
“Then why, pray tell, are we here?” asks Watson, easing into the chair before the desk. At a glance Holmes can tell his leg is troubling him and feels a twinge of guilt. “Is this simply a further ploy to wreck my plans and, consequently, my life?”
Holmes will draw out the investigation long enough to give the doctor a chance to rest. The ruination of meal plans can hardly be helped. “You flatter yourself, Watson. I am merely doing my job.”
The ink well on the desk is nearly dry. A few papers litter the surface - correspondence of seemingly no importance. Winscott has recently placed a small order of copper wire. The drawers are locked. Holmes wonders if he might get Watson to distract Mrs Winscott long enough for him to utilise his lock pick, but there seems little hope in getting a chance to ask. She stands in the doorway, arms crossed, regarding him as one might a particularly irritating bluebottle.
Her impatience mirrors Watson’s own. Only a few minutes after their entry, she steps in, pulling the door closed behind her.
“Have you found anything, Mr Holmes?”
The world is intent on rushing him. “I have found a great many things, but none which seem to have any bearing on this particular case. Your husband is a businessman, you mentioned. What business?”
“Shipping, though he fancies himself an inventor. He’s gone so far as to purchase a warehouse so that he may store freight for clients and have a place to pursue his little experiments. Does that have any bearing on this particular case?”
Holmes ignores the barb and tugs again on the drawer handle. “And this drawer...?”
“Is locked. You came highly recommended, Mr Holmes, but I can see evidence of nothing more than my time being wasted. I should prefer it greatly if you would cease your nonsense and leave now.”
“Nonsense,” he repeats, brows rising. “Watson, did you hear that? Apparently, conducting an investigation is nonsense.”
“Holmes,” says Watson, and the warning look is almost enough.
Almost.
• • •
“I hope you’re happy,” says Watson in a tone which indicates he wishes anything but. His explosive exhalation of disgust is visible in the chill air, his hands are shoved in his pockets, his shoulders hunched. There is nothing soft or relaxed about him until he turns, glancing at Holmes in his periphery. “How’s your jaw?”
The Winscotts employ a cook of considerable height, even greater girth, and a rather ferocious left hook. As a gentleman, Holmes would not be drawn into fisticuffs with a woman. A most regrettable decision. He does not respond to the question, figuring the bruise to be reply enough.
Still, it is a most tricky little puzzle he has been shown. The earth crunches satisfyingly beneath his feet as they make their way off the grounds. “And your leg?”
Watson does not reply, either. The pronounced limp speaks for itself. Holmes bites his lip.
“An intriguing mystery, Watson, don’t you think?”
“You can’t be serious.”
“And why not?”
“Do you honestly intend to continue after -- after traumatising one client and insulting the intelligence of the other before being literally kicked out of their home by the help?”
“She has unreasonably sharp shoes.”
“That is hardly the point, Holmes.”
“But still, Watson - are you not curious? Surely you’ll do me the honour of--”
“Honour of what, pray tell?” he demands, coming to a stop. He faces Holmes, an agitated crease between his brows. “Honour of allowing you to ruin my life? Interrupt every set of plans I have ever made which did not include you? Dismantle the one other relationship I have of any importance? Honour of-- honour of allowing you to destroy absolutely everything I have been working toward? Which of those, Holmes? Regardless of how you may state it, you will be asking that I do you the honour of one of those things.”
The cold has finally got to him, for he feels himself shiver. “I don’t...” The accusation in Watson’s eyes in unbearable. Shame casts his gaze aside. The trees lining the path offer no solace, their bare limbs naked and void of life, stark brittle fingers seeming to echo Watson’s pointed wrath.
“Don’t what, Holmes?” Watson steps closer, the fog of his furious breath hanging about them like a mist. “Don’t consider even for a moment anyone but yourself?”
That Watson should think so is startling. “Watson, that is -- nothing could be further from the truth.”
“My apologies, old man,” he says bitterly. “My mistake. The corpses, the victims, the criminals - Scotland bloody Yard! I forgot about them. I do so hope you can forgive me,” he mutters, turning with shaking head and stomping off down the path.
Holmes stares after him, speechless. It is an unfair accusation. True, those things occupy a small percentage of his thoughts, as do a great many other subjects - what man could say any different when presented with the foundations of his livelihood?
Yet there is a flaw in Watson’s theory. The doctor has failed to note that he occupies a greater quantity of Holmes’ waking thoughts than any of those things, and an increasing number of his sleeping ones.
• • •
The syringe is tempting, but the case at hand is even more so. And being thrown forcibly from a residence does not necessarily recension of a request for help make.
The fire crackles in the hearth, the one spot of warmth in all of London. Holmes sits before it, curled into his chair, pipe lit, pouch of strong black shag handy. He will consider the facts. He will solve the case. Watson will sleep off his anger.
And, he thinks sardonically, they all lived happily ever after.
Focus.
A man. Murdered. (Rug missing, nowhere else in the residence. Stolen? Of little value. Wrapped around a live man? Unlikely.)
Yet one man could not have lifted the bulk of Charles Winscott, deceased, alone. From the size of his boots and the clothing in the closet, not to mention the depression in the bed, Mr Winscott was a large man. He was not hefted out the window: the dust on the sideboard testified to this.
Down the stairs? Someone in the house would have heard, would have seen. Must have been involved.
Two men. One to carry, one to shoot. But why?
Holmes considers it only for a moment. Not enough data. Next question.
When? Simple enough. Some short time after one. That has been made clear. However...
The boots by the bed. The recently wound watch. Drag marks on the counterpane. A man, who never sleeps in the day, shot in bed.
Holmes inhales deeply, on his second pipe by now, dimly aware of the waves of thick smoke rolling like an upturned, translucent ocean above his head. His eyes are intent but unseeing, focused on the flames.
He considers the women: Mrs Sullivan, oblivious to her sister-in-law’s displeasure, caustic attitude. An emotional wreck. Mrs Winscott, un-grieving widow, undesirous of help. (Absolutely lacking in manners and appreciation.) Her involvement? Plausible.
Why?
He needs more data. There are too many reasons a wife might wish a husband dead.
Fleetingly, thoughts of Miss Mary Morstan arise, bringing with them thoughts of Watson. He feels a twist in his chest. Next question.
But there are no more questions, at least none he can ask of himself - only answers to be sought elsewhere. It has grown dark during his ruminations, night and icy rainfall covering the city. With a lengthy stretch he rises, stokes the fire, and lights the lamp. Listlessly, he gazes out the window. Nothing pulls his interest. He closes the drapes.
Picks up the violin, plucks at it distractedly. Sets it aside. Checks his watch. Feels neither tired nor sleepy, only wretchedly unsettled.
His gaze crawls like a thing with weight toward the desk, towards the drawer that holds the syringe.
Watson would object.
Watson is not here.
The case, he thinks - but there is nothing more for grasping fingers to sift through, nothing more he can do tonight.
A book, he considers. Any book. Correspondence. He pulls the jackknife from the mantle, dislodging envelopes, but can’t seem to be bothered and simply watches them flutter gracelessly to the floor. One falls into the hearth. He stares, eyes watering from the smoke as the blaze consumes the unread words within. He cannot seem to bring himself to care.
The case will keep.
He opens the drawer.
An empty mind is a blessed thing.
• • •
Mrs Hudson tuts disapprovingly as she clears away the uneaten breakfast. Holmes stirs from his stiff-jointed position on the settee, blinking blearily in the hazy afternoon light. She has left him tea, and he drinks it down gratefully, hoping it might wash away the remains of the nightmare from which he has just awoken.
Gunshots rang out. Watson was fatally injured. It had been Holmes’ fault entirely - a miscalculation, an error in logic. As Watson had lain breathing his last, he held Holmes with arms already gone weak, patting him feebly; his last act had been an attempt to ease Holmes’ suffering.
It should have been the other way around. He woke fairly drenched in shame.
Holmes sets the empty teacup aside shakily, startled by the rattle as it hits the saucer. Just a dream. Nothing more. No bearing on reality.
Except.
Hastily, he performs his ablutions and departs from Baker Street. There is work to be done today. The gratitude he feels toward the fact is overwhelming.
Several hours later, he finds the edge has worn off his apprehension. He pauses beneath an awning to escape the downpour, considering his next move. None of the morning papers mentioned the disappearance of Charles Winscott, nor did any report finding a body. A telegramme sent to Lestrade requested he be informed if such a thing were to turn up. Finally, a trip to the solicitor in charge of Winscott’s estate uncovered little in the way of clues. The estate was bequeathed to the sister and widow equally.
Ostensibly this makes them suspects, but there is no obvious way in which their fortunes would have been improved directly by his death. Already they were cared for - yet the operative word in this instance is ‘obvious,’ so Holmes shall explore other avenues. He lights a cigarette, flame cradled by his hand against the gusts that sporadically render the cover he has found useless. It will abate, he has no doubt, and he has the endlessly stimulating street life of London to occupy him in the meanwhile
A costermonger stands on the opposite corner, mindless of the wet. She hawks oranges and candle-wax. Yet he can get no good look at her for the deluge, and her boots have been washed clean of any interesting traces of soil. His attention is then turned closer to hand as a hansom pulls up beside him. Immediately, as if portentous, the downpour turns to drizzle. The driver opens the door and Watson steps out.
Holmes instinctively presses himself to the wall behind him, as if this will somehow hide him. But it isn’t Watson, no, and upon catching a better look at the face it was perhaps foolhardy of him to have thought so. No moustache, the brows rather longer. This man’s eyes are dark. Yet in his bearing there is the same careless grace, a sensuous economy of movement that even military training could not beat down. The physique, too, is remarkably similar, and Holmes is unashamed of staring - it is his business, after all, to be staring - until the man turns and looks at him.
His interest has been misinterpreted. The fellow walks toward Holmes, rain dripping off his hat in a sparkling fringe as he lifts lowered lids, the look in his eyes unmistakable, the corners of his lips curling impishly. Had Holmes not already had his back flat against the wall, he would’ve fallen against it. The fellow passes by, unhurriedly, and casts an appraising glance over his shoulder at Holmes: a quick once-over, up and down.
The cigarette has burned itself out. Holmes rumples his hair and ducks into the nearest alley, lest his friend return. Two women exit the public house adjacent by use of a side-door, their raucous laughter no adequate distraction from his rapid-fire, incoherent thoughts.
It was not Watson. Therefore, he is not attracted to the stranger. No, no, no. He is not attracted to Watson. He is not attracted to anyone, especially not --
“Wouldn’t ‘alf mind ‘avin’ a go at ‘im,” remarks one of the women, startling him.
He stares, bewildered.
“Now, now, Dora, wot’d Johnny be sayin’? Don’t reckon your his type, anyway - nor me,” she says, her cackle punctuated with innuendo. “Maybe dear Johnny might like --”
“Oh, hush! It was just the one time, and he was in his cups! Just you shut yer mouth.” Their laughter follows them down the alley and out onto the street.
Holmes rubs a hand over his face. Good God, is he that obvious? No, no - it’s just the idle chatter of foolish women and their gin-soaked minds. Nothing is obvious because nothing is there; he regards Watson as merely a friend, a comrade, a confidant. Any jealousy which he might feel in response to Watson’s impending nuptials is --
Jealousy? Not jealousy. He is not jealous. It is merely --
Further thoughts are cut short as he is shoved roughly from behind. His face connects with the wall in an eruption of pain that flashes red behind his eyelids. The grit of the brick scores his cheek. He is dimly aware of a spreading, incongruous warmth at his temple. Already he has righted himself, turning to defend if not retaliate, but the effort is overdue. Hands close around his throat. The breath is squeezed from him.
He attempts an assessment. Attacker is male. Aged late thirties. Heavyweight, muscular arms. Calloused hands. Wearing wool navy peacoat. Worn brown hat. Facial hair ruddy. Eyes blue. Missing two teeth.
Holmes’ skull collides with the wall. He realises he cannot breathe.
Unpredictability is always an asset. Rather than struggle, he relaxes and falls into his assailant. Unbalanced by surprise and the abrupt shift of weight, the man’s grip loosens. He stumbles. Holmes backs away quickly, ducking as a punch is thrown. The kick, however, catches him off guard and he finds himself sprawled in the dirt, blinking back raindrops as he tries to catch his breath.
As he said, unpredictability is always an asset.
The hands are at his throat again immediately. Pressure. Moisture seeps unpleasantly through to his back, collects in the corners of his eyes, causes him to choke. His hands paw blindly at the attacker - damp corduroy of the coat, rumpled collar. Face. Whiskers. Eyes.
Holmes’ thumbs connect. Press.
There is a cry, and he is released, kicking madly as he rights himself. His attacker lies against the wall, legs jutting out, hands curled protectively over his eyes. He curses loudly, colourfully, and at great length - but Holmes barely registers it.
Instead, he runs.