Fic for saki101: The Mystery of Ill Opinions, Part 2/3

[holmesticemods]

After grumbling that she was not a cook and dispatching a page with bread, ale, and a bit of cheese to Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson, the formidable head housekeeper, patted John on the shoulder and escorted him to the outbuilding where he and the other men were lodged.

“Yours is the one with the green wool blanket,” she said, pressing a warm mince pie into his hand. “You're next to Mister Lestrade.”

“My thanks, Mrs. Hudson,” said John, smiling.

“Doctor Watson,” she said, after a moment's pause. “If you don't mind my saying so, I haven't seen Master Sherlock looking so well in months.

“Why would I mind?” asked John, smiling.

“It's just that...” she trailed off. “What I mean to ask is, did you give him any medicine today?”

John frowned. “No. Ought I to have done?”

Mrs. Hudson nodded, as though John had confirmed something she knew already. “Clearly not,” she said. “Lord Holmes won't have anybody say a word against his physician, not since he saved his daughter from the ague, but...” she trailed off again, miserably.

From the state Sherlock had been in that morning, John was inclined to agree that he was better off without the physician's art, but he was slightly stung, professionally. “I'm certain the doctor has Master Sherlock's best interests at heart.”

Mrs. Hudson nodded, even while wringing the corner of her apron. “I'm sure he has, I'm sure he has.”

As John settled into the room to the sound of the other men’s snores, he mulled over the events of the day, from Lord Holmes to Sally and Mrs. Hudson. It wasn't until he was drifting off to sleep that he realised that the pallet next to his was empty.




The next morning dawned cool and misty, and John was profoundly grateful for the warm bread and hearty ale with which he broke his fast. He climbed the stairs to the solarium, where he relieved the young man who had been stationed outside Sherlock's chamber and bade him bring bread and ale.

When he had gone, John quietly opened the door and glanced into the room. To his surprise, Sherlock was still seated at his desk, still wrapped in the blanket John had given him.

“Have you been awake all night?” asked John.

“Of course,” said Sherlock. “I had much to write.” He attempted to stand but his legs buckled, and John seized his arm and hoisted him up over his shoulder.

“That's enough of that,” said John. “You're going to eat something, and then you're going to sleep.”

“Nonsense,” said Sherlock, yawning. “I'm not at all tired.”

“We shall see,” said John, seating him on the edge of the bed. He poked at the embers and added wood to the fireplace, since clearly the servants hadn't wished to disturb him by feeding the fire.

Once his master was fed and snoring, John set himself to straightening the room without waking him. He couldn't read a word of Sherlock's writing, of course, but he knew to replace the lid on the ink horn and he unearthed several articles of clothing, which he folded up and piled on the chair by the desk. The various instruments he left where they had been placed, though he brushed some of the dust off a few of them and removed any books or papers beneath them and added them to the various piles he was making on the floor.

Slowly but surely, furniture emerged from the pile of chaos. John made a mental note to request more bookshelves for the room from Stamford. He was about to add more fuel to the fire when he caught a sight of a dark shape out of the corner of his eye.

He turned to look and had to choke back a shout of alarm.

The apparition that stood before him wore black from hat to boot and had the face of an enormous bird that stared glassily at him through brass-rimmed eyes. Even as John took in the black gown and black leather gloves, he knew who stood before him even before the strange voice came echoing from inside the grotesque mask: this was the Holmes family's personal physician.

“What is my patient doing abed at this late hour?” he said in a sing-song voice that most doctors reserved for reluctant children.

“He's been up all night writing,” said John quietly. “He's only just got to sleep. You must be the doctor. I'm Watson, Master Sherlock's new assistant.”

The doctor stared at him in a way that John knew was calculated to insult. “If it pleases you,” he said, keeping a handle on his temper, “I was ship's doctor on Sir Francis Drake's ship and have knowledge of physic. If you have medicine for him or any basic treatment, I would be happy to administer it.”

“You have let a dangerously weak patient over-exert himself and then allowed him to breathe in the foul night air, unprotected,” said the doctor, with more than a hint of steel in his oddly delicate voice. “One can only imagine why I would prefer to treat my patient myself.”

“Has he the plague that you visit him thus attired?” asked John, not bothering to disguise his scorn any longer. “Or perhaps you seek to peck the sickness out of him.”

There was a snort from the bed that John suspected was a laugh, but it was followed by a snore loud enough to fool the doctor into thinking him still asleep.

“A pig would have greater understanding of true medicine than a man with neither letters nor learning,” said the physician. “You must wake him from this unwholesome torpor. He must be bled before he breaks his fast.”

“He has already broken fast,” said John. “And he ate regularly through the night.”

“It is as I feared,” said the physician. “A ravenous appetite suggests that he is growing worse.”

John frowned. He'd never heard of a good appetite being a sign of ill health. Quite the contrary, in fact.

“Master Sherlock's ailment is of a peculiar kind,” said the physician, speaking to John. “When he is bled, he is temporarily weakened from the imbalance of blood and yellow bile, but it is the only way to keep him from running mad. Since I cannot bleed him this morning, he must sleep according to his custom and not eat until he has been treated. Surely even you can remember those instructions.”

John bowed to the physician, though his eyes never left the eyes that he fancied he could see glinting maliciously behind the mask's glass eyes.

“And see that he takes a spoonful of this medicine every two hours upon waking,” he said, withdrawing a bottle of powder from within the folds of his gown.

John accepted the bottle and placed it on Sherlock's bedside table.

The physician regarded him with his head cocked to the side, an appropriately birdlike gesture, and John realised that he'd positioned himself directly between Sherlock and the physician.

“Tell Master Sherlock I will see him tomorrow,” he said at last. “There will be no need for you to be there.”

“I understand,” said John, who did not move to see the man out, nor did he move until the man's tread faded as he descended the stairs.

“That was perhaps the most entertaining visit I have ever had from Doctor Moriarty,” came Sherlock's voice from behind John. “I should accuse you of having taken lessons in insolence from William at the theatre if I couldn't tell from the straw stuck to the edge of your shoe that you slept with the men-at-arms near the stables.”

“With most of them, anyway,” said John.

Sherlock gave him a quick look. “Ah. You mean Lestrade. There is no reason why you ought not know. He sleeps in my brother's chambers.”

“Mrs. Hudson seemed to believe that he sleeps in our room.”

“That is where he would sleep if Lady Holmes were in residence. As she is not, Lestrade is my brother's bedfellow.”

“Ah,” said John, as comprehension dawned. He knew all too well how men at sea passed the lonely months, but it seemed somewhat unusual for Lord Holmes to take his master of the horse to bed instead of a mistress. But the Holmeses were nothing, it seemed, if not unusuals. And he supposed Lestrade was handsome enough, and Lord Holmes wasn't the only one who thought so. “Poor Sally,” he said at last.

Sherlock smirked. “Waste no sympathy on her,” he said. “While she pines for an unattainable man above her station, she has mocked at least five decent fellows stupid enough to ask for her hand out of suit. Their ears must have burned for weeks.”

He seized the bottle of medicine from his bedstand, pulled open the stopper, and tossed a measure of it into the fire. The fire flared pink, and the air was filled with the odour of burned garlic.

John began to cough and threw open the window to clear the air.

“Interesting reaction,” said Sherlock, joining him at the window, “though not unexpected. Come, John. I must dress.”

“You must sleep,” said John. “Unless you're planning to follow that charlatan's orders.”

“Of course not,” said Sherlock, “but it's imperative that I seem to do so. Besides, I spy two men, actors by trade, on the street below, and as they can have no business with my brother, I believe they mean to call on me.”

“What business would actors have with you?”

“I cannot begin to guess,” said Sherlock. “My green doublet with gold buttons today,” he said. “And the grey hose, I think. And the hat from yesterday.”

Fortunately, it took less time for John to wash and clothe Sherlock and move a pair of recently unearthed chairs into a semblance of a sitting area than it took for the actors to gather their courage and bluster their way into the house.

“Masters Hoddleston and Wishart,” announced the footman who opened the door to the solarium.

John instantly recognised both men from the cast of yesterday's comedy. Master Hoddleston was uncommonly tall and delicate of face, with expressive blue eyes and a head of reddish-blond curls. He had a rather pretty singing voice, if John recalled correctly. Fitting, as the man had played the goddess of love.

Master Wishart, yesterday's queen Sapho, was smaller, darker of hair and lighter of build than his companion, but he moved with precision and confidence that belied his years, and his aspect was so much changed from what he had presented on stage that John marvelled at the difference.

Both men doffed their caps and bowed in unison.

“Good day to you, masters,” said Hoddleston.

“And God grant you joy,” added Wishart.

Sherlock studied them both with a cool eye for just long enough for Wishart to clear his throat. John hid a smile. Of course an actor would be uncomfortable with silence.

“I am Sherlock Holmes, and this is my assistant Doctor Watson. What business have you with me?”

Hoddleston's eyebrows rose fractionally at hearing John's honorific, but was firm of purpose. “We heard what transpired at The Theatre yesterday, and we were shocked that you were accosted thus.”

“No harm was done,” said Sherlock, waving his hand dismissively. “I sincerely hope Burbage hasn't sent you all this way to apologise for it.”

“Master Burbage doesn't know we're here,” said Wishart, “and, with your lordship's help, he won't know we've come, for what we wish to speak with you about concerns him.”

Sherlock sat and gestured for his guests to follow suit. “Continue.”

“As you know, Master Wishart and I are actors with Leicester's Men,” said Hoddleston. “As we are young and of a particular aspect, it falls upon us to play the parts of ladies.”

“And very well, too,” said John.

Hoddleston bowed his head. “It is kind of you to say so. However, Master Wishart and I are reaching the age at which we had hoped to begin playing kings and not their consorts, yet there few in our company who are being trained to replace us.”

“To what do you credit that?” asked Sherlock.

“Uncertainty about the lease, I should think,” said Wishart. “The ground The Theatre stands on belongs to a Puritan named Allen who does not look kindly on our profession.”

“To be fair, there are few who do,” said Hoddleston. “The current Mr. Burbage's father ensured that Allen could not meddle in our affairs until the lease expires, but Allen swears he will be rid of us. Even if he is unable to, it is not yet known if we shall have a new theatre, and if so, where.”

Wishart sighed. “Is it any wonder then, that the company is training fewer young boys, since it is uncertain if we shall be able to support a large company in the future?”

“This brings us to the part we ask you to play,” said Hoddleston. “As men who are relatively new to the company, we have not the position to demand that we be allowed the natural progression into male roles, nor have we the knowledge or means to find the company a new theatre.”

“What we mean to do,” said Wishart, “is establish the Leicester's Men as the finest troupe in London by staging bold new plays, thus earning us sufficient patronage to build a new theatre.”

“I suspect that is Burbage's strategy as well,” said Sherlock, sounding bored.

“Burbage sees no farther than his own roles and those for Mister Kempe,” said Wishart. “If there were but new plays with more roles for young men than simply lovers, he should be forced to rely on all of his experienced actors to fill the ranks.”

“Your meaning is obscure,” said Sherlock. “What is it that you wish me to do?”

The two men glanced at one another, and Wishart spoke. “We wish for you to provide us with plays.”

Sherlock let out a bark of laughter.

“Hear us out,” said Hoddleston, raising his hand to forestall additional comment. “We require someone with learning, which we know you to have, and your desk, piled high with papers, confirms you a prolific writer. We require someone with particular knowledge of the theatre, which we know you to have from the number of times you have graced us with your presence. And most of all, we require someone with special insight into humanity, which we know you to possess. There are not many men able to spot an assassin by his boots and prevent the ill work of his poisoned blades.”

As Hoddleston spoke, Sherlock's face became more and more incredulous. “What in all the world makes you think that those particular attributes will result in great plays?”

“Last year, The Admiral's Men performed a new tragedy called Tamburlaine, which was written by a learned young man called Marlowe,” said Wishart. “Though this play contained many elements common to the plays we present, the speeches, written in noble verse, are remarkable; complex and beautiful, far beyond anything I or my friend have heard on our shores. It did well enough with audience, though I daresay Master Alleyn could hold an audience in thrall whilst reading household accounts. But with a play even half as good as Marlowe's with meet parts for all, we would never want for audiences.”

“If you like Marlowe's plays so much, why not ask him to write you one?” asked John.

“Master Marlowe writes only for Alleyn's troop,” said Hoddleston.

“Besides,” said Sherlock, “Marlowe has other business interests besides writing plays.”

“Oh?” asked Wishart. “Do you know the gentleman?”

“I knew him at Cambridge,” said Sherlock, pursing his lips disapprovingly. “I'm pleased to hear he has other talents apart from currying favour with his betters and gaining second chances.”

“He has indeed!” said Hoddleston. “I hear that he has written Alleyn's troupe a play on the death of Edward II. What attracted Marlowe to that monarch will surely be understood when the play is performed, but what genius to choose one of England's own monarchs to be the hero of a play! This is why we need someone learned; someone who can sift great tragedies and triumphs from the sands of time.”

“With such turns of phrase, you could turn playwright,” said Sherlock.

Hoddleston shook his head. “Not I, my lord. I have not an artist's eye, for all that I can see my character's part in a work as easily as a church by day. And I do not have writing, though one of our company is teaching us to read.”

“Masters,” said Sherlock in a patronising tone, “I must tell you plainly-” he cut off abruptly as John cleared his throat loudly.

“I tell you plainly,” said Sherlock, giving John an impatient look, “that I am not the man you seek.”

“We will pay you,” said Wishart, his hand going to his purse. “We know the rate that others are paid for writing and will be willing to increase it twofold for such a play as we request.”

Sherlock sat back in his chair, his fingers steepled under his chin and fell silent. John caught the eye of one of the serving-gentlemen bringing refreshment, and he bade them enter.

“Who teaches you to read and write?” asked Sherlock suddenly.

“Will Shakespeare,” said Wishart.

“What's he?” asked Sherlock, frowning.

“He's a very hard worker,” said Hoddleston diplomatically.

“He's a tradesman from Stratford,” said Wishart. “Knows nothing about acting, but he's very keen to learn. He's teaching us all in exchange for the opportunity to learn our craft. He pulls his weight with near unbearable cheer.”

“Was he selling tickets yesterday?” asked John.

“The very man,” said Hoddleston. “Balding chap, pointed beard.”

“Has he the talent?” asked Sherlock.

“That's difficult to say,” said Wishart. “He took five minutes to die the first time we put him on stage, but the groundlings seemed to like it.”

“And the man has wit,” said Hoddleston, “though he has yet to learn that not all occasions warrant it.”

Sherlock nodded. “Gentlemen, I am engaged. You shall have your play. Expect to hear from me within a week as to when you may expect the manuscript.”

Both actors burst into grateful smiles.

“Thank you, sir, from the bottom of our hearts,” said Hoddleston, bowing deeply.

“Of course, should you ever have need of actors, we would be honoured to have you call on us,” said Wishart, presenting a well-turned leg.

“Thank you,” said Sherlock, with no irony John could detect. “I bid you both a good day.”

The delighted actors made their farewells, and a footman ushered them out of the room.

When they had gone, Sherlock poured himself a cup of ale and sat at his writing desk. He took a sheet of vellum, sprinkled it with pounce, and began to write with furious speed.

John busied himself returning the actors’ cups to the tray and eating one of Mrs. Hudson's excellent fruit tarts.

After a time, Sherlock picked up the sheet, waved it in the air to dry the ink, folded it, and handed it to John.

“Have someone run this to William Shakespeare at The Theatre.”

“Is the impertinent William to be England's next great playwright?” asked John, taking the letter.

“I have found that when one eliminates all other possibilities, the one that remains, no matter how unlikely, must be God's own truth,” said Sherlock, after a moment's pause. “Shakespeare found his way to our room in such a short time that he must have been following our assassin before he struck, which suggests that he knew the man had no good purpose. What's more, he observed the substance on the knife's blade and concluded its venomous nature. And you yourself observed that he was well aware of my disdain for the theatre he so loves. If Hoddleston is correct, then the man already possesses two of the most important features of a great writer of plays, namely knowledge of the theatre and an eye for human behaviour.”

“But what about the learning?” asked John. “You said he was a tradesman's son.”

“That I did,” said Sherlock. “But learning can be easily come by, especially by one who can already read and write. The other two are much rarer attributes to find in a single man. But speak, John. You look troubled.”

“I don't understand why you're helping them at all,” said John. “You loathe plays and actors annoy you.”

Sherlock sat back in his seat and crossed his legs. “It's purely self-interest,” he said. “I see this as an opportunity to ensure that The Theatre will be packed with prime specimens of humanity ripe for observing.”

“That cannot be your only reason,” said John.

“And I recalled something you said yesterday regarding Shakespeare, namely that you doubted I would be as accommodating to someone who disdained my work as I did his. When I think on it, my book owes the theatre a large debt of gratitude. It would not be the comprehensive volume it is today were it not for the thousands who flock to the theatre.”

John put his hand on his hip. “And?”

“That idle fellow has abused me beyond the endurance of a stone,” said Sherlock with a fierce smile. “It's time to return the favour. If it teaches him discipline, so much the better for his desire to be on stage. If it results in a play or two, so much the better for all of us.”

John sighed. “Best keep him away from Sally,” he said. “They'll tear the house apart if they ever cross words.”

Sherlock's smile thinned to a smirk. “I don't doubt it. Best send Anders to deal with him, then. And have someone fetch one of the maids from the Montague household down the street. I would have her do me a brief service.”




John fully expected Shakespeare to be late arriving the next morning, but he was surprised to find him covered in what appeared to be the contents of a chamber pot, presumably the work of the Montague's maid.

John banished any sign of amusement from his face as he approached the knot of servants attempting to bar Shakespeare from befouling Lord Holmes's threshhold.

“What's this coil?” asked John. “God's arms, Shakespeare, what happened to you?”

“London is a vile cess-pit that stinks to the north star!” said Shakespeare. “Some scoundrel has doused me with his night-dirt!”

“It happens now and again,” said John, leading Shakespeare to the stables, in accordance with Sherlock's plan. “Come along, let's get you cleaned up.”

The grooms snickered as John doused the actor with the coldest water they could find, and the wetter and colder he got, the more creatively abusive he became.

When Shakespeare's teeth began chattering, Anders, who looked entirely too pleased with himself, arrived with a pile of clean linen and stole away with the soiled garments before Shakespeare realised that instead of a man's shirt, the linen underlayer was a ladies' chemise.

“This is the final insult,” said Shakespeare, holding the offending garment out in front of him.

John spread his hand out in front of him in a pacifying gesture. “I'll fetch you a shirt from the wardrobe.”

“Do not trouble yourself,” said Shakespeare, pulling on the chemise roughly. “'I shall appear before my master in the clothes he sent me to wear. T'will look quite fetching with the yellow stockings and russet doublet, don't you think?”

He stalked across the courtyard to the front entrance while the grooms hooted with laughter.

Fortunately, the sight of a foolishly dressed actor with dripping wet hair was sufficient to shock Sally into silence for a moment before she started to laugh. This made Shakespeare flush an even deeper red, and he turned to face John with a thunderous expression.

“Take me to him now,” he ordered shortly, and John led him up the servant's stair to the solarium.

They found Sherlock in his dressing gown tuning a lute.

“Master Shakespeare,” said Sherlock. “How good of you to come.”

“Give me my payment, thou base fellow,” said Shakespeare. “I have not come this way to be abused thus.”

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. “Here's sixpence for your trouble,” he said, tossing him a coin. “You may go.”

“What game do you play, villain?” asked Shakespeare, pulling himself up to his full height. “You call me thither me on an errand promising fame and riches, heap abuse upon me, and then send me off like a servant-lad with a few pennies in my pocket. Thou art a cockscomb and a liar and a scoundrel!”

“You forget your place, knave,” said Sherlock coldly. “I invited you to my home on the hour and you kept me waiting until nearly another hour had passed. You arrived looking like one from bedlam, and you spoke to me, an earl's brother, as you would one of your louse-ridden troupe. Consider yourself fortunate that I have not ordered you whipped and turned out into the street. There's payment. Take it and get out of my sight.”

“You dare treat a gentleman thus?” asked Shakespeare furiously. “I insist that you do me the courtesy of inventing a reason that I was fetched thither.”

“John, throw this rascal out into the street. And be sure to reclaim the house's clothes ere you do so.”

Shakespeare's face darkened. “Lay one hand on me, thou scabbed jackanapes, and I'll--” he cut off abruptly and made a choking sound. “Not that you have the option of laying two hands,” he said, gesturing at John's stump and letting out a guffaw.

John looked to Sherlock for further instruction, but Sherlock's eyes were on the absurd figure of their guest, who proceeded to bend nearly in half laughing at his own joke.

“God's teeth, the man's a lunatic,” said Sherlock murmured.

“Masters, good masters,” said Shakespeare, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. “I fear I have let my temper get the better of me. Master Sherlock, I am truly sorry for the abuse I have rained down on you, for none of the day's comedy of errors can be laid at thy feet. I sit before you,” he said, lowering himself gracelessly to the floor, “your servant, your spaniel. Do with me what you will and let me know how I may best please thee.”

John was somewhat bewildered by this change in demeanour, but Sherlock appeared satisfied.

“You may occupy the floor as long as it pleases you,” he said. “Though what I would have you do would be most readily accomplished whilst seated at the desk.”

“Thank you, master,” said Shakespeare, rising and bowing with a ghost of his old cheek. He settled himself in the chair and fixed Sherlock in his expectant gaze.

“Now, answer me this,” said Sherlock, rising and gazing out the window. “You obtained your learning from your father's position, bailiff, probably, given your height, or possibly alderman. Like most educated in Stratford, you have Latin, Greek, oratory, philosophy, and the Bible by rote. But what was it that brought an educated man with a good, honest trade to the theatre, especially with a wife and children to support?”

“Simply, I have not a businessman's disposition,” said Shakespeare. “My bonny Anne knew when she agreed to be my wife that I speak all mirth and no matter, and she encourages me to do what pleases me. Besides, I am hardly destitute, even with an old skinflint like Burbage dividing the box. My family may have one of the finest houses in Stratford, but the fact remains that it is in Stratford. Now, that is more than is of interest as to my past. What, pray, do you desire me to do for you?”

“I wish you to write one or more history plays in style and language surpassing that of Christopher Marlowe,” said Sherlock.

Shakespeare blinked in surprise. “I fear, good master, that you have taken me for a playwright,” he said at last.

“Furthermore,” Sherlock continued calmly, ignoring Shakespeare's protest, “This play is to have numerous complex roles for young men and will prominently feature an English king.”

Shakespeare glanced at John. “Is he in earnest?”

“Deadly,” said John in a mild voice.

“Is he mad?”

“If he is, there's method to it,” said John.

Shakespeare snorted. “You are aware, good masters, that I have no experience writing plays.”

“Oh?” asked Sherlock, pouncing.”What, pray, have you experience writing?”

Shakespeare looked exactly like a child who had been caught stealing sweetmeats. “I have been known to set things down in verse,” he said reluctantly. “The occasional song or sonnet. A mere handful of poems. Nothing of import.”

“By the light, the man writes in verse as well!” exclaimed Sherlock, turning a wild smile on John. “I knew that you must, from the ink stains I observed on your fingers two days hence. You, sir, are engaged, and do not insult my intelligence by refusing. Now, let me acquaint you with the source material.”

“You are in earnest,” said Shakespeare incredulously. “Have you any idea what you ask of me?”

“I ask you to combine the resources I provide with your natural gifts to match, if not surpass, the ill-gotten fruits of a petty crossbiter whose greatest talent is getting people to think well of him,” said Sherlock irritably. “Now, be so good as to don the black cloak and cap with simple trim that lie there on the table. We shall have a visitor presently, and I wish you to appear to him as a scribe. Provided you can resist the urge to caper about in your yellow stockings, he should be fooled.”

While Shakespeare put on Sherlock's garments, Sherlock gathered all of his papers and scattered them on the bed. “John, be so good as to fetch paper for Master Shakespeare, and the Holinshed from that bookshelf. That would be the two strapped volumes on the top shelf, the brown leather ones with brass bosses.”

The volumes were so large and heavy that John was only able to retrieve one at a time. He had no idea what or who Holinshed was, but the books were prodigiously handsome, with decorative patterns pressed into the leather and gold letters on the spine.

Shakespeare sat at the desk and ran his hand reverently over the cover of the first volume. “God's teeth,” he said softly.

“You may take as many notes as you wish and ask whatever you wish,” said Sherlock, “provided John and I are the only men with you. Otherwise, you are to be silent.”

“Even were I to never utter a sound, it will take me weeks to finish reading this,” said Shakespeare. “I have only a few hours liberty each day, and even less when I am called to tread the boards.”

“You needn't read all of it now,” said Sherlock impatiently. “Leave out Ireland and Scotland for the nonce, and any monarch whose tale cannot be told without putting you at risk of being beheaded.”

“A wise precaution, o my master,” said Shakespeare, unfastening the clasps and opening the first volume with such gentleness that the binding hardly creaked. John replenished the desk's supply of paper and placed it to Shakespeare's right, so that when he felt the need to record his thoughts, he could do so without dripping ink on the beautiful books. Shakespeare nodded silent thanks.

“Any moment now we shall hear our guest's footfalls on the stairs,” said Sherlock softly. “Keep your wits about you and hold your tongue, and all will be well.”

Sherlock set to putting his papers in order while John stoked the fire. They all heard the soft footfalls and pretended they didn't.

“Is this not a cosy scene?” drawled a voice from the corridor.

In the solarium doorway stood a slender man with thinning hair and tired eyes. He was expensively attired in grey velvet with blue samite trim, and he carried a leather case.

“Doctor Moriarty,” said Sherlock. “Thank you for coming again today.”

“I could never dream of doing otherwise,” said Moriarty in the disdainful, lilting tone that set John's teeth on edge. “Good day to you, Mister Watson. Has my patient been following my prescriptions?”

“I'm sure he could never dream of doing otherwise,” said John blandly.

Shakespeare said nothing, though the hitch of his shoulders indicated his amusement.

Sherlock cast off his doublet and rolled up the sleeve of his shirt. “I find myself of a melancholy disposition today.”

“Sit down, then,” said Moriarty, setting his case on the bed and pulling out a lancet at least as long as John's finger. “You have not broken fast today?”

“I have not,” said Sherlock. John, of course, knew this to be false, since he himself had seen his master eat with all signs of excellent stomach.

“Excellent,” said Moriarty, tightening a leather strap around Sherlock's upper arm. “This won't hurt a bit,” he said, slicing Sherlock's forearm with a lancet.

Other than a barely audible intake of breath, Sherlock gave no outward sign of pain, and blood began to dribble from the cut into a small bowl that the doctor held under his arm.

John had witnessed his father perform bloodletting from his earliest years, and he himself had performed it on patients more timed than he could count. And yet, there was something wrong, something malign in the doctor's expression as he watched Sherlock's blood dribble into the bowl. There was nothing overtly incorrect about Moriarty's technique, though he had cut the skin more deeply than John would have done, but he watched his master's blood drip and everything in him willed it to stop, or even return to his master's veins where he felt that it belonged.

“What ails you, Watson?' asked Sherlock.

John was slightly taken aback by being addressed by his surname, but he covered his surprise with a bow and played along. “All this talk of breaking fast has made me powerfully hungry. Have I permission to send for food and drink?” he asked, indicating Shakespeare with a jerk of his head.

“Master Sherlock is not to partake of the household's food,” said Moriarty. “He shall have nothing but good porridge with no meat, bread, vegetable, or butter until further notice until I am able to declare him cured.”

John could see curiosity in Shakespeare's eyes, but to John's relief, the man remembered Sherlock's admonition and remained silent.

“As you wish,” said John, giving the smallest bow to Moriarty that courtesy allowed. “Food for me and the scribe, then.”

After speaking with the footman who attended on Sherlock's chambers, John returned to the room. Moriarty's bowl was nearly full, and Sherlock's skin had begun to take on the pale, waxen character he had seen the first time he laid eyes on his master. It was clear to him that Moriarty had drawn entirely too much blood. John knew that Sherlock was putting on an easy disposition for the physician's sake, so he kept his silence, but he stood silently at the foot of the bed.

“I feel as though it were midday,” said Moriarty, glancing at John, “for you now have a shadow that is half a man, Master Sherlock.”

John stiffened, and even Sherlock's lips tightened in momentary anger, though his face soon relaxed.

“Watson has no respect for our methods, Master Doctor,” said Sherlock in a conspiratorial tone. “Yours he dismisses as mere theatre, and mine he dismisses as mere guess-work.”

Moriarty let out a shrill laugh that sent gooseflesh rippling down John's arms. “Such things are for learned men to understand,” he said, revealing small, sharp teeth in a smile that did not enliven his weary eyes. He turned to John. “See that a spoonful of the medicine goes into each serving of porridge. You can do that much, I trust.”

“Aye, and have done,” said John, feigning injured pride.

“Good,” said Moriarty, pressing a bandage to Sherlock's arm and unfastening the strap. “You should begin to improve in a day or so. I shall return in a week's time. If you should feel worse, send for me.”

“Thank you, doctor,” said Sherlock weakly, his eyes fluttering shut as though he were very weary.

Moriarty nodded at his patient and fixed John in a beady glare. “Mark me, sirrah,” he said to John, “if by your ill-considered actions you make him sicker, Lord Holmes shall know of it.”

John wanting nothing so much as to throw the statement back in his vile little face, but he remembered Sherlock's instructions, and held his tongue.

Moriarty blinked in surprise. “How well he's trained his new pet,” he said in a mocking tone. He carried the bowl of Sherlock's blood over to the corner and deliberately upended it into the chamber pot, splashing it on the wall and the floor.

John felt as though he was watching a cacodaemon at work, an evil thing taking pleasure in a black sacrament. He stood stock still, fist clenched, and said nothing.

Moriarty wiped his bloodstained hands on one of Sherlock's shirts that had been draped over a pile of books. “Farewell,” he said, singing the word as one would an amen.

When Moriarty had sauntered out of the room, John let out a breath he hadn't been aware he was holding and crossed himself for good measure. He never would have believed that the man's natural appearance would be even more terrifying than yesterday's masked apparition, and yet he was.

“God's bones,” breathed Shakespeare.

Sherlock opened his eyes. “Come, John,” he said, the appearance of frailty gone and determination in his eyes. “Help me to stand.”

“Not yet,” said John. “Let's get some food into you first. I thought he would bleed you dry.”

Sherlock huffed his irritation. “Surely you saw worse at sea,” he said.

“Aye,” said John, “but those men had foot-long wood splinters suck in them or missing limbs. I've not seen a man bled that much a-purpose that didn't weigh nineteen stone.”

“You fuss more than Mrs. Hudson,” said Sherlock grumpily.

John shook his head, recalling the warning the very woman had given him about Doctor Moriarty, and hoped she was the one who would select what food was to be brought up to the solarium.

Fortunately, that proved to be the case, because the food and drink that arrived was so generous that it had to be carried by three young men: bread, cheese, apples, meat pies with pastry as light as down, and Mrs. Hudson's particular speciality, a dark ale that eased John's worry. Sherlock sipped his ale, and colour began to return to his cheeks, and he even ate a bit of meat pie at John's urging.

Shakespeare did not need to be invited twice and ate heartily of the excellent fare. “I must be back at the theatre by mid-day,” he said, taking a loud bite of apple. “But now that I know the way, I shall return tomorrow morning, if it please you.”

“Here's an angel to carry you thither and back again tomorrow,” said Sherlock, tossing Shakespeare a gold coin.

“The angel need not be so arch,” said Shakespeare, smiling. “For I have at least an hour more for reading before I must depart. Today's play is a tragedy, and I shall die heroically at the end of the first act, which means that I shall not be expected to gather the crowd. Besides, I wish to appear onstage in my own person, not as a loose woman in yellow stockings disguised as a scribe.”

“John, see that Anders returns this man's clothes if they are clean and dry,” said Sherlock. “Otherwise, lend him something appropriate to die in.”

“Will you need to be attired for a swift stab in the back or a prolonged, five-minute death?” asked John.

Shakespeare grinned. “I am a man, and so I most desire the little death, but there are some spectacles that the world is unready to witness on stage.”

John huffed at the bawdy pun and would have relayed Sherlock's message to the footman had there been one in attendance. Odd.

He was about to go downstairs to press one of Lord Holmes's men into service when the man himself came striding down the hallway, letter in hand. He nodded at John and indicated that he should follow him back to the solarium.

Shakespeare didn't know his lordship, of course, but he stood at his entrance regardless.

John watched Lord Holmes take in Shakespeare's remarkable appearance and rolled his eyes heavenward before addressing his brother. Sherlock was studiously ignoring him.

“I have in this letter that Lady Holmes comes this day to London,” Lord Holmes said. “We are to make the house ready for her imminent arrival.”

John could have sworn that for a moment his master's face lit up with triumph, but he quickly concealed it with a petulant scowl. “God's spotted bottom,” swore Sherlock. “How long does she intend to say?”

“I know not,” said Lord Holmes, his expression grim. “But I do know this: whatever may have transpired in the past, my lady comes to London for your benefit and to give you succour in your time of need.”

Sherlock made a dismissive sound. “More likely Lady Hunter has a new dress that the woman wishes to have a London dressmaker copy.”

John was impressed that Lord Holmes continued speaking as though his brother hadn't said anything. “I have given you great freedom in the past to speak as you would out of deference to your sickly nature, and my lady has borne your insults and scorn beyond all endurance. But now that you are under Dr. Moriarty's care, I expect you to behave as a man, not as a spoilt child.”

John caught Shakespeare's eye, and they both began to make for the door as unobtrusively as possible.

“Stay, good fellows, I pray you,” said Sherlock. He beckoned them to his side and they helped him stand to face his brother. “Who might be your mother that you would address me thus?” he asked.

“I am your brother,” said Lord Holmes coldly, “and one who has shown you considerable forbearance.”

“And what should you do if I speak to the woman as befits her modesty?” asked Sherlock, his voice dropping scornfully.

“Should you with your final breath scorn her, I should curse your memory and leave your mortal coil as food for the ravens and kites. Have I made myself plain?”

“You need not take pains to make yourself plain, brother, for God has already done it for you,” said Sherlock.

“Watson,” said Lord Holmes, unruffled by his brother's vitriol. “I must charge you with another impossible task: that of hanging a civil tongue in my brother's head. The doctor has apprised me of his recommended course of physic, so I will insist that Sherlock take his meals with the household in order to see his compliance with mine own eyes. I would not ask a man with a physical impediment to serve at table, but I ask it of you starting at tomorrow's dinner, for I would not allow my brother to spoil my lady's arrival.”

“I do my lord this service with all my heart,” said John.

“Good,” said Lord Holmes. “Now, every man must help to move my brother and his possessions to the southeastern chamber downstairs, for my lady and her attendants will require the solarium for their needle-work.”

Sherlock sat up in bed. “There is not half the room downstairs that I require!” he hissed. “What of my books? My instruments?”

“Then I suggest you take with you only what you need for daily use,” said Lord Holmes with maddening calm. “There is room for a writing desk if you move the wardrobe to the store-room, and the window lets in excellent light in the morning.”

“That foul-breathed, sharp-tongued harpy shall set my work back weeks!” said Sherlock, baring his teeth. “Had I the strength, I should throw you down the stairs and your strumpet with you.”

Lord Holmes beckoned the footman who had reappeared in the corridor. “My brother will give you instruction as to what he wishes to take with him to his new chambers. And if he will not, make to throw it out the window. If he arrests you in your errand, then you may be certain that he wishes to keep it.”

“Lay one hand on my things and I will run you through,” said Sherlock, shaking off Shakespeare's arm, seizing his sword, and brandishing it at the servants.

“Watson, if it would please you and the jester to return my brother to his bed. He is unwell.”

Shakespeare, whose eyes were the size of saucers, made an outraged sound at being referred to as a jester, but he did as Lord Holmes bade him.

“If I may,” whispered John in Sherlock's ear, “perhaps we should retreat from this skirmish. There's no shame in withdrawing from combat when the enemy hath the advantage. We shall find more defensible ground.”

Sherlock let out a loud sigh and let the sword fall to the floor. “Very well. But I yield only under great persuasion. Be careful with that, you thrice-damned lout!” he shouted at a servant who had picked up a brass model of the heavens. “Leave me,” he said to John and Shakespeare. “I shall not have my men lift a finger to aid this miscarriage of justice.”

Shakespeare bowed. “I shall see thee on the morrow, good master.”

Sherlock waved him off with a languid gesture.

When they were out of earshot, Shakespeare began to laugh. “I have seen great plays from around the world, but Aristophanes could not have scripted a scene more diverting than the one the Holmes brothers have performed for our pleasure.”

“I knew that Master Sherlock and Lady Holmes were not good friends,” said John, leading him down the servant's stair, “ but she who told me so may have been understating the case.”

They found Mrs. Hudson ordering the maids and footmen about as a general sending troops into battle. After letting out a scandalised cry at Shakespeare's appearance, she waved them in the direction of the cupboard where the clothes for the house's servants were kept. Fortunately, Shakespeare had a good eye and was quick to select a shirt, with which he replaced the chemise, and stockings in a less lurid shade.

John and Shakespeare tiptoed across the newly-swept threshold and between the servants who were scrubbing the stone step clean into the courtyard.

“Tarry a little,” said Shakespeare, stopping John with an emphatic arm across his chest.

“What-- ?” began John, but he silenced himself when he followed Shakespeare's gaze across the courtyard to where Doctor Moriarty stood in conference with Guy de Lestrade.

“Come,” said Shakespeare. “Let us see what poison that spider dribbles into your man's ear.”

John made a show of waving Shakespeare off, and the two met on the far side of the stables, which provided them cover as they approached. Shakespeare pointed silently to the watering trough where he had been doused earlier, but John shook his head and gestured at his stump. It would be impossible for him to crawl quietly.

Shakespeare thought for a moment, then knelt. John did the same, and Shakespeare offered him his own shoulder to lean on as they shuffled along the length of the trough, avoiding the numerous piles of dung.

Fortunately, Lestrade chose this moment to raise his voice. “I swear that Lord Holmes will never know from me. Is that not sufficient?”

“No, it is not,” said Moriarty. “I require his patience for a fortnight yet, and you must secure it me.”

“I cannot do it.”

“You say you cannot do it, but I know you will not do it, which is not the choice a wise man would make, for the deed hath you coming and going.”

“I would that I'd never heard the name Euterpe,” said Lestrade.

“But you did, and she is gone to Elysium,” said Moriarty.

John huffed softly in surprise, and Shakespeare cocked an interrogative eyebrow at him. John motioned for him to hold his silence.

“And for that ill wind, my life is forfeit,” said Lestrade.

Moriarty laughed. “Prithee be not sad,” he said, “for you have rendered me something of greater use than your bond. Why should it not continue as it has been?”

“Because my master's brother is dying,” said Lestrade, his voice hard.

“He has been dying since his first breath,” said Moriarty. “Do not test my patience, Lestrade. A good word in your master's ear is a pittance that none but me would prize to the amount of your debt.”

“He sniffs out falsehood like a hound,” said Lestrade, “and to give you any good word in his presence should be a lie.”

“You needn't write sonnets in my praise,” said Moriarty, shortly. “And if you should even think to cross me, a lawyer of my employ shall press suit against you and demand the full measure of the bond. Have I your word?”

“You have,” said Lestrade with weary reluctance. “Now leave me. My lady arrives tonight, and there is much to be done.”

When Moriarty and Lestrade went their separate ways, Shakespeare tugged sharply on John's sleeve.

“Who is Euterpe?” asked Shakespeare quietly.

“She's one of Sir Humphrey Gilbert's fleet that was bound for the orient,” whispered John. “Lestrade must have borrowed money to invest in her.”

“And now the debt has come due with the ship lost at sea,” said Shakespeare, stroking his chin. “What deed does the scoundrel speak of?”

“I know not,” said John, “but if it's a legal document and Lestrade has a copy, it is likely to be found among his belongings, and his is the bed next to mine.”

“You are the most crooked upright man I have met, John Watson,” said Shakespeare appreciatively, rising and offering John his hand.

“Likewise,” said John, allowing Shakespeare to pull him to his feet.

Lestrade may have been excellent with horses, but he was unskilled at hiding things. Shakespeare quickly found the infamous paper beneath his pillow.

“Well?” asked John, glancing nervously over his shoulder while Shakespeare read. “What does it say?”

“It says that Lestrade is either illiterate or powerfully stupid,” said Shakespeare. “See, here he agrees that if the ship is lost, he shall not repay the debt with money.”

“That sounds like a good contract to me,” said John.

“He is to repay the debt with his very flesh,” said Shakespeare, making a sign against evil on his chest. “To be cut off from whatever part it please the debt-holder.”

“And now we know why Lord Holmes will hear no word against the learned doctor,” said John. “His own right hand is tied to keep from acting in his own defence.”




To John's surprise, Lady Holmes was not only surpassing fair, but also sweet of manner and as far as he could determine, demure. Had he not seen Sherlock’s skill catch an assassin and read his own past from mere observation, John should have thought his master a knave to think ill of the agreeable lady who examined the house with every appearance of delight and whose blue eyes did not linger on his stump.

“You must be Doctor Watson,” she said, giving him a winsome smile.

“Yes, your ladyship,” said John, bowing.

“My husband tells me that you have proved yourself adept at a task that neither he nor I have been able to accomplish, and for this, you have our earnest thanks.”

“It's my pleasure, your ladyship.”

Her brittle laugh broke the spell her beauty had cast over John. “That is the first time I have heard my brother's company described thus,” she said, giving him a smile that now seemed too thin for her face.

Rather than respond with any words that might reveal his dislike, he bowed deeply and watched her glide down the rank of servants who were turned out for her appraisal. Her words were honeyed, and yet there was something like shattered glass in her voice.

She did not remark upon Sherlock's absence within John's earshot. When the men and women of the house were once more at liberty, Lady Holmes's maids swept forward to inspect the house's readiness to receive her.

John's feet carried him to his master's new chambers, where he found Sherlock gnawing on what appeared to be a boar's shank.

“You have beheld the witch,” he said, swallowing. “How did you find her?”

"Her outsides are charming,” said John. “Where did your brother discover such a jewel?”

“He didn't. Our father did,” said Sherlock. “Rutland is not rich, but fortunately, there are merchants' daughters enough who are and desire to be the wife of an earl. Don't look at me that way, John. I wouldn't give a fig were she a milkmaid, provided she were a good wife to my brother. But she is the worst kind of striving jade: one who has received more than her share, yet she hungers for what she does not yet have.”

John nodded his agreement. “As I am to serve you at dinner of the porridge that Moriarty has prescribed, I think it only fair to tell you that I do not trust that man and I fear that his primary concern is not to heal you.”

Sherlock looked up from his repast with a surprised look. “Of course it isn't. He's trying to kill me, and in increasingly reckless ways. Is this why you look as though you had a toothache?”

John blinked in surprise. “Then I suppose you know that he forces Lestrade's silence by means of a contract that would deprive him of his own flesh were it to be pressed in a court of law?”

Sherlock chewed thoughtfully for a moment. “I did not,” he said, setting down the shank and blotting his mouth with his sleeve. “But I am glad to hear it, for I had thought Lestrade my brother's friend. Now I know him to be stoutly so, if over credulous. Ah,” he said, holding up a hand for silence. “The foot on the stair I am less glad to hear,” he said, quickly hiding the trencher and bones beneath the bed.

He leapt to his feet and plunged his hands into the basin of water on the wash stand and splashed a bit on his face. Having accomplished this, he tore back the bedclothes and leapt into bed, artfully tangling himself in his bedclothes.

Sensing the part he was to play in the ruse, John took the cloth on the wash stand and doused it with the water, which was quite cold, and laid it across his master's forehead.

There was a knock at the door, and Lady Holmes opened it without waiting for a response. John could feel her eyes take in the scene they presented, and because he was listening for it, he heard her satisfied hum.

Sherlock opened his eyes and made a feeble gesture towards her.

“Watson,” he croaked, “Methinks I see an angel.”

“Not an angel,” she said, laughing. “Merely your sad sister.”

“Why sad?” asked Sherlock, his hand dropping to his side as though raising it had tired him.

“My brother is unwell,” she said, walking to his bedside and covering his hand with hers. “I should not that it were so.”

Upon close examination, John could see the gleam in her eye as she felt the coldness of his hand and observed the water beaded on his brow.

“Fear not,” said Sherlock, bringing his other hand to lie atop hers. “For I am being well cared for. It is not every man that can boast he has two doctors.”

“Shall we see Doctor Moriarty soon?” she asked. “Little Mary asks after him.”

“Mary?” asked Sherlock.

“Yes, Sherlock,” she said, irritation flaring. “My daughter and your brother's, the child whose life Moriarty saved last year.”

“Moriarty and Mary and Irene,” sang Sherlock, in an imitation of Moriarty's cadence of speech.

“Yes, Sherlock, it's Irene,” she said. “You do know me?”

“Of course,” said Sherlock, his eyes fluttering closed. “You are the queen. Long live her majesty.”

Lady Holmes pulled her hand from Sherlock's and looked at John.

“How long has he been thus?” she asked.

“Since the doctor's visit earlier today,” said John. “I've given him his medicine, but it doesn't seem to help.”

She nodded, her expression demure, but her eyes alight. “God may yet answer our prayers,” she said, moving to the doorway. “Fare thee well, brother.”

John suppressed a shudder and closed the door after her. When he turned to face Sherlock, he found the man wiping the water from his face and smiling.

“Well, John?” he asked. “The trap has been well set, don't you think?”

“Do you mean to catch her?”

“And the good doctor as well,” said Sherlock, handing John a folded piece of paper and half a crown. “When you have dined, go to St. Andrew Undershaft on Leadenhall Street and give this list to the man you shall find in the garden. Conceal the items well on your person and bring them to me.”

John was about to ask for more information about his part in Sherlock's plan, but there was a hesitant knock at the door.

“Enter,” said Sherlock, pulling the trencher from beneath his bed.

To John's surprise, Mrs. Hudson stood in the doorway looking out of place but no less firm.

“Next time, let Doctor Watson bear thy food to thee,” scolded Mrs. Hudson, taking the trencher. “I am not thy servant to be ordered about, debt or no debt.”

To John's surprise, Sherlock pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Dear lady, you have repaid me a thousand times with your steadfast kindness. It is I who now stand in your debt.”

She blushed prettily. “Say no more on it, Master Sherlock. I must return to the kitchen, and you must hie thee to the dining hall, doctor.”

John gave Sherlock a brief nod and followed Mrs. Hudson down the servant's stair.

“What debt do you owe Master Sherlock?” asked John.

“He saved my life, that one,” said Mrs. Hudson. “When black death came to Rutland under the previous earl, that would be the father of the current Lord Holmes and Master Sherlock, a group of Puritan tenants claimed it was punishment for the family's idolatry. When sickness carried off the earl's third son, the poor lad, they started a lot of foolish talk, and my husband, devout as he was, got wrapped up in it. The earl's knights put them down before any damage was done, of course, but I'd have been hanged alongside my husband if Master Sherlock, who was not yet ten years of age, hadn't said that my fingertips showed I was no part of the plot and bade his father order me to open the pouch on my belt.”

“What was in it?”

“My rosary,” said Mrs. Hudson, smiling as she pulled a handsome string of faceted glass beads from within her partlet. “I said my prayers on it every night when the lamps were out, so George never knew I was a Catholic. But Master Sherlock did, having never set eyes on me before that day. So you see, there's nothing I wouldn't do for him.”

John nodded, unable to think of any words to respond to this extraordinary tale, other than to bow deeply to the old lady.

“Stop that,” she said, knocking him about the ear with a dish cloth. “You've already saved his life once, and those of us who are faithful to him won't forget. Especially Lord Holmes, if I may be so bold. Now, get thee to the great hall!”

As John ate, he glanced at all the members of the household, wondering whose loyalties were to whom. Poor Lestrade looked grey in the face and did little more than push his food around his trencher with a bit of bread, and several of the serving-men who had done many duties in preparation for Lady Holmes's arrival nearly swayed with exhaustion.

The earl himself clearly doted on his beautiful wife, and made poor Anders leap to every anticipated whim. The lady herself was also taking the measure of each person in the room, and John managed a lovesick smile when her eye fell on him. It might not have passed muster at close range, but she quickly shifted her gaze away from him, and John was left to think on his master and the piece of paper in his pouch.

Part 3