Fic for garonne: Promises (3/3)

[holmesticemods]

When I woke in the morning, Holmes had already left. I spent the day handling my patients and working out the food bill with Martha, until she grew frustrated with my inability to grasp the subtleties of buying in bulk for a household. Then I paced in the sitting room, waiting for Holmes to return.


He did not return that evening. I went to bed, worried, and slept fitfully.


In the morning, Holmes still had not returned. I went about my duties, and Martha hers, and we did not discuss our concerns.


Just before supper, the door banged open and Holmes blew in, his face white with cold. He waved at me as he flew by, heading up to his room. “Holmes will be joining us for supper, Martha,” I called, and went to help her set the table.


When he sat down for supper, face clean and in new clothes, I tried to avoid asking questions, but eventually my curiosity bubbled over.


“Where were you yesterday, Holmes?” I asked, carefully eating my soup.


“I went to Haines house and watched the activities of the household,” he replied, slurping noisily.


I set my spoon down. “Holmes. Lestrade told you to stay away from him.”


“But the evidence we seek is inside the house. The book, Watson, the book!” he exclaimed, waving his hand at me. It still held his spoon, and droplets of soup hit me in the face. I closed my eyes and carefully wiped the soup away with my napkin.


“Mr. Holmes, manners,” Mrs. Hudson scolded, and he obediently put his spoon back into the soup, taking another mouthful.


“You want to get the diary that Miss Winter mentioned,” I said.


“Of course.”


“Do you know where it is?”


“No. But Miss Winter does, and I have promised to involve her. She will guide us once we are inside the house.”


I glanced at Martha, whose brow was furrowed. “How will you ensure you are not caught, Mr. Holmes?” she asked.


He groaned and smacked his forehead. “Why do you think I was watching the house all day and all night? I needed to know the household patterns. The Haines are in bed, on a night when they aren’t entertaining, by ten in the evening. The rest of the household settles soon after, and all lights are off by midnight. The first servant rises at five in the morning, giving us a four-hour window to find the diary, once we give everyone at least an hour to fall asleep.”


“That was only one night.”


“I do not propose that we move tonight, Watson. Miss Winter and I will be surveilling the house for the rest of the week, to see if that pattern is typical.”


I raised my eyebrows. “Miss Winter was with you last night?”


“Of course. As I said, I promised to involve her. She is an able partner.”


“Why did you not ask me to come?” I asked, somewhat hurt. I did not especially want to sit outside of a house for all hours, but he usually bullied me into it anyway.


“I was trying to respect that you have responsibilities during the day,” Holmes said, and I saw him glance briefly at Martha. I thought about it for a moment, and decided that he was offering up a different kind of apology to her. Besides, I really did not enjoy watching houses for hours on end.


“Very well. You will let me know if you need assistance?”


“Of course.”


“I will make you sandwiches,” Martha declared. “Do you know what this Miss Winter enjoys?”


“Anything, I think. I don’t believe she has access to regular meals,” Holmes admitted.


“I will make many sandwiches,” Martha said, and stood. “You will leave again after supper?”


“Yes; I do not wish to leave Miss Winter alone for long.”


“Then I will make them now.”


She left, taking her supper with her. I continued working on my soup, wanting to finish it before I began working on the roast beef.


“I have high hopes for bringing Haines to justice,” Holmes said. “Miss Winter is very knowledgeable about the household, and very clever. She has already offered three different ways into the house that will be difficult to trace.”


“That is excellent to hear,” I said. “How is she doing?”


“She is focused. Determined. She had given up hope, a long time ago, that Haines would ever face repercussions for the crimes he has committed.”


“You do not think it is too much for her? Asking her to watch the house of the man who ruined her… that is a tall order, Holmes.”


Holmes set his fork down, leaning his head on his hand. “It is her wish, Watson, to be part of his undoing. I find I cannot stop her from that. I would never have stood by and let someone else be the one to bring down Moriarty. And Haines is her Moriarty.”


I picked up my fork and began on the roast beef. “Do you not worry that the diary will not change anything? Haines is a powerful man, Holmes. It is easy for powerful men to avoid justice.”


“When the evidence is slim, yes. But this diary is written in Haines’ own hand. It is irrefutable.”


I had some worries, but I kept them to myself. Holmes had a plan and Miss Winter had provided valuable information, and between the two I believed that Haines had little hope.


******
A week went by, a frustrating, long, dull week in which Martha and I wiled away the hours with knitting and medical journals. On the rare occasions we saw Holmes, he was harried and manic, describing at length the minutiae of the household. By Thursday, midway through his surveillance period, Holmes was able to describe the different cravat knots that Haines preferred, and how the different hair combs Lady Violet wore reflected her mood of the moment. Martha packed him more sandwiches.


Finally, on Monday, Holmes announced that it was time.


******
We took a cab to pick up Miss Winter, whom Holmes had sent home to get some rest.


“I have made us some masks, Holmes,” I said, handing him the strip of silk I had labored over. Holmes took it and held it up to his face, giggling with delight.


“You were born for this, Watson!”


“I hope not,” I said. “I prefer to think of myself as a law abiding citizen.”


We picked up Miss Winter, who climbed quickly into the cab and slammed the door. She was wearing a dark blue dress, the hem brushing the top of her boots. Her hair was tied up and stuffed into a dark cap. “Good evening, gentlemen,” she said, her voice clear and bright. She was more animated than I had ever seen her, though I supposed I had only seen her after her work day. I handed her a mask.


“To hide your face, once it is time,” I said.


“Thank you, Doctor,” she said easily, and balled it up into her hand.


“I would like to go over the plan one more time,” Holmes said, the mirth disappearing from his voice. I settled back and crossed my arms. Across from me, Kitty shifted so she could look out the window.


“When we arrive, we will confirm that all the lights are still off. The last maid should have retired an hour ago, but we do not go in until we are certain. Once we determine that the lights are all off, we will enter through the south window on the ground floor. It should take less than a minute to get it open, and forty seconds maximum to get the three of us inside. Once inside, Miss Winter will take us to Haines’ study, where he keeps the diary.”


“It is three rooms away from the one we’ll be entering,” Kitty said. “And across the hall. Haines’ valet is hard of hearing, and his is the bedroom closest to the ground floor, so we should be safe as long as we do not make too much noise.”


“Once we are inside the study, we will look for the diary. It will likely be in a locked safe or drawer, so focus your attentions there. We need to be out in less than five minutes to be safe. We will exit the same way we came in and inspect the diary on our way to the Yard. Is that clear?”


I nodded, as did Miss Winter. My heart was pounding in my chest, my skin tingling with anticipation. I slid my hands down my thigh, feeling the comfortable weight of my gun in my pocket. Kitty followed the movement of my hand with her eyes.


“Are you carrying a gun, Doctor?” she asked.


I glanced at Holmes, and then nodded. “I was a soldier before I came back to London,” I explained.


“Are you worried about violence tonight?” she asked.


Again, I glanced at Holmes, but his eyes were dark and unreadable. So again, I nodded slowly. “I like to be prepared, no matter what happens. It has come in handy before.”


“I see,” she said. But she didn’t say anything after that, and the rest of our cab ride was quiet.


Holmes stopped the cab about a block from Haines’ house, and we walked quickly and quietly to the house. Once we arrived, Holmes took a quick walk around the house to look for lights while Kitty and I put our masks on. When Holmes returned, he put his mask on, and I tied the knot for him. Then we went to the window Holmes had indicated.


It was a matter of a minute for him to unlock the window, and he darted inside quickly, and then extended a hand to help Kitty inside. She fisted her skirt into her hand, the skin of her calves apparent in the moonlight. I looked away while she climbed in, and then scrambled after, pulling the window partially closed.


Once I was inside, Holmes pressed a finger to his lip and looked at Kitty, who crossed the room quickly and opened the door. She surveyed the hall, and then waved us forward. We followed her, stepping carefully, as she led us three doors down the hall. She turned the door knob and then frowned.


“It’s locked,” she mouthed at us, and moved as Holmes stepped forward. He knelt in front of the door, pulling out his pick locks, and I moved so I could keep an eye on the stairwell. Holmes had the door open quickly, and I turned and moved into the room after Holmes and Kitty.


Holmes gestured quickly, pointing me towards the bookshelf. I stepped over and began rifling through the books, looking for a hidden compartment.


“I found it,” Kitty said a moment later. I looked over.


In the dim light, I could just make out the pale slash of her cheek. I could see her knuckles, as white as her face, wrapped around the brown leather book in her hands, all of her focus turned upon it. She didn’t flinch as Holmes slowly walked over to her and put his hands on her shoulders.


“We have to go, Kitty,” he said.


Kitty jerked her head up and nodded. I heard a catch in her throat and wondered if I would see, in better light, tears on her face. “Yes,” she said. “We have to go.”


Holmes took the book from her, his hands slow and gentle. She watched his every move as Holmes tucked the book underneath his jacket. Then she tipped her head back, took a deep breath, and headed for the door.


We were outside again a moment later and on our way back to Baker Street within five minutes.


It was the easiest case I’d ever had while with Holmes.


******
In the morning, Holmes and I left for Scotland Yard. Martha had set up Kitty in my consulting room, providing her with sheets and blankets, and a nice pillow, and when we left she was still sleeping, dark shadows underneath her eyes.


We arrived early at Scotland Yard, which was bustling with the morning activity. I caught a glance of Tracey, who was barking orders at some of the constables, and Gregson, newly promoted to Sergeant. Holmes led the way back to Lestrade’s office, where he was presumably taking his morning tea.


Holmes threw open the door, and it banged against the wall. Lestrade jumped and choked on his tea, the cup halfway to his mouth. “Holmes!” Lestrade exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”


“You demanded evidence, and we have brought evidence,” Holmes said, taking a seat. I stood behind him, folding my arms behind my back.


“Evidence of what?” Lestrade asked, setting down his teacup. He wiped errant moisture from his moustache and rested his arms on his desk.


“Evidence that Bartholomew Haines is an abuser of women and a murderer,” Holmes said. He reached into his coat and pulled out the diary, setting it down on the desk and pushing it towards Lestrade.


Lestrade looked down at the proffered book. “What is this?” he asked.


“Uh… evidence,” I said, feeling like perhaps Lestrade hadn’t had enough tea yet.


“It is a lust diary,” Holmes said, enunciating carefully. He brushed his fingertips over the cover. “In it, you will find details of all the women Haines has ruined. I have taken a glance at its contents. It is… despicable. I think it is all you will need to put Haines in Newgate.”


Lestrade stared down at the book and let out a long, aggrieved sigh. “Holmes…”


“In addition to that, we have the testimony of one of his victims. As well as the bracelets found on the two dead women, which are a match for the one our living victim has, and is described in detail in the diary. Between all of these, you should have enough evidence to at least bring Haines in for questioning.”


“Holmes…”


I looked at Lestrade and saw the grieved look on his face and realized, suddenly, that it didn’t matter how much evidence Holmes presented. Lestrade had no intention of investigating.


“Why not?” I asked, my voice sharper than I intended. Holmes turned and looked up at me, squinting. “Holmes, he has no intention of investigating. He never did. Why not, Lestrade? Explain it to us.”


Lestrade dropped his head down on his chest. He began tapping his fingers on the desk. “Watson, Holmes, the police have known about Haines for a long time. But he will be an MP this time next year, and I have strictest orders to leave him alone. From the Commissioner himself.”


“I don’t understand,” Holmes said.


“Haines is married to Lord Richard’s daughter. Imagine the scandal if it were revealed that her husband was a predator. A man that close to the Crown, involved in sexual depravity? It would shake Society.”


“Perhaps it is time Society is shaken, then,” I said through clenched teeth.


“I have my orders, Watson.”


“So disobey them!” I exploded, throwing my hands in the air. “I have seen you disobey orders before, Lestrade; do it again!”


Lestrade got to his feet as well, crossing around his desk to stand in front of me. Holmes jumped up and put himself between us, extending his arms to keep us apart. “I disobeyed orders to save Holmes’ life! I will not disobey orders for some whore for whom you’ve developed a fondness!”


“She is not some whore! She is a woman, deserving of respect, and you will give it to her!” I yelled. Somehow I found myself between Holmes and Lestrade, having placed Holmes behind me. I felt Holmes’ hand on my back. I took a steadying breath, and made of point of speaking quietly. “She deserves justice, Lestrade. She deserves as much justice as the daughter of a Lord or the wife of a merchant.”


“Then find me a daughter of a Lord or the wife of a merchant who has been hurt by Haines,” Lestrade said. “Because no one wants to disrupt Society for a prostitute.”


“She was a servant first,” I whispered.


“That isn’t much better,” Lestrade replied. He looked at me, and his face gentled. “Doctor Watson, I understand your frustration. But this is the way things work. I’m sorry.” He reached over and picked up the diary, looked at it for a long moment, and then handed it back to me. I cradled it to my chest, our one piece of evidence.


“Come, Watson,” Holmes said, and took me by the elbow. “We should leave now.”


I let him guide me, but then turned back around before we reached the door. “What do I tell her, Lestrade?” I asked, my voice cracking. “What do I tell her?”


Lestrade sighed, leaning on his desk, his back to me. “You tell her you’re sorry,” he said, “and that this is just how the world works. She’d better get used to it.”


Holmes squeezed my elbow, and we left.


******
When we arrived home, Martha was waiting in the foyer for us. She looked at our faces and pressed her hand to her mouth. “It did not go well?” she asked quietly.


I shrugged off my coat, handing it to her. “No,” I said, just as quietly.


“We will figure something out,” Holmes said, ripping his coat off and dropping it on the floor. He dug around in his jacket pocket and pulled out his cigarettes, lighting one. I longed for my pipe, but clamped down on the urge. It had been two and a half years, and I did not need it. He fumbled with his matches, dropping a lit one on the floor. I stamped it out quickly as he finally managed to light his cigarette. “So we do not go through Lestrade. Or Scotland Yard. There are other ways.”


“What ways, Holmes?” I asked tiredly. I walked into the sitting room and sat in my chair. Holmes followed but instead of sitting, paced behind my chair. “What ways are there, outside of the law?”


Holmes grunted. “I do not know. Maybe Mycroft, or- the Queen owes me a favour.”


“The Queen gave you a dog,” I said dryly.


“Then Mycroft. Mycroft will help.”


“Who do you think told the Commissioner to leave Haines alone?” I asked. “It was not something he came up with by himself. It was an order from the government, Holmes. There are no other ways.”


Holmes sighed and ran a hand over his head. “Mrs. Hudson!” he yelled.


“I am right here, Mr. Holmes,” Martha said. “You do not need to shout.”


He gave her a tense smile. “Is Miss Winter still here?”


Martha nodded. “She has been waiting in your consulting room, John.”


Holmes looked at me, arms on his hips. I shook my head. “Let her have a few more hours,” I said. “We will tell her after tea.”


“Agreed,” Holmes said. He turned to Martha. “Mrs. Hudson, we will have another for tea.”


“Of course, Mr. Holmes.”


She turned and left, presumably to begin making biscuits for later. I tapped my finger on the arm of the chair. “Should we discuss how we should tell her?”


He sat down, finally, and nodded. “I think that is for the best.”


******
We agreed it was best to tell her during tea, so after Martha poured a cup for Kitty and then left the room, I cleared my throat and said, “We went to Scotland Yard today with the diary, Miss Winter.”


She looked up from her cup, her eyes bright. “Yes, Doctor Watson?”


I glanced at Holmes, my chest aching. I did not think I could get the rest of the words out, so tight was my throat. Holmes nodded and shifted in his seat so he was facing Kitty.


“Miss Winter, the police have decided not to pursue an investigation at this time,” Holmes said. He said it calmly, gently, exactly as we had discussed. We wanted to break the news to her gently, since we were the ones who so foolishly raised her hopes. The tightness in my throat grew, choking me.


Kitty’s hands tightened, almost imperceptibly, around her tea cup. She carefully sat it down and folded her hands in her lap. “Why not?” she asked. Her voice was as calm and steady as Holmes.


“Because he is an important man,” I said bitterly, before I could stop myself.


Kitty glanced at me, and her lips quirked upwards. “And I am a whore.”


“No, Miss Winter,” I said, shaking my head, but she stood up, brushing her skirt off.


“It is because I am a whore, and he is an important man. Perhaps if I was rich, like his pretty wife, then there would be something to do… but I am not. And so they will not investigate,” she said. Her voice, usually so low and lovely, grew hoarse as she spoke. I imagined she was holding back tears.


Holmes rose as well and extended a hand toward Kitty. “I assure you, we will continue to seek justice on your behalf. Perhaps-”


“No,” she said shortly, and stepped away from Holmes’ hand. “No. It is as I said before. There is no justice in this land but God’s justice, for women like me. If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I would like to take a moment to gather my things from the room you lent me, and then I will be on my way. I have wages to make up.”


She began to leave, her spine straight and head held high. “Miss Winter,” I said. She stopped, turning slightly. “Miss Winter, we are sorry.”


She rested her hand on the door frame, ducking her face out of view for a moment. When she looked back up again, her face was wet. “I know. You tried, Doctor Watson. Mr. Holmes. It is more than anyone else has ever done.”


She disappeared up the stairs, leaving Holmes and I alone with our tea. I lifted the rapidly cooling cup and took a halfhearted sip.


“She is quite a woman, Miss Winter,” Holmes said, sitting back down. He picked up a biscuit and took a bite. I didn’t understand how he could eat. But then I looked at him and saw how mechanically he was eating, and better understood.


“She deserved better,” I said.


“Yes.”


I pulled the diary out of my jacket, where I had kept it all morning, and set it on the table. “All of these women- they deserve better.”


Holmes looked at the diary for a long moment. “But would justice have truly been served, Watson, had we exposed Haines for what he was?” he asked. I looked at him. He pulled off his glasses, cleaning them with his shirtsleeve. “They are still ruined women, no matter how it happened. Would their lives have changed at all, with Haines behind bars, or hung?”


I thought about the women we had seen in Whitechapel, of Jane and Bet and the still unnamed woman Lily had found. I had worked with prostitutes before, as a doctor, and I knew all too well that there was little that would change for those women. Sometimes they found work as needlewomen, or as flower girls, but I had never met a woman who managed to rise much beyond that. I wondered how many of my patients had begun as servants, or as governesses, or washerwomen or milliners, only to find doors suddenly closed to them because of sexual indiscretions, wanted and unwanted.


“They at least would have had the peace of knowing he was no longer a threat,” I said quietly. I took another sip of tea and then stood up, brushing crumbs off my lap. “I am going to see if I can help her.”


“Of course,” Holmes said, and took another biscuit.


I walked slowly up the stairs, trying to think of what I would say to Miss Winter. The more I thought about it, the more I thought that it might be best if I didn’t say anything at all. When I reached my consulting room, I rolled my shoulders back, straightened my jacket, and knocked.


“Miss Winter?” I called softly. “I would like to help you, if you would permit me.”


I waited a moment, but she didn’t say anything. I licked my lips and knocked again. “Miss Winter, please let me in.” She still didn’t say anything, so I sighed and turned the doorknob. “Miss Winter-”


I was confronted with an empty room. I blinked, and looked over at the window. It was open, the wind fluttering the curtains.


“No,” I said, “no, no, no.” I hurried over to my desk and pulled open the drawer, frantically digging through the contents. Behind me, I heard Holmes’ footsteps on the stairs. I ignored him and continued my search.


“Watson?” he said from the doorway.


“No, no, no,” I mumbled, and pulled the entire drawer out and dumped it on the ground. “No, no.”


“Watson, where is Miss Winter?” Holmes asked, stepping into the room.


“Gone,” I said, and stood upright. “And she has my gun.”


******
“Why was your gun in her room?” Holmes yelled at me as the carriage went as fast as it could toward Haines’ house.


I buried my face in my hands, rocking back and forth. “I was helping Martha set up the room, when we got back last night, and it was late, and I often keep it in my desk, so I just… put it there. I didn’t think she would take it!”


“Clearly!”


“You thought Lestrade would take her case!” I yelled back. “You thought this would all be resolved by now! The gun should never have been a worry!”


Holmes glared at me, and I glared at him. Then he groaned and sat back, banging on the roof of the cab. “Faster, cabbie! There is a sovereign in it for you!” He pursed his lips. “You have a sovereign, don’t you, Watson?”


I rolled my eyes, but nodded. I had learned long ago to carry extra money with me when out with Holmes. Three years absence had not quite killed the habit.


“Do you really think she is going to shoot Haines?” I asked. “You do not think we should be headed for her lodging house?”


Holmes shook his head. “Miss Winter does not strike me as the suicidal sort.”


It wasn’t quite the reassurance I was hoping for, but it would have to do.


We spent the rest of the ride not speaking to each other, both of our knees jiggling up and down while we waited to reach Belgravia. The traffic was worse than hoped for, which slowed us down. I could only hope that Kitty was walking, or that she was at least caught in the same traffic we were. I kept pulling out my watch to look at it, until Holmes snatched it away and shoved it deep inside his coat pockets. After that, I spent my time picking at the torn threads on my gloves.


When the cab finally stopped, Holmes slammed open the door and went pelting down the street, pushing people out of his way. I threw a handful of coins up at the driver, not even certain I had given him the right amount, then followed after Holmes, occasionally giving apologetic looks at the people he had disrupted.


We reached the front door of Haines house in mere moments, it seemed. Holmes began pounding on the door, but I shoved past him and tried the door knob. The door opened easily, and we rushed into the house. We had no plan, I realized, but somehow we moved as one, rushing towards the study and pushing past the servants that tried to stop us.


I had just reached the study door when a gun shot rang out.


I froze. Holmes ran into my back. “Watson,” he whispered.


“Maybe-”


Then there was another gunshot, and another. They were coming from the study, just a few feet away. I could only hear a high pitched ringing in my ears. My lips were numb, and my fingers. I could feel my heart in my cheeks. Behind me, I felt puffs of air hitting me in the neck. I couldn’t figure out how Small could breathe on me like this. He was tied to me, back to back. I should not feel his breath.


Then I came to my senses. Holmes, panting. The breath was from Holmes.


I closed my eyes and leaned my forehead against the door. Then I opened it and stepped inside.


Holmes shoved past me, but didn’t get much further than me. Kitty Winter stood in the center of the room, staring down at Haines, my gun in her hand. Her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes, always so bright but when clouded with drink, were now blazing.


Numbly, I walked over and crouched by Haines. He was a smaller man than I expected, an inch or two shorter than me, with a broad chest that had two bullet holes in it. The third bullet had made its home in his throat. I pulled off my glove with my teeth and tried to find his carotid artery, to take his pulse, but the artery was gone, along with most of his throat. My hand came away covered in blood. I wiped it on my trousers.


Above me, Kitty was still staring down at him. I expected to see something like anger or rage, or even hopelessness and unhappiness on her face, but to my surprise, her face was devoid of emotion. But for her eyes, which still blazed.


“Miss Winter,” Holmes said quietly, stepping forward and over the body so he stood in front of her. “Give me the gun.”


Kitty handed it over, not resisting. Holmes took it and handed it down to me. I put it in my coat.


“Now,” he said. “Run.”


It took a moment for the words to sink in. “Holmes,” I whispered.


“No,” she said. Her voice was once again smooth and pleasing to hear. “No, Mr. Holmes. I will not run.”


Holmes made a whining sound and took her hands, shaking them urgently. “Miss Winter, our law is clear. You will be hanged, if you are found here, if you are caught.”


“Our law is not clear, Mr. Holmes. If it were, I would not be here today. But I will not flee. He would have,” she said, and she leaned past Holmes to spit on Haines’ corpse, “but I am a better person than him. So I will take the punishment the law sees fit to give.”


I stood up. “It is not just.”


Kitty looked at me, pity in her eyes. “Neither was this,” she said, jerking her chin at Haines. “The only justice is God’s justice. God will judge him sooner, now. And me as well. I can be at peace with that. I can be at peace."


Then she began to cry, slow, dignified tears. Her knees buckled, and Holmes gently lowered her to the ground, holding her in his arms.


I stood there and watched, and ignored the pain in my throat and the tears on my cheeks.


******
A week later, Holmes stepped into my consulting room after my final patient of the day had left and shut the door. I looked up at him, washing my hands.


“Lestrade says she’ll be tried at Old Bailey in a week,” he said.


I nodded. “What sentence will the prosecutor be asking for?”


“Death by hanging.”


I pursed my lips, but continued washing my hands. There was blood underneath the fingernails, and Martha grew quite cross if I ate any of her cooking with blood under my nails.


“I requested to see her,” Holmes said, folding his arms.


I paused. “And?”


“And he denied my request. He feels like we antagonized her and led her to murder Haines.”


“Didn’t we?” I asked. “She never would have approached him if not for us. If not for our failure.”


Holmes sighed. “We cannot blame ourselves, Watson.”


I couldn’t look at him. I didn’t blame myself, per se. Not for Haines’ death. Frankly, I felt a certain amount of gratitude that Haines was dead and no longer hurting women who had very little power to do anything about it. I felt shame, though, and grief that we had so heartlessly raised Kitty’s hopes and promised what we could not actually provide.


“Do you think we do any good, Holmes?” I asked, halting him as he began to leave my room.


“Yes,” he said firmly. “I believe we are helping people.”


I sighed. “It is… it is as though we are lancing boils, when a cancer grows beneath the skin.”


“And does not lancing boils provide some relief?”


“It does,” I admitted.


“Then view it like that,” Holmes said. “We are lancing boils until we can attack the cancer.”


“Yes,” I said, though it brought no real comfort. “Yes.”


******
Holmes and I were not called to testify at Miss Winter’s trial, a small mercy that Lestrade arranged for us. On the day of her trial, we instead went back to the Thames to visit Johnson and Lily.


We stepped gingerly along the shore, the tide having recently retreated. Johnson spotted us first, shouting “Sherlock!” to get our attention, waving his arms. His boat was fully beached this time, and he stood next to it, pulling sacks out of it. Further down the shore, Lily was using a stick to poke around in the mud.


“Johnson!” Holmes yelled, waving back excitedly.


“He sees us, Holmes,” I said with a sigh.


We reached Johnson’s boat and shook hands with him. “What brings you back to the Thames, Sherlock, Doctor Watson?” he asked, turning back to his sacks.


“We are actually here to see Miss Lily,” Holmes said, and dug the bracelet we had borrowed from her out of his pocket. Johnson lit up.


“She will be very happy. Lily!” Johnson called.


The mudlark looked up from whatever she was poking at and ran over to us, her stick in hand. She smiled at us. “Hello again! Do you have my bracelet?”


I watched as Holmes knelt down and held out the bracelet. “Yes, Miss Lily,” he said softly. “We keep… we try to keep our promises.”


Lily took the bracelet and put it around her wrist, dropping her stick as she did so. She held her arm up and admired it in the morning light. I could taste blood in my throat, and I crouched down as well. I reached over and took both of her hands in mine.


“Miss Lily, if you ever find yourself in need of help, please come to get Mr. Holmes and myself. We are at 221b Baker Street. Can you remember that?”


“221b Baker Street,” she said, and then shook my hands off. She reached into a pouch tied to the rope she used as a belt and pulled out Holmes’ watch, handing it to him.


“A promise is a promise,” she said, smiling. Holmes nodded, his own smile tight.


“A promise is a promise,” I echoed. She laughed and skipped away, the light glinting off the bracelet.


******
In the weeks after Miss Winter’s sentencing, I sat down and wrote her story. I changed some details, but I kept the key points: the injustice of her situation, the cruelty of the man who ruined her, the willingness of the police, and the government, to look in the other direction. I wrote it over the course of a week, ignoring Martha and avoiding Holmes, needing the world to know about Miss Winter and all she had survived.


When I presented the story to my editor, he gave it back to me and said, “No one cares about poor people, Watson. Turn it into a story about the rich, about dukes and queens, about the famous. Then, your readers will care.”


It seems there is no justice, even in stories.

Comments

[scfrankles.livejournal.com]

A bleak story but such a convincing and enthralling one. Your writing style is so unobtrusive, if that doesn’t come across as a backhanded compliment. There’s no barrier between the reader and the story - I felt as though I was right there inside it.


“No, Mr. Holmes. I will not run.”

Holmes made a whining sound and took her hands, shaking them urgently. “Miss Winter, our law is clear. You will be hanged, if you are found here, if you are caught.”

“Our law is not clear, Mr. Holmes. If it were, I would not be here today. But I will not flee. He would have,” she said, and she leaned past Holmes to spit on Haines’ corpse, “but I am a better person than him. So I will take the punishment the law sees fit to give.”

I stood up. “It is not just.”

Kitty looked at me, pity in her eyes. “Neither was this,” she said, jerking her chin at Haines. “The only justice is God’s justice. God will judge him sooner, now. And me as well. I can be at peace with that. I can be at peace."


I really like how you deal with this aspect of the story. That Miss Winter doesn’t say Haines is a monster who had to be stopped, or that she’s dispensing justice because the police wouldn’t. I admire her for not trying to justify the killing, and having the courage to play by the rules and accept the punishment. Treating the law as having weight, even though the people in charge ignore it altogether. Being noble and treating the world as the just place it should be but only pretends to be.


She held her arm up and admired it in the morning light. I could taste blood in my throat, and I crouched down as well. I reached over and took both of her hands in mine.

“Miss Lily, if you ever find yourself in need of help, please come to get Mr. Holmes and myself. We are at 221b Baker Street. Can you remember that?”


I suppose at the beginning, although I appreciate her situation, it’s difficult to feel completely sympathetic towards Lily. She seems to have no respect for the dead woman - demanding her bracelet for herself. But your story made me rethink how I saw her. When we come back to her it makes you flinch that a child puts on an object that has such horrible connotations. It reminds you that at the bottom of it all, she is just an ordinary little girl who wants something pretty, and that she’s vulnerable and needs protection.

This is a ‘verse I know little about but I really admired all of your characterisations. I also wanted to mention your description of one of the murder victims, Bet. It’s just a paragraph but it gives such a rounded view of her - tells you so much about her and her personality. I felt like I knew her, even though she’s dead before the story begins.