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holmesticeTitle: The Mystery of the Waiting Man
Recipient:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
fauxps
Author:errantcomment
Characters/Pairings: Holmes/Watson (canon)
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Illness, OC death, gunfire.
Summary: It is likely I will never allow this account to go to my editor, the most excellent Doctor Conan-Doyle. However, I hope by writing it down, I will be able to make some sense of the events that occurred... Many thanks to my always awesome, always fragrant beta.
It is likely I will never allow this account to go to my editor, the most excellent Doctor Conan-Doyle. However, I hope by writing it down, I will be able to make some sense of the events that occurred.
It was a bitter winter. I was still living at Baker Street at the time with my great friend, Sherlock Holmes. For weeks we had been content to remain within our rooms, toasting ourselves by the fire. Icicles hung down from the window, and the world outside was white with snow. People hurried from place to place, unrecognisable under layers of mufflers and coats. Cabbies hunched miserably over their reins with moisture dripping off their hats. In the morning, the hooves of horses would ring on frosty cobbles. By evening, even the sound of iron on stone was drowned by soft flakes. Children made snowmen and threw snowballs- they were the only ones who appeared to enjoy the onslaught. By New Year though, even they were beginning to flag, copying their parents in rushing from place to place to try and stay warm and dry.
Holmes stood up from where he had been reading the paper and stretched, twisting his lean back and standing on tiptoe, face blissful as the muscles loosened. Sleet pattered against the window. He leaned on the back of my chair, dangling fingers brushing my hair lightly as he looked over my shoulder. Finding nothing of interest in my yellow-backed novel, he moved to the window.
“What’s this?” he said, abruptly. “Just as I thought we were both going become lazy house cats for the winter,” swiftly he moved to the bell, and rang for Mrs. Hudson.
“Is someone expected?” I asked, putting aside my book.
“Yes, and on a matter of some delicacy, I fear,” Holmes smiled at Mrs. Hudson as she appeared.
“Could you please bring a hot toddy? I think our visitor has been out the cold for quite some time,”
It was not long after Mrs. Hudson had left again that there was a ring at the door, and the boy showed in Detective Inspector Lestrade, who moved straight to the fire and stood in front of it, warming holding out his hands with a little sigh.
“What brings you here in such inclement weather, Lestrade?” Holmes sat down again, and indicated he should do the same.
“I won’t sit Holmes, I can’t stay long. There’s been a murder, and I really am stumped.” Holmes regarded Lestrade over his long fingers. “There’s no motive, no suspects, no murder weapon-,”
“No murder weapon?” Holmes raised an eyebrow.
“None at all, and the wound is like nothing I’ve ever seen. Will you come?”
“Of course, I was just telling Watson we should consider getting out of the house more,” Holmes replied genially, rushing through the room to get to his coat. “Come along, Watson,” With a sigh, I put my book down.
The house in Saint John’s Wood was a rather upmarket place. A couple of bobbies stood outside, huddled disconsolately into oilskins. The weather provided a small mercy in that there were no inquisitive on-lookers or extra police to muddy the waters. Inside, the house was cosy. In the drawing room, a sweet but vapid young lady was collapsed in a chair and being fanned by her maid, while a young man spoke to a uniformed policeman urgently.
“He’s in the bedroom,” Lestrade lead the way. The boot-boy and scullery-maid peeped round the kitchen door in a delighted horror.
The body was lying face-down on the floor of the room. The bed was unmade, and the basin was full of dirty water.
“He got nosebleeds, according to the maid and the cook,” Lestrade explained when he saw. “We think he had just cleaned himself up after such an episode- hence the water. The murderer got out of the window- you can see it’s been open and shut again. Before you say, he didn’t have to leave footprints because the path round the side of the house and onto the street has been cleared daily of snow.”
Holmes nodded distractedly, already crouched by the body. He carefully moved cloth to expose the man’s head, and murmured in surprise.
“Look, Watson, the wound is perfectly round. I’ve never seen anything like it. Right through the eye-socket and into the brain. There’s the cause of death, anyway.” He began to methodically search the room.
“We’ve already looked for the murder weapon,” Lestrade protested.
“Yes, and I don’t doubt that you looked very hard. I am not looking for a weapon, Lestrade, I am looking for a motive,” Holmes tumbled about the contents of a drawer, shut it, and moved to a pile of paper on the dresser. “Aha! What do we have here?”
“The constable said that they were letters from his sweetheart, the young lady downstairs,”
“Dear me, if she is sending him this sort of billet-doux, I dread to think what she might do if she hated him,” my friend said in obvious amusement. “Listen to this: We know your secret. You have a week to leave the city before we take steps... Ah, romance!” his eyes twinkled. “I think I must talk to this singular young lady,”
Miss Emily Waters had recovered well enough to speak to us when we came into the room.
“I really have no idea, Mister Holmes, Miles was such a kind, sweet man, I can’t imagine him having an enemy in the world!” she looked up at us with wet blue eyes.
“Can you tell us anything about these? We found them in his correspondence,” The young lady took one in a trembling hand.
“I have no idea. Who would write such nasty things?” She handed it back like it might bite her.
“Did you hear anything?” Holmes tucked the letter away in his pocket.
“No, I don’t know who would have done it, he was such a kind, sweet man.” She sniffed and gulped and blew her nose.
“How did you meet the unfortunate?” Holmes settled into business, leaning against the small table beside her.
“Miles Hooper was a friend of my brother,” the lady dabbed her eyes “He came down from the university for the holidays. He was so kind to me...”
“Look, I don’t see what my sister has to do with this!” the man from the corner broke in, striding over in angry bounds. “It’s clear she’s very upset, and your damned questions aren’t helping anyone!”
”I apologise if I have upset the young lady,” said Holmes, stiffly. “Perhaps, my dear, you could come and see me when you feel a bit better?”
She took the card and sniffed into her handkerchief.
When we reached Baker Street once more, Holmes reassured Lestrade that he would give the case his full attention, and settled down in front of the fire. He pulled out his pipe, and lit it. The smell of noxious, rough shag filled the room, and he was quite silent. Knowing the moods of my room-mate, I sat and read till the smoke filled the room and my lungs, and then slipped out to my club.
It was late when I got home, and I must confess that the rich mix of good food and several brandies meant that all I was thinking of was my warm bed. The room was still thick with smoke, and the light came from the coals in the fire. I could see Holmes’ legs extending to the fire, and his violin bow dangling from limp fingers. I approached silently- I had long had the fear of Mrs. Hudson instilled into me about wet boots on a clean carpet. Holmes’ eyes were closed, and his pipe still smouldered in one hand. I carefully took it, and my fingers brushed against his. He shifted, and muttered in his sleep. The firelight lit his fine features, and highlighted the hollows of his cheeks and the shadow of his mouth. I picked up a blanket, and carefully draped it round him, pushing back a lick of hair that had fallen over his forehead. The palm of my hand tingled under the smoothness of his dark hair, and the warmth of his skin. Then I slipped off to my room, flushed and dizzied, curling my hand round the place his hair had brushed for no good reason I was willing to discern.
The next morning, I rose late. Breakfast was already laid, and Holmes had already eaten and left. I watched sleet throw itself against the window, tried to read the paper, and tried not to brood on the way the coals had thrown a red light onto Holmes’ face in the dark.
The gas-lamps in the street outside had been lit before Holmes returned. Or at least, a muffled street porter disappeared back into his room. Holmes’ voice though, floated out the door as he changed.
“The good thing about this weather, Watson, is that all that really is required for disguise is a scarf and a hat.” He came back out looking more himself, in his favourite mouse-coloured dressing-gown, and sat down in front of the fire. He lit his pipe with a coal from the fire, and then sat back.
“Today has been a day of most interesting developments, Watson. I believe I know who the blackmailer is.”
“This is good news indeed!” I cried.
“I think I even realise what the murder weapon is,” he looked at me with his eyes gleaming.
“Astounding! Do you plan to tell me?”
“No, Watson, you know I like to have all the facts of a case before I lay it out. Unfortunately, the perpetrator is surrounded. No doubt he fears I may find him. I have of course, managed to think of a plan, but it shall have to wait til this evening. I have already contacted Lestrade, and he assures me that he and his men will be in position. If you are not busy, you would be more than welcome to join me- I may need you,”
“Anything you need, Holmes,” I said.
“Your old service revolver would be best.”
“Oh, of course,” I said, and firmly quashed any disappointment I might have felt. I was being ridiculous. Holmes smiled at me, and proceeded to entertain me with a mixture of music and talk for the rest of the day. Occasionally, he would reach across and touch my knee, or my arm, as if to make sure I understood. I wonder if he knew each touch sent a trail of goosebumps up my back.
After a fine meal, laid on by Mrs. Hudson, we departed. The wind had dropped, and the sky, for once, had cleared. Lestrade met us on the corner outside the house which we had visited previously. Holmes nodded to him, but said nothing. The cold had whipped two spots of colour into his cheeks.
“Are your men in position, Inspector?”
“Just as you say, Mister Holmes.”
“Good. I will go in first, and see if we can’t resolve the matter peacefully. Watson, if you will come with me?” Light spilled out into the night as the maid let us in. I fingered my revolver in my pocket as we were shown into a small study. Waters stood by the fire.
“Ah, Mister Holmes and Doctor Watson. What brings you out so late? Are you any closer to finding the murderer?”
“I believe I am,” Holmes went to the little writing desk and almost negligently picked up an envelope. “In fact, sir, I know I am,” He looked at the young man keenly.
The colour drained from Waters’ face.
“But- but how could you-”
“It was merely a case of putting all the facts together,” Holmes said, simply. “The first clue was in your sister’s demeanour. She knew Hooper was going to die- she referred to him in the past tense all the way through our conversation, and repeated the words ‘kind’ and ‘sweet’ several times. She had been prepped in what to say, by yourself I assume. She was upset because your source of income had been lost.” He leaned against the mantle piece, apparently at ease.
“Her dress was new, but her petticoats were old, almost worn. She was wearing a diamond necklace but her rosary was cheap. She probably inherited it from a relative, who couldn’t afford to give her anything else. She doesn’t come from money, and the things she did have spoke of someone more concerned with the gesture than the practicality- so, her fiancée, not her brother.”
“That will never hold up in a court of law,” scoffed Waters. He was circling us, and I wondered if pulling my revolver would be the best plan of action. He and Holmes never broke eye contact.
“Clearly. So I did a little digging- that’s where I was all day, Watson- and found from the maid- such an obliging, little thing, that you were living on a very small allowance left by a maiden aunt. Mister Hooper was to be your saving grace.” Holmes moved away from the fireplace again, keeping himself between Waters and the wall.
“But the maid also said that things had been tense- difficult, almost, over the last few weeks. Something between Mister Waters and Mister Hooper. Some more digging and I found that Mister Hooper’s family had lost a fair sum of money in stocks; Mister Hooper could no longer be the saving grace you hoped for.”
I tried to move round to the window, so that Waters could not call for help.
“So you started sending poison pen letters, hoping to get rid of him. Mister Hooper had abandoned a fiancée in America, fleeing the country, leaving the poor woman with a fatherless child. You hoped to scare him off, but Hooper guessed who was behind the attacks. You quarrelled. Having warned your sister that it may come to blows, you snapped an icicle off the window outside, and stabbed Hooper- no doubt inspired by the penny dreadfuls I see by the fire. Then you left it in the basin, where it soon melted. Mister Hooper suffered from regular nosebleeds, so no one would comment on the water. No one would even know what had been used. Fortunately, I was able to observe that not only was the water far too cold to wash in, but also the peculiar way the weapon had fit the eye-socket. The towel next to the basin also showed no signs of blood or damp from someone drying their face or hands.”
“Very good, Mister Holmes. I suppose you have a sample of my handwriting?” Holmes held up the envelope.
“Well,” said Waters, edging backwards. “Much good may it do you!” He jangled the bell.
“It’s no good, Mister Waters. The people that you had waiting for us have already been apprehended. A pretty, little lot. You need to choose your friends more carefully, Mister Waters, I’m sure it is not profitable to hang around with such thugs,” Holmes was smiling, but he was on edge, watching our man.
Suddenly, Waters pulled out a small revolver and fired at Holmes. As Holmes ducked, Waters opened the window and leapt out. Holmes was soon after him.
“Holmes!” I called, also climbing from the window. Lestrade was on my heels. As I ran out into the street, my foot caught a patch of icy ground wrongly and I went crashing down. My old wound seized, exacerbated by the sudden change of temperature. Lestrade went to one knee beside me.
“Are you alright?”
“Yes, fine, help me up,” I growled, exasperated and manners quite forgotten. Together, we hobbled to a low wall. A shot rang out over the still night.
“Holmes!” I half-whispered to Lestrade. He looked around for the source of the noise.
“Go and find him, Lestrade. I will be fine,” I massaged the muscles, trying to loosen them through my thick clothes as Lestrade disappeared into the quiet. Presently, a police constable joined me.
“I’m to get you home, Doctor,” he said respectfully.
“What happened?” I asked, impatiently. “Where’s Holmes?”
“I think he went home, sir,” the constable offered me a hand. “We caught our man though,”
“Who was shot?”
“The brother, sir. Cursing a blue streak, he was. Mister Holmes shot him in the leg, sir.”
The ride home was uncomfortable. I was still aching from my fall, and as much as I hate to admit it, even to myself, I was annoyed that Holmes had left me behind. When I got back to our rooms, Holmes still wasn’t back, so I went to bed.
It was still dark, and Mrs. Hudson was standing over me.
“Oh, come quickly, Doctor Watson, something terrible has happened!” It took a lot to fluster our stalwart house-keeper. Lestrade was in our living room, and on the couch was Holmes. He was pale, paler than I have ever seen him. His eyes were closed, and he had a bruise on his cheek and a cut on his chin.
“What happened?” I demanded, dropping down beside him.
“He was found like this by one of our men,” Lestrade said. “We think he was set upon by one of Mister Water’s friends.”
“Mister Waters? Mrs. Hudson, please could you fetch me some blankets? And have the boy stoke up the fire in Mister Holmes’ room, please.” He was freezing, his hands like ice.
“Oh yes, he had quite a few pals, as it turns out. We didn’t quite get them all straight away, I’m afraid, though we have them all now,”
“Yes, thank you, Lestrade. Please ask your men to carry Mister Holmes to his bed. When he comes round, I will ensure that he contacts you. Probably tomorrow.”
Unfortunately, it was not to be. Holmes fell into a fever. I sat by his bedside for four days, rarely sleeping, hardly eating. I could not imagine leaving him, even for an instant. Even now, I cannot bring myself to write what I said to him, half-delirious myself with exhaustion and fear. I am glad no one else heard it, for I certainly would not have a medical licence any more if they had. As he sweated and muttered, that great mind and keen face blunted and misshapen with illness, it was clear that either he would break the fever or the fever would break him. All I could do was wait. I clutched his limp hand, hoping somehow to keep him tethered by sheer force of my will. Finally, I slumped across the quilt, exhausted. I knew I could do no more.
Someone was touching my hair. Long hands smoothed through it and carded it listlessly.
“Dear, faithful Watson. Staying to the last,” I knew the deep voice, although it was cracked and worn with fever. I raised my head, and Holmes smiled at me from his pillow.
“Holmes,” I smiled with true relief.
“You look awful,” he coughed, and I gave him water from the pitcher. “How long -hem!- how long was I out?”
“Four days,” I replied. “They found you in the snow. Holmes, what happened to you?”
“My chase took me into an alley. Mister Water’s tried to climb the fence, and I caught his leg as he fell over the other side. Unfortunately, it alerted one of his thugs,” Holmes sipped more water. “He caught me quite by surprise, a foolish mistake on my part,”
I didn’t answer. How much of his delirium did Holmes actually remember? What could he remember of what I had said?
“You shall have to contact Lestrade for me, no doubt he needs my statement,” Holmes struggled upright, and swung his legs out of the bed. I caught him round his skinny midriff as he sagged.
“You said you were ill yourself, don’t be such an ass,” I scolded him, trying to struggle his lanky form back onto the bed. I ended up sat on the bed, Holmes’ shoulder blades poking me in the chest. I held on, keeping him upright.
“You’ll still be weak,” I said more gently.
“This is most vexing, Watson. I feel like an old man,” Holmes’ head rested on my shoulder. His hair tickled my nose. I could feel his heart beating under the thin cloth of his nightclothes. His hand rested on mine.
“You should. I thought I- we were going to lose you for a moment,” I was not inclined to move, and neither was Holmes, apparently.
“Oh, no, you can’t get rid of me that easily,” Holmes said lightly, and dry coughs racked his body again.
I rubbed his back, a little uselessly. He had lost weight with the fever. He shifted so he could look me in the face. “I am sorry to have worried you,” he said softly. I stared at him, looking not the calculating machine that so many people seemed to see, but the beating and all-too-fragile heart within. “You do so much for me, Watson, and I fear I do little to repay you.”
“Not- not at all Holmes,” I didn’t move, didn’t want to even breathe. Holmes’ face was inches from mine. I could close the gap. For a moment, the longest moment, I thought about doing it.
“We can’t sit here all day,” Holmes struggled off me and clutched the side of the bed as he tried to straighten up. “We’ve wasted quite enough time,” His legs were still weak, but with my help I was able to help him through to the front room.
Lestrade was sat by the fire. Snow fell in heavy clumps outside. He stared across at Holmes, who was still gaunt and pale.
“Mister Waters is currently in the hospital. He’s threatening to press charges, Holmes. His story is you attacked him in a frenzy, before chasing him through the back-alleys,” his honest face was worried. “You’d better have something good.”
Holmes settled back in his chair. He had acquiesced to rug about his knees with little grace, and now he plucked at it as he spoke, telling Lestrade about the confrontation in the study.
At the end of his story- with many pauses to rest, Lestrade commented “Remarkable,” and finished his sentence with a flourish.
When Lestrade had left, I helped Holmes up.
“There remains only two mysteries, though I think if we clear up one, we shall soon clear up another,” he said we collapsed onto the side of his bed.
“Oh?” I asked.
“Well, the first, of course, is the mystery of the man in the darkened room, watching another.” I went cold inside. “And the other is the mystery of the man who remains by another’s sickbed, even though he knows there is nothing more that can be done,” Holmes looked at me keenly. I could have not said anything if I had wanted to. “The other man wakes. What is he to think? I think I can answer that one well enough.”
I swallowed.
“Of course, the watcher is a man used to living in the margins, a bit of a natural turn for breaking the law...” Holmes slid closer. I tried not to breathe. His arm nudged mine. “You might ask about the watched man, but while he is fascinating in his own right, he could not be as brilliant as he is without the watcher...” Our lips met and for a moment, time stopped. His lips were chapped from illness, but they were still the sweetest thing I have ever put to mine.
“I think we can declare the mystery solved,” Holmes said, as we pulled apart. I tugged him close again.
Outside, the icicles started to melt.
Recipient:
fauxpsAuthor:
errantcomment Characters/Pairings: Holmes/Watson (canon)
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Illness, OC death, gunfire.
Summary: It is likely I will never allow this account to go to my editor, the most excellent Doctor Conan-Doyle. However, I hope by writing it down, I will be able to make some sense of the events that occurred... Many thanks to my always awesome, always fragrant beta.
It is likely I will never allow this account to go to my editor, the most excellent Doctor Conan-Doyle. However, I hope by writing it down, I will be able to make some sense of the events that occurred.
It was a bitter winter. I was still living at Baker Street at the time with my great friend, Sherlock Holmes. For weeks we had been content to remain within our rooms, toasting ourselves by the fire. Icicles hung down from the window, and the world outside was white with snow. People hurried from place to place, unrecognisable under layers of mufflers and coats. Cabbies hunched miserably over their reins with moisture dripping off their hats. In the morning, the hooves of horses would ring on frosty cobbles. By evening, even the sound of iron on stone was drowned by soft flakes. Children made snowmen and threw snowballs- they were the only ones who appeared to enjoy the onslaught. By New Year though, even they were beginning to flag, copying their parents in rushing from place to place to try and stay warm and dry.
Holmes stood up from where he had been reading the paper and stretched, twisting his lean back and standing on tiptoe, face blissful as the muscles loosened. Sleet pattered against the window. He leaned on the back of my chair, dangling fingers brushing my hair lightly as he looked over my shoulder. Finding nothing of interest in my yellow-backed novel, he moved to the window.
“What’s this?” he said, abruptly. “Just as I thought we were both going become lazy house cats for the winter,” swiftly he moved to the bell, and rang for Mrs. Hudson.
“Is someone expected?” I asked, putting aside my book.
“Yes, and on a matter of some delicacy, I fear,” Holmes smiled at Mrs. Hudson as she appeared.
“Could you please bring a hot toddy? I think our visitor has been out the cold for quite some time,”
It was not long after Mrs. Hudson had left again that there was a ring at the door, and the boy showed in Detective Inspector Lestrade, who moved straight to the fire and stood in front of it, warming holding out his hands with a little sigh.
“What brings you here in such inclement weather, Lestrade?” Holmes sat down again, and indicated he should do the same.
“I won’t sit Holmes, I can’t stay long. There’s been a murder, and I really am stumped.” Holmes regarded Lestrade over his long fingers. “There’s no motive, no suspects, no murder weapon-,”
“No murder weapon?” Holmes raised an eyebrow.
“None at all, and the wound is like nothing I’ve ever seen. Will you come?”
“Of course, I was just telling Watson we should consider getting out of the house more,” Holmes replied genially, rushing through the room to get to his coat. “Come along, Watson,” With a sigh, I put my book down.
The house in Saint John’s Wood was a rather upmarket place. A couple of bobbies stood outside, huddled disconsolately into oilskins. The weather provided a small mercy in that there were no inquisitive on-lookers or extra police to muddy the waters. Inside, the house was cosy. In the drawing room, a sweet but vapid young lady was collapsed in a chair and being fanned by her maid, while a young man spoke to a uniformed policeman urgently.
“He’s in the bedroom,” Lestrade lead the way. The boot-boy and scullery-maid peeped round the kitchen door in a delighted horror.
The body was lying face-down on the floor of the room. The bed was unmade, and the basin was full of dirty water.
“He got nosebleeds, according to the maid and the cook,” Lestrade explained when he saw. “We think he had just cleaned himself up after such an episode- hence the water. The murderer got out of the window- you can see it’s been open and shut again. Before you say, he didn’t have to leave footprints because the path round the side of the house and onto the street has been cleared daily of snow.”
Holmes nodded distractedly, already crouched by the body. He carefully moved cloth to expose the man’s head, and murmured in surprise.
“Look, Watson, the wound is perfectly round. I’ve never seen anything like it. Right through the eye-socket and into the brain. There’s the cause of death, anyway.” He began to methodically search the room.
“We’ve already looked for the murder weapon,” Lestrade protested.
“Yes, and I don’t doubt that you looked very hard. I am not looking for a weapon, Lestrade, I am looking for a motive,” Holmes tumbled about the contents of a drawer, shut it, and moved to a pile of paper on the dresser. “Aha! What do we have here?”
“The constable said that they were letters from his sweetheart, the young lady downstairs,”
“Dear me, if she is sending him this sort of billet-doux, I dread to think what she might do if she hated him,” my friend said in obvious amusement. “Listen to this: We know your secret. You have a week to leave the city before we take steps... Ah, romance!” his eyes twinkled. “I think I must talk to this singular young lady,”
Miss Emily Waters had recovered well enough to speak to us when we came into the room.
“I really have no idea, Mister Holmes, Miles was such a kind, sweet man, I can’t imagine him having an enemy in the world!” she looked up at us with wet blue eyes.
“Can you tell us anything about these? We found them in his correspondence,” The young lady took one in a trembling hand.
“I have no idea. Who would write such nasty things?” She handed it back like it might bite her.
“Did you hear anything?” Holmes tucked the letter away in his pocket.
“No, I don’t know who would have done it, he was such a kind, sweet man.” She sniffed and gulped and blew her nose.
“How did you meet the unfortunate?” Holmes settled into business, leaning against the small table beside her.
“Miles Hooper was a friend of my brother,” the lady dabbed her eyes “He came down from the university for the holidays. He was so kind to me...”
“Look, I don’t see what my sister has to do with this!” the man from the corner broke in, striding over in angry bounds. “It’s clear she’s very upset, and your damned questions aren’t helping anyone!”
”I apologise if I have upset the young lady,” said Holmes, stiffly. “Perhaps, my dear, you could come and see me when you feel a bit better?”
She took the card and sniffed into her handkerchief.
When we reached Baker Street once more, Holmes reassured Lestrade that he would give the case his full attention, and settled down in front of the fire. He pulled out his pipe, and lit it. The smell of noxious, rough shag filled the room, and he was quite silent. Knowing the moods of my room-mate, I sat and read till the smoke filled the room and my lungs, and then slipped out to my club.
It was late when I got home, and I must confess that the rich mix of good food and several brandies meant that all I was thinking of was my warm bed. The room was still thick with smoke, and the light came from the coals in the fire. I could see Holmes’ legs extending to the fire, and his violin bow dangling from limp fingers. I approached silently- I had long had the fear of Mrs. Hudson instilled into me about wet boots on a clean carpet. Holmes’ eyes were closed, and his pipe still smouldered in one hand. I carefully took it, and my fingers brushed against his. He shifted, and muttered in his sleep. The firelight lit his fine features, and highlighted the hollows of his cheeks and the shadow of his mouth. I picked up a blanket, and carefully draped it round him, pushing back a lick of hair that had fallen over his forehead. The palm of my hand tingled under the smoothness of his dark hair, and the warmth of his skin. Then I slipped off to my room, flushed and dizzied, curling my hand round the place his hair had brushed for no good reason I was willing to discern.
The next morning, I rose late. Breakfast was already laid, and Holmes had already eaten and left. I watched sleet throw itself against the window, tried to read the paper, and tried not to brood on the way the coals had thrown a red light onto Holmes’ face in the dark.
The gas-lamps in the street outside had been lit before Holmes returned. Or at least, a muffled street porter disappeared back into his room. Holmes’ voice though, floated out the door as he changed.
“The good thing about this weather, Watson, is that all that really is required for disguise is a scarf and a hat.” He came back out looking more himself, in his favourite mouse-coloured dressing-gown, and sat down in front of the fire. He lit his pipe with a coal from the fire, and then sat back.
“Today has been a day of most interesting developments, Watson. I believe I know who the blackmailer is.”
“This is good news indeed!” I cried.
“I think I even realise what the murder weapon is,” he looked at me with his eyes gleaming.
“Astounding! Do you plan to tell me?”
“No, Watson, you know I like to have all the facts of a case before I lay it out. Unfortunately, the perpetrator is surrounded. No doubt he fears I may find him. I have of course, managed to think of a plan, but it shall have to wait til this evening. I have already contacted Lestrade, and he assures me that he and his men will be in position. If you are not busy, you would be more than welcome to join me- I may need you,”
“Anything you need, Holmes,” I said.
“Your old service revolver would be best.”
“Oh, of course,” I said, and firmly quashed any disappointment I might have felt. I was being ridiculous. Holmes smiled at me, and proceeded to entertain me with a mixture of music and talk for the rest of the day. Occasionally, he would reach across and touch my knee, or my arm, as if to make sure I understood. I wonder if he knew each touch sent a trail of goosebumps up my back.
After a fine meal, laid on by Mrs. Hudson, we departed. The wind had dropped, and the sky, for once, had cleared. Lestrade met us on the corner outside the house which we had visited previously. Holmes nodded to him, but said nothing. The cold had whipped two spots of colour into his cheeks.
“Are your men in position, Inspector?”
“Just as you say, Mister Holmes.”
“Good. I will go in first, and see if we can’t resolve the matter peacefully. Watson, if you will come with me?” Light spilled out into the night as the maid let us in. I fingered my revolver in my pocket as we were shown into a small study. Waters stood by the fire.
“Ah, Mister Holmes and Doctor Watson. What brings you out so late? Are you any closer to finding the murderer?”
“I believe I am,” Holmes went to the little writing desk and almost negligently picked up an envelope. “In fact, sir, I know I am,” He looked at the young man keenly.
The colour drained from Waters’ face.
“But- but how could you-”
“It was merely a case of putting all the facts together,” Holmes said, simply. “The first clue was in your sister’s demeanour. She knew Hooper was going to die- she referred to him in the past tense all the way through our conversation, and repeated the words ‘kind’ and ‘sweet’ several times. She had been prepped in what to say, by yourself I assume. She was upset because your source of income had been lost.” He leaned against the mantle piece, apparently at ease.
“Her dress was new, but her petticoats were old, almost worn. She was wearing a diamond necklace but her rosary was cheap. She probably inherited it from a relative, who couldn’t afford to give her anything else. She doesn’t come from money, and the things she did have spoke of someone more concerned with the gesture than the practicality- so, her fiancée, not her brother.”
“That will never hold up in a court of law,” scoffed Waters. He was circling us, and I wondered if pulling my revolver would be the best plan of action. He and Holmes never broke eye contact.
“Clearly. So I did a little digging- that’s where I was all day, Watson- and found from the maid- such an obliging, little thing, that you were living on a very small allowance left by a maiden aunt. Mister Hooper was to be your saving grace.” Holmes moved away from the fireplace again, keeping himself between Waters and the wall.
“But the maid also said that things had been tense- difficult, almost, over the last few weeks. Something between Mister Waters and Mister Hooper. Some more digging and I found that Mister Hooper’s family had lost a fair sum of money in stocks; Mister Hooper could no longer be the saving grace you hoped for.”
I tried to move round to the window, so that Waters could not call for help.
“So you started sending poison pen letters, hoping to get rid of him. Mister Hooper had abandoned a fiancée in America, fleeing the country, leaving the poor woman with a fatherless child. You hoped to scare him off, but Hooper guessed who was behind the attacks. You quarrelled. Having warned your sister that it may come to blows, you snapped an icicle off the window outside, and stabbed Hooper- no doubt inspired by the penny dreadfuls I see by the fire. Then you left it in the basin, where it soon melted. Mister Hooper suffered from regular nosebleeds, so no one would comment on the water. No one would even know what had been used. Fortunately, I was able to observe that not only was the water far too cold to wash in, but also the peculiar way the weapon had fit the eye-socket. The towel next to the basin also showed no signs of blood or damp from someone drying their face or hands.”
“Very good, Mister Holmes. I suppose you have a sample of my handwriting?” Holmes held up the envelope.
“Well,” said Waters, edging backwards. “Much good may it do you!” He jangled the bell.
“It’s no good, Mister Waters. The people that you had waiting for us have already been apprehended. A pretty, little lot. You need to choose your friends more carefully, Mister Waters, I’m sure it is not profitable to hang around with such thugs,” Holmes was smiling, but he was on edge, watching our man.
Suddenly, Waters pulled out a small revolver and fired at Holmes. As Holmes ducked, Waters opened the window and leapt out. Holmes was soon after him.
“Holmes!” I called, also climbing from the window. Lestrade was on my heels. As I ran out into the street, my foot caught a patch of icy ground wrongly and I went crashing down. My old wound seized, exacerbated by the sudden change of temperature. Lestrade went to one knee beside me.
“Are you alright?”
“Yes, fine, help me up,” I growled, exasperated and manners quite forgotten. Together, we hobbled to a low wall. A shot rang out over the still night.
“Holmes!” I half-whispered to Lestrade. He looked around for the source of the noise.
“Go and find him, Lestrade. I will be fine,” I massaged the muscles, trying to loosen them through my thick clothes as Lestrade disappeared into the quiet. Presently, a police constable joined me.
“I’m to get you home, Doctor,” he said respectfully.
“What happened?” I asked, impatiently. “Where’s Holmes?”
“I think he went home, sir,” the constable offered me a hand. “We caught our man though,”
“Who was shot?”
“The brother, sir. Cursing a blue streak, he was. Mister Holmes shot him in the leg, sir.”
The ride home was uncomfortable. I was still aching from my fall, and as much as I hate to admit it, even to myself, I was annoyed that Holmes had left me behind. When I got back to our rooms, Holmes still wasn’t back, so I went to bed.
It was still dark, and Mrs. Hudson was standing over me.
“Oh, come quickly, Doctor Watson, something terrible has happened!” It took a lot to fluster our stalwart house-keeper. Lestrade was in our living room, and on the couch was Holmes. He was pale, paler than I have ever seen him. His eyes were closed, and he had a bruise on his cheek and a cut on his chin.
“What happened?” I demanded, dropping down beside him.
“He was found like this by one of our men,” Lestrade said. “We think he was set upon by one of Mister Water’s friends.”
“Mister Waters? Mrs. Hudson, please could you fetch me some blankets? And have the boy stoke up the fire in Mister Holmes’ room, please.” He was freezing, his hands like ice.
“Oh yes, he had quite a few pals, as it turns out. We didn’t quite get them all straight away, I’m afraid, though we have them all now,”
“Yes, thank you, Lestrade. Please ask your men to carry Mister Holmes to his bed. When he comes round, I will ensure that he contacts you. Probably tomorrow.”
Unfortunately, it was not to be. Holmes fell into a fever. I sat by his bedside for four days, rarely sleeping, hardly eating. I could not imagine leaving him, even for an instant. Even now, I cannot bring myself to write what I said to him, half-delirious myself with exhaustion and fear. I am glad no one else heard it, for I certainly would not have a medical licence any more if they had. As he sweated and muttered, that great mind and keen face blunted and misshapen with illness, it was clear that either he would break the fever or the fever would break him. All I could do was wait. I clutched his limp hand, hoping somehow to keep him tethered by sheer force of my will. Finally, I slumped across the quilt, exhausted. I knew I could do no more.
Someone was touching my hair. Long hands smoothed through it and carded it listlessly.
“Dear, faithful Watson. Staying to the last,” I knew the deep voice, although it was cracked and worn with fever. I raised my head, and Holmes smiled at me from his pillow.
“Holmes,” I smiled with true relief.
“You look awful,” he coughed, and I gave him water from the pitcher. “How long -hem!- how long was I out?”
“Four days,” I replied. “They found you in the snow. Holmes, what happened to you?”
“My chase took me into an alley. Mister Water’s tried to climb the fence, and I caught his leg as he fell over the other side. Unfortunately, it alerted one of his thugs,” Holmes sipped more water. “He caught me quite by surprise, a foolish mistake on my part,”
I didn’t answer. How much of his delirium did Holmes actually remember? What could he remember of what I had said?
“You shall have to contact Lestrade for me, no doubt he needs my statement,” Holmes struggled upright, and swung his legs out of the bed. I caught him round his skinny midriff as he sagged.
“You said you were ill yourself, don’t be such an ass,” I scolded him, trying to struggle his lanky form back onto the bed. I ended up sat on the bed, Holmes’ shoulder blades poking me in the chest. I held on, keeping him upright.
“You’ll still be weak,” I said more gently.
“This is most vexing, Watson. I feel like an old man,” Holmes’ head rested on my shoulder. His hair tickled my nose. I could feel his heart beating under the thin cloth of his nightclothes. His hand rested on mine.
“You should. I thought I- we were going to lose you for a moment,” I was not inclined to move, and neither was Holmes, apparently.
“Oh, no, you can’t get rid of me that easily,” Holmes said lightly, and dry coughs racked his body again.
I rubbed his back, a little uselessly. He had lost weight with the fever. He shifted so he could look me in the face. “I am sorry to have worried you,” he said softly. I stared at him, looking not the calculating machine that so many people seemed to see, but the beating and all-too-fragile heart within. “You do so much for me, Watson, and I fear I do little to repay you.”
“Not- not at all Holmes,” I didn’t move, didn’t want to even breathe. Holmes’ face was inches from mine. I could close the gap. For a moment, the longest moment, I thought about doing it.
“We can’t sit here all day,” Holmes struggled off me and clutched the side of the bed as he tried to straighten up. “We’ve wasted quite enough time,” His legs were still weak, but with my help I was able to help him through to the front room.
Lestrade was sat by the fire. Snow fell in heavy clumps outside. He stared across at Holmes, who was still gaunt and pale.
“Mister Waters is currently in the hospital. He’s threatening to press charges, Holmes. His story is you attacked him in a frenzy, before chasing him through the back-alleys,” his honest face was worried. “You’d better have something good.”
Holmes settled back in his chair. He had acquiesced to rug about his knees with little grace, and now he plucked at it as he spoke, telling Lestrade about the confrontation in the study.
At the end of his story- with many pauses to rest, Lestrade commented “Remarkable,” and finished his sentence with a flourish.
When Lestrade had left, I helped Holmes up.
“There remains only two mysteries, though I think if we clear up one, we shall soon clear up another,” he said we collapsed onto the side of his bed.
“Oh?” I asked.
“Well, the first, of course, is the mystery of the man in the darkened room, watching another.” I went cold inside. “And the other is the mystery of the man who remains by another’s sickbed, even though he knows there is nothing more that can be done,” Holmes looked at me keenly. I could have not said anything if I had wanted to. “The other man wakes. What is he to think? I think I can answer that one well enough.”
I swallowed.
“Of course, the watcher is a man used to living in the margins, a bit of a natural turn for breaking the law...” Holmes slid closer. I tried not to breathe. His arm nudged mine. “You might ask about the watched man, but while he is fascinating in his own right, he could not be as brilliant as he is without the watcher...” Our lips met and for a moment, time stopped. His lips were chapped from illness, but they were still the sweetest thing I have ever put to mine.
“I think we can declare the mystery solved,” Holmes said, as we pulled apart. I tugged him close again.
Outside, the icicles started to melt.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2011-06-10 05:00 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-10 05:54 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-11 01:23 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-13 07:35 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-15 02:37 am (UTC)This was beautiful. I've read very little canon fic, and this one is a real gem. Voices are wonderful and the tentative way Watson hovers (until he is terrified, of course) is just lovely.
no subject
Date: 2011-07-01 03:08 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-07-20 07:43 pm (UTC)