A Troubled Man
Hello all! I have finally started writing the continuation of Tolling Bells. Took me long enough.
Some of the characters are my own and are introduced in my first SH fic but I don't think it will be completely necessary to read it first. I will try my utmost to re-introduce each character so no one is left wondering who's who. Though, feel free to read Tolling Bells. I do love reviews!
Thank you to the lovely Engage Fiction for beta-ing for me.
Chapter One
"Frailty thy is woman."
Hamlet Act I Scene II
November
The room hung heavy with the smell of opium and Holmes could feel the smoke seeping into his lungs. He turned to his companion and kissed her fervently, pulling them down onto the deep cushions. She closed her eyes and rolled back her head to gaze at the ceiling with it's richly painted waves. He trailed a finger down the arch of her neck, his eyes wide as he reached her collar bone. He could feel her shivering beneath him and reached down to kiss the spot where his finger had been. He could hear the thud of her heart as he started to trail kisses lower and lower.
Thud.
Then there seemed to be no clothes between, just skin and he could still hear her heart. "Sherlock," the woman whispered in his ear, "Please." It was the plea of lover waiting to be satisfied.
Thud.
He pulled away so that he might look at her but he could still hear the thudding of her heart. Not heart like at all. More like a fist raining down upon a chest. No, not a chest. Wood.
Thud.
A door.
Thud.
Holmes woke with a start, a quick glance at the empty bed beside him a cursory gesture to the last traces of his dream before stumbling to his feet and the door. He wrenched it open and earnt a disapproving look from Mrs Hudson as well as a note, which she thrust abruptly into his hand. He watched her retreat down the stairs before slamming the door. "Irritable bat," he muttered darkly sinking back onto his bed and rubbing his arm. His fingers caught on the small dots that were speckled along the veins and he found his body ached profoundly. Holmes felt his eyes drawn to the locked cabinet on the far wall where he knew a syringe and a bottle waited. "No, no, no," he whispered to himself, "You promised her, no more." Groaning, Holmes raked his hand through his short fair hair and then along his hawkish face. He was a tall man, athletically built though not as muscular as he had once been before the discovery of narcotics. Now he was thin and hard. He was attractive, not in a typical way, and there was something intriguing about his shadowy blue eyes. Holmes sighed and stretched his arms above his head, twisting his head to look at the clock.
Eleven o'clock.
Holmes yawned as his back clicked slightly and turned his attention to the note. It was from Lestrade. Holmes pulled a face and looked back at the clock. He had four hours before he was supposed to be doing anything. That was plenty of time to consider a corpse.
The body lay spread-eagled before them, the soft patter of the rain falling onto the naked skin. Holmes turned dramatically to the young constable escorting him and declared adamantly, "This is why I never became a police officer." The constable looked at him blankly as the infamous detective pulled up the collar of his overcoat and sniffed disdainfully, 'Too much standing around in the rain."
The constable remained silent. Unimpressed by the lack of emphatic response from his companion, Holmes returned to the body in search of a more appreciative audience.
It had been a woman. An oriental in origin. Young, possible no more than twenty. She lay with her arms and legs outstretched, as children would in the snow to make shapes but naked bar the blood that had seeped from the wound on her torso.
Holmes quickly removed his hat and bent down to his knee to look more closely. The wound resembled in a complex series of circles. He lent in further so that his nose was almost touching the dead woman's skin.
"Holmes!" The detective whipped around and found himself confronted with a slightly portly stomach.
"Ah," Holmes said, pleased, "Lestrade. Lovely of you to send for me." Detective Inspector. Lestrade pulled Holmes to his feet and dragged him back a few feet to what one would assume was a more respectable distance.
"Well?" he demanded. Holmes brushed Lestrade's hand away and tapped his nose.
"I knew I could smell something," he turned cheerfully back to the body, "That pattern was branded onto her. Burnt flesh, horrible smell. Lingers terribly." Holmes stepped over the body and twisted his head at angle. "I would say she was still alive when it was done. The blood is just for dramatic effect I feel, a couple of superficial slits with a knife. No, she died somehow else."
Lestrade nodded to two constables behind and they hurried forward with a white sheet, so contrasting to the grey streets. "What are you think, Holmes?" he asked quietly whilst his men were occupied. Holmes shrugged.
"Could be anything. One body is not always something." Lestrade made to sigh with relief but Holmes quickly finished, "But I think this may not be the last time you send for me on this matter my dear Inspector." Holmes smiled, his thirst for occupation momentarily satisfied, before glancing down at his pocket watch. Quarter to three. "Forgive me Lestrade," he said, pocketing the watch and replacing his hat, "But I have an appointment."
Watson sniffed the delicate scent of the offered roses and inhaled deeply. "Well?" the florist demanded. The Doctor forced himself to give a quick smile.
"I was actually looking for something more simple," he explained quickly. The florist sniffed and exchanged the roses for a modest arrangement of violets and various leaves that Watson could not distinguish between. At a little protestation by the florist, Watson surrendered to the addition of a few soft pink Chinese chrysanthemums. He handed over payment and tucked the flowers into the crook of his arm.
"Thank you," he called over his shoulder and shook his head as the shopkeeper muttered about making an impression.
Holmes jogged briskly up the steps of 42 Kings Road, Chelsea and rang the bell, glancing at his watch as he did so. Watson was late. The door swung open and he was admitted by a dormouse of a maid who hurried back into the shadows as soon as the door clicked shut behind him.
"Right on time Mr Holmes, as ever." Holmes hurried removed his hat and glanced up at the stairs where the housekeeper stood on the landing, the sleeves of her dress rolled up, and strands of grey hair falling out of her usually ordered knot. She smiled at him fondly and said, 'She's in the sun room, sir." He nodded his thanks and continued through the hall and along a corridor until he reached a large set of open double doors. He paused here, as he always did, to take in the serene beauty of the room. The occupants of the house called it the sun room, but at some point it must have been an orangery. The glass walls stretched up high, filtering in the crisp autumn sun letting it fill the large space with light. There was furniture littered orderly about the room, an odd collection of deep armchairs and quilted sofas. It was unusually empty today and Holmes found his eyes drawn to the fireplace on the far wall where a chaise-lounge had been placed. He slowly walked towards it, hat still in hand.
A young woman lay asleep upon the chaise, her head tilted towards the dying flames of the fire. Holmes knelt down at her side and leaned in to kiss Annalese Latimer tenderly on the cheek. "Anna," he called softly. Her eyes fluttered open, dazed from sleep.
"Sherlock?" She reached out her hand and touched his face. "Oh good," she murmured, "I'm not dreaming." Holmes took the hand and kissed the back of it before springing up to remove his overcoat, which in his hurry he had forgotten to remove.
Annalese Latimer and the mysterious sister-in-law. Perhaps not as catchy as some of his other work, but he was fond of the case. Anna had been a patient of Watson's who had fallen under the protection of 221b Baker Street when her estrangedsister-in-law had plotted against her. Anna had been diagnosed many years before with a cancer of the spine, which had consumed most of her life and was likely to claim it. She left Baker Street at Watson's insistence of propriety and into the care of 42 Kings Road, a sanatorium of sorts for cases such as hers. Holmes had wondered aimlessly around the Baker Street rooms when she left, with no work and little else to occupy him until Watson suggest he visit Anna. Since then, he came every Tuesday at 3 o'clock without fail. In fact, unknown to Watson he was there most days at 3 o'clock.
"So Miss Latimer, how are you feeling today?" he asked as lightly as he could, throwing himself into an armchair opposite her. Anna half smiled at his disregard for other people's furniture before sighing frustrated.
"Sherlock," she said firmly, "I have known you for over a year. My name is Anna. Annalese at if least that is all you feel you can bring yourself to manage!" Holmes looked slightly abashed and there was a brief silence prior to, "I quite like Annalese."Anna beamed at him and her face lit up.It was, Holmes observed, quite amazing what a great difference a smile can make to someone's features. He lost himself in thoughts of other things which improve features such as false noses and moustaches when her sudden movement distracted him and he leapt up, arms outstretched as she tried to stand.
She raised an eyebrow defiantly at him, as if to say 'I can do this' and gripped the back of the chaise for support, "I was just going to ask for some tea." Holmes took a step forward and placed a hand on her arm.
"Are we not friends enough that you feel you cannot ask me to order tea?" he questioned, taking another step forward so they were standing directly in front of each other.
She looked up at him helplessly, her eyes glistening with unwanted tears. "I seek independence still, however small."What Holmes did next surprised even himself. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her into an embrace. Anna was still for a moment, shocked by his action then pressed herself into his chest and savoured the rare display of affection.
"Anna," Holmes murmured hesitantly against her hair, "Later, when you're well, perhaps we could..." She silenced his stammering by leaning up and kissing him softly on the lips. As she pulled away, Holmes saw a tear run down her face.
"Sherlock," she spoke carefully though her voice shook slightly, "There may not be a later for me. Perhaps now is a good time for you?" Holmes felt something in his chest ache for the fragile woman in his arms and a strangle longing welled up in the pit of his stomach. Something he had not felt for years. He pushed aside the feeling quickly.
"Now is something I can work with," he said and leant down to capture her mouth with his.
Watson eventually arrived, flowers were produced and tea arrived. It felt, Holmes mused, almost like it used to. Watson was a little fatter and Anna a little paler but still so like Baker Street.
"So, how's business?" Anna asked teasingly. Watson chuckled a little and Holmes smiled indulgently.
"Business goes well," he obliged, "Thank you."
"I heard Lestrade called," added Watson, "Anything interesting?"
Holmes shrugged. "Could be. Perhaps prostitution, Chinese triads, drugs," he waved his hand impetuously, "Too many possibilities to consider now. I knew I had to be here at three or else I may have begun to process." Holmes noticed happily how pleased Anna looked to have been considered first and congratulated himself for having a rare moment of understanding the opposite sex.
Anna, still pleased, asked after their friends as she normally would; Mrs Hudson, Sir Henry. And then,
"And what of your friend? Miss Shenaid? I have not seen her since, why, last Christmas."
Holmes pulled a face and hastily brushed the enquiry to one side, "I have not seen Hattie in quite sometime. I assume she's in one piece." He stood quickly and pulled out a cigarette box from his inner jacket. Watson thought the box looked distinctively like his own. "I'd better go outside, I don't want Matron telling me off again," he said dismally shuddering slightly, "No, definitely not." He invited Watson with a jerk of his head but Anna grabbed Watson's hand. Holmes conceded his friend and set off towards the garden doors.
As soon as the door clicked shut behind him Anna turned to Watson, her eyes alight with curiosity. "Has something happened?"
Watson shrugged his shoulders in a non-committal fashion. To be honest, Anna, I do not care for Hattie, for all her more redeeming contacts." He sighed, "I believe they quarrelled, not long after you left Baker Street."
"But that was months ago!" Anna exclaimed, "They seemed to be such friends." Watson decided not to comment on the extent of their friendship and distracted her with his tale of the pushy florist.
Outside, Holmes took a deep drag on his cigarette and exhaled slowly.
Hattie.
He disliked to hear her name these days. It reminded him that he missed her presence, flitting in and out of his days like a moth. An annoying moth without a doubt. But a familiarity he had been used to. Still, he told himself reassuringly, she was impossible.
Hattie Shenaid was, in fact, running. Three angry constables on her tail. Her breath fell shallow in her chest as she dodged past a dock worker; the solid beat of her boots a drum driving her on. It was only a bloody watch she thought angrily, turning quickly into an alley and pressing herself into the shadows.
It was late afternoon and already the air was damp with mist and that grey feeling that lies on the wind in late October. Hattie drew in a grim breath as the constables came upon her hiding place and peered down along it. This will teach me, however, to try and lift a copper's bit of shine. It had been a bet. A bet that she was no pickpocket. Townsend had been teasing, she'd known that but she detested being belittled. He'd grinned, his hand outstretched ready to receive the small silver pocket watch as she ran past with the recently deprived copper in pursuit.
Johnny Townsend. Hattie felt herself smile in spite of the situation. Her lover was wonderfully bad influence- pushing her to do better, or worse depending on how one considered it.
There was an alley up ahead that led to an old steel yard, bound to have somewhere to hide. Hattie forced herself along the last few yards and into the alley. She pressed herself up against the wall and disappeared amongst the shadows. The flat footfalls of the policemen ran past the entrance to the alley, and Hattie allowed herself to breathe, panting heavily. "Close," she muttered to herself, pushing off the wall to lean over take in deeper breaths. It was then that she noticed the voices coming from the yard up ahead, several low, threatening and one high pitched and pleading. She edged forward, careful not to be seen.
There were four men in the yard, three circling the fourth with their knives drawn. "You failed him Dawson," one of the men stated simply, "He does not accept failure. The man called Dawson shook his head fervently, sweat dripping from his forehead.
"She tricked me, McGrath" he whispered, "I thought she.." Dawson faltered and looked down at his feet. McGrath let out a bark of laughter.
"You though that she loved you so you let her go," he mimed wiping tears from his eyes, "How touching. Not that it did her any good."
Dawson's head shot up and his expression was one of horror."No, she's not."
McGrath nodded and smiled. "And you know what," he said, almost kindly, "You get to see her again soon." He gave a nod to the other men and simultaneously they plunged their blades into Dawson's back. He didn't have time to scream before his eyes rolled back and his blood poured onto the cobbled ground.
Hattie gasped instinctively and immediately clapped her hands to her mouth. McGrath's head whipped around and his eyes met hers. He grinned cruelly and mouthed,
"Run."
Watson and Holmes left Kings Street shortly after seven and agreed that they would return to Baker Street on foot. They conversed genially but sporadically as they walked, Holmes' mind often turning back to the mutilated body of the young woman. Watson knew better than to push him and when the conversation dried up, he remained silent. As they approached Baker Street, he noticed a figure on the pavement outside the house. Their head was down and it wasn't until they got closer that he realised it was Hattie, dressed as a man. "Hattie?" he called out cautiously.
Her head shot up fiercely and Watson almost gasped. Her lip was split and there was a trail of dried blood curving from her mouth to her chin. One eye was swollen and he could see from the way that she held her wrist that it was broken. Holmes, meanwhile, had just noticed her. He looked her up and down, taking in the blood on her shirt. He then asked quietly, "Why are you here?" If she had been able, she would have glared at him. Instead she managed through gritted teeth to jerk her head at Watson and say,
"I need a Doctor."
They went inside quickly. Watson offered to help her up the stairs but she threw him a withering look and began to doggedly climb a step at a time. Shaking his head and muttering something about 'pride' and 'fall', Watson went ahead to fetch his bag. Holmes turned to face Hattie, blocking her path.
"What happened?" he questioned bluntly.
She looked at him blankly. "I don't know what y'mean." Holmes didn't move. "Fine. I stole something. I got caught. And got away lightly by standards," she snapped and tried to push past him.
Holmes scowled at her. "Has this got something to do with that idiot boy Townsend, because if so.."
"You'll bloody do what?" Hattie interrupted angrily and tried to push past him. The effort caused her to nearly over balance. Holmes took her hands, roughly pulling her closer to him. She stared up at him with her steely grey eyes, daring him to injure her more. He sighed wretchedly.
"I've been worried."
She forced a laugh. "You Holmes? Unlikely." He didn't reply, but took her arm angrily and practically carried her the rest of the way. He pushed her into a chair and left the room. When he returned, he had removed his coat and rolled up his sleeves. In his hands was a small bowl of warm water and a cloth. She eyed him suspiciously. "You have blood all over your face," he stated and for half a moment she thought he might do the tenderest of things; wash the blood from her. But no. He handed her the bowl and went to the sideboard to pour two large whiskeys. He knocked back one before bringing the other glass and the bottle to where she sat.
Holmes placed the glass on the table and then held out the bottle to Hattie. "You're going to need this." She paused in wiping the blood from her face to look at him questioningly. "The radius bone in your wrist is broken, it's clear from the swelling. Watson will have to re-set it," he explained, paused and then "It is going to hurt." Hattie set down the bowl and snatched the bottle from him with her good hand.
"Thanks for the comforting news," she muttered, raising the bottle to her mouth. Holmes considered her blankly. Even in pain, with blood on her and dressed as a man, Hattie was captivating. Had she been born to wealthy parents, she would have undoubtedly been called handsome perhaps even a beauty with such steely grey eyes. But as it was she was nobody's daughter and today she had never looked more like the street urchin she was.
Watson entered the room as Hattie took another swig of alcohol. "Excellent idea," he commented, "This is not going to be pleasant." He reached for the other glass of whiskey but Holmes had already taken it, still staring at Hattie. Watson was tugging the bottle out of her hand as knelt down beside her. Carefully he ran his fingers along the broken bone, assessing the break. "Holmes," he called out behind him, "I'll need you to hold her down."
Holmes did not move, his eyes still fixed on Hattie's increasingly white face. "Holmes!" Watson called again, turning to look at his friend. Still he did not move. Grumbling, he turned back to his patient. "Hold on to the arm of the chair," he instructed gruffly, "This is really going to hurt." Hattie nodded, her teeth clenched and looked back across at her friend. Reluctantly it seemed, she held out her hand to him, pleading silently. When still he did move she spoke.
"Sherlock," she whispered shakily, "Please."
"Sherlock," the woman whispered in his ear, "Please." It was the plea of lover waiting to be satisfied.
Hattie's words bought the memory of his dream crashing down upon him and he felt a strange tug in the pit of his stomach. He stood and slowly crossed the room to take her hand. Hattie squeezed it gratefully before turning back to Watson and nodding, "Ready." Watson placed each hand below and above the break. As he did, Hattie whimpered and pressed her face into Holmes shirt, her mouth level with his naval. Holmes used his free hand to rub circles across the top of her back in a way, Watson noticed, that seemed instinctive.
Suddenly, there was a sickening crack and a brief muffled yelp from Hattie before her whole body went limp. Watson shook his head. "It's a shame she did not faint before we began, then she would have felt nothing at all." He pulled out a length of bandage and a splint and proceeded to quickly wrap the girl's arm. Once it was complete, Watson nodded at Holmes who leant down and carefully gathered Hattie into his arms.
"Where shall I put her?" He asked Watson, who replied darkly, "Outside." Holmes raised his eyebrows at the doctor before settling on the chaise by the fire as the place to set Hattie down.
"We need to get a message to Townsend," Holmes stated as he pulled his dressing gown, which he had never got round to wearing back to her room, over her sleeping form. Watson frowned.
"Why should Townsend have to bother with her?" Holmes sighed, exasperated.
"Because, Watson, she is his wife."
AN: I hope you enjoyed it! If I can answer any questions or if people have suggestions I am more than happy to help