A/N: Hello everyone! Welcome to book 2 of my series! If you're here, then you probably enjoyed book 1, Proof of Concept. If you haven't read it, I highly suggest you go do so before reading any further here, and don't forget to leave your comments!
This book (and a lot of the ones further into the series) carries a slight warning for self harm, beginning in this chapter. I think that's the only warning there is to worry about.
So, this brings me to the end of what I have to say, other than please review and leave comments and suggestions for future books. Enjoy! - Ell
A Necessary End
"Of all the wonders that I have heard,
It seems to me most strange that men should fear,
Seeing death, a necessary end,
Will come when it will come."
- William Shakespeare, Julius Caeser, Act II Scene 2
Chapter 1: The Pain of Hell
"Ah, to think how thin the veil that lies between the pain of hell and Paradise."
-George William Russell
I could see Ariana on the other side of the glass. She was right there. I could see her. Our faces were less than an inch from each other yet we couldn't touch, couldn't hear each other's words. I picked up the chair and smashed the glass. But Ariana disappeared in a pool of blood. She was gone. My sister was gone. I cried out in sheer anguish and collapsed to the ground.
I awoke with a start, my own cries having shaken me from my dream for yet another time. I was in my own dark bedroom. The only window in sight looked out onto the silent and still street below.
A moment later John appeared wearily in my doorway. "Is everything all right, Emily?" he asked, his voice slightly slurred, showing that he was still half asleep. He had likely not even been asleep long, haunted by the memories of the war.
"It's fine," I replied, hoping that the tremors in my voice were not audible through two little words. "Don't bother turning the light on, just go back to bed."
Reluctantly, my brother mumbled a goodnight and left me alone in the dark. For this I was fortunate. I did not want him to see how fragile I was. My hands were shaking uncontrollably and tear streaks ran down my face. I could feel the emptiness inside me. The darkness of the room seemed to press against me from all sides, like ever circling monsters. I shakily got up and turned the gas on, providing a dim light that immediately relieved the feeling. The emptiness, however, was still present. The past month of recovering from my external injuries had done nothing to assuage those I felt internally. I hadn't told anyone. Not Holmes, not John, not even Andrew. I didn't know what they would say. I heard of women being condemned to asylums for experiencing such feelings. I could still function. I could still solve cases. It would appear that nothing was wrong with me, although it was obvious that something was.
I collapsed back onto my bed and could no longer hold back my sobs. I pulled the blankets up to my chin and cried bitterly into my pillow for the remainder of the night.
The following morning I could barely eat any of the kippers and eggs that Mrs. Hudson had served. I avoided the eyes of my brother and his flat mate and excused myself as early as I could, retreating to my bedroom and closing the door.
Once I was sure that no one would disturb me, I reached underneath my pillow and pulled out the razor I had stolen from John's room two weeks previously. What was I doing? No, Emily, stop, I told myself. But I couldn't. My hands shook and tears streamed down my face. And before I knew it, I had drawn the edge of the razor across the surface of my skin and drops of blood oozed from beneath. It stung. It stung like a bee sting, many of which I had experienced in the countryside around Thorndon Hall when I was a young girl. But somehow, it still felt good. I couldn't explain it. I didn't know why drawing blood suddenly felt so good to me. But it managed to make the emptiness inside me hurt a little less, for a little while, but at the same time worse, a painful reminder of what I'd endured and the secrets that I was still keeping.
I sat on my bed numbly for a moment, staring at the drops of blood on my arm, and then looked around frantically and noticed that I had nothing to wipe the blood off with and I didn't have any bandages to cover it up so as not to soil my dress.
I opened the door of my room and headed for the sitting room. Before I entered, I stood still in the hallway for a moment to ascertain whether or not Holmes and John were still at the breakfast table. They were. I pushed the door open. "John, where's your medical bag?" I asked.
He looked up sharply. "Are you hurt, Emily? What is it?"
"Oh, it's nothing," I said quickly. "I just tripped in my room and scraped my arm on the corner of my desk. Just tell me where you put it and I'll take care of it. I only need to get a small bandage."
"Nonsense, let me look at it." John rose from his seat.
I opened my mouth to object, but he was already pulling out his black bag from under Holmes' chemical table and opening it. He beckoned me over and I couldn't do anything but wordlessly follow, holding my arm gingerly.
"Hold it out," instructed my brother, the familiar firm expression of a physician in his eyes.
Biting the inside of my cheek, I did as instructed; keeping my sleeve lifted so as not to bleed on my dress.
John extracted a small wad of cotton from his bag and used it to dab gently at the drops of blood that glistened on my skin. Then he lifted my arm and inspected the wound. His brow wrinkled as he peered closer. My breath caught in my throat and my heart sped up. Was it not consistent with a scrape from the edge of my desk? Did he somehow know what I had done?
But he said nothing. He merely disinfected the wound and stuck a small bandage over it. "Thank you," I murmured, and left the room again as fast as I could.
Once I was in the hallway, I heard the men's voices and lingered, listening.
"She didn't scrape her arm on her desk, Holmes," said my brother.
Damn it, oh, damn it all, I thought to myself.
"I deduced as much, Watson," replied Holmes. "There was no blood on her sleeve. Surely there would be, unless she was wandering about her room with her sleeves pulled up, which is doubtful on such a blustery October day."
"I looked at that wound, Holmes. Much too clean, and far too precise. Whatever it was, it was certainly not a scrape."
"What could it be from, then?" inquired Holmes.
"I don't know, Holmes, but she lied to us."
I could sense Holmes' piercing gray eyes meeting my brother's. "Are you going to approach her about it?"
I heard John sigh. "Not yet, Holmes. If it's truly a serious matter, I'm sure she'll come to one of us about it."
After this exchange, the two men lapsed into silence and I crept back to my room.
I spent the rest of the morning curled in the wicker chair with my journal and a copy of Wilkie Collins' The Moonstone, writing and reading and looking out at the desolate and grey appearance of the world outside. Although there weren't any trees by which to judge the strength of the wind, I could see that it was strong. Abandoned newspapers and other pieces of litter blew fiercely around on the street, and I could hear the rattle of the windowpanes as they were shaken by the force of it.
Just before the normal time for luncheon, there was a knock at my door. "Come in," I called.
John opened the door and stood in the doorway. His eyes wandered absently to my desk for a moment, but then he fixed his gaze on me. "Holmes asked me if you would like to come into the sitting room. A letter arrived by post and he'd like to discuss the possibility of a new case."
I rose from my seat, marking my page in the book and following my brother into the sitting room.
Holmes was sitting in his armchair by the fireplace, leaning forward eagerly, with an unlit pipe in his mouth and a piece of thick stationery in his hand. He looked up as John and I entered. "There you are, Emily," he said, his voice perfectly steady, showing no hint of the suspicions toward me that he had shared with my brother. "I have received a letter from North Yorkshire, and the case looks promising, if you should care to hear the particulars."
I nodded and took a seat on a wooden chair that I pulled over from the dining table.
Looking at me out of the corner of his steely eyes from over the top of the letter he had raised to in front of his face, Holmes saw that I was ready and began to read. I leaned forward and rested my chin on my hands to listen, then quickly put my left arm in my lap and relied completely on my right for support when I felt the burning of the fresh wound as pressure was put on the limb.
Although my eyes were fixed on Holmes and the way his mouth and eyes were moving as he relayed the contents of the letter to us, I could feel John's cautious, steady gaze on me and my injured arm. I subconsciously tucked it in against my dress so that it could no longer be seen.
"Mr. Holmes,
"I have heard of your success in London and I implore you to help my family and I with the dreadful situation into which we have fallen. Three days ago, my brother, Simon Camberwell, left to walk into Rosedale Abbey, the nearest town, named after our family's old estate, which lies near the town with one of the moor's forests between. He was to meet a group of his old school friends from Eton for drinks at the public house. The owner of the pub saw them all outside fighting after a few drinks, but that is all. My dear brother has made no enemies and surely the argument was merely the influence of the drinks they had consumed. He never returned home. It wasn't that after that he spent the night in town, too disoriented to make his way home, or that he was kept in local police custody for disorderly conduct, no. He merely never returned, nor have we seen or heard from any of his friends since then. It is quite a peculiar situation, as his friends are usually eager to drop by and visit, and Edward, the closest of these friends, is much like another brother to me. The local constabulary has no idea what has happened to him, but I refuse to believe that all hope is lost. I beg of you to come and show the others that my brother is not lost forever.
"Sincerely yours,
"Miss Nicole Camberwell."
As Holmes finished reading, I pulled back slightly, something to do with the name tugging at my memory. I couldn't be sure, but I thought I'd heard it before. Knowing that it wouldn't come to me as long as I tried, I shook off the feeling and concentrated on the case before us.
"So no evidence?" I asked. "No indications, just nothing?"
"As far as this letter dictates," replied Holmes, tossing the letter aside and jumping up from his chair with the energy of a foxhound on the scent. "I've already had Harry purchase our train tickets. We leave tomorrow morning."
Harry was one of the Irregulars. The Baker Street Irregulars were a group of homeless boys, most of them orphans, employed by Holmes to help on cases, for as children they could watch and listen without anyone even acknowledging their presence. I had met Harry once before, about a week after I moved into the Baker Street rooms. I had been coming down the stairs as he was delivering a note to Holmes, and in his enthusiasm he had run straight into me. He was an Irish boy, about nine years of age, with a curly mop of red hair, a bouncy and excitable disposition, and a charming smile that could con the devil out of more than his share of precious jewels.
I trained my mind's eye away from Harry and onto the prospect of our case. I couldn't help but smile. The excitement of cases had done me well, especially after I'd been kidnapped during the Ivanov case. It gave me something to do, things to occupy my mind, and often my hands. And although my veins and skin itched for the blade again, I knew that occupation was a very good thing for me, and a new energy coursed through my body as I stood up and went off to my room to pack for the morning's journey.
