For Natz's Writing Challenge (See Rising Dusk's profile)
The rotting wood above me creaked ominously, causing me to peer up anxiously through the boards in an attempt to discern the reason. Luckily, there was none, and I let a wave of relief wash through me.
It was one o-clock, and unfortunately not in the afternoon, causing the wind to be unforgiving in its strength and temperature. My coat was useless, especially under the dock, where the freezing water managed to just reach me-I had considered setting the coat on fire, but it would do no good: Colxton would become aware of my presence immediately.
Brushing yet another spider off my pant legs, my thoughts drifted to the other Inspectors. Gregson, I knew, would be at home, celebrating the end of what had been a trying case with his wife. Jones, who hadn't slept since last Friday, would be at the Yard most likely looking for a constable to accompany him to Whitechapel. Hopkins had finally been given the chance to mentor a new Inspector...I chuckled softly at the thought of Inspector Sable being dragged about London with the energetic Hopkins. Good Lord, the man must be ready to collapse in exhaustion. Bradstreet, on the other hand...I grimaced. Only three days before, Bradstreet had been on the wrong end of a butcher's knife, and was still limping. I had tried to dissuade the stubborn man from continuing his case for the time being, but the Inspector would hear none of it, stating that I would have done the same in his place. He was as usual right, but that did not stop me from wallowing in guilt over where he would be now—most likely the slaughterhouses.
I gritted my teeth, swearing that if Bradstreet had not taken three constables with him, or at least Dosby, I would nail his office door shut from the inside.
Sticking my hands into my coat-pockets, I was surprised at the brush of my hand against something which certainly didnot feel like my revolver. Drawing the object out, I was dismayed to find that it was Holmes's favorite pipe...how had I forgotten to return it? The good Doctor Watson must be at the end of his wits...Holmes would most probably be having the Doctor aid him in his search for the pipe. And that—I had no doubt—would hinder whatever case they were on considerably. The Doctor had once confided in me that without the use of cocaine, coffee, or his pipe Holmes became irritable and often child-like, refusing to advance the case until what he had lost had been found.
The only reason that I had the pipe in my possession was to bribe a bit off type-setter, who demanded to have something dear to Holmes in return for information regarding his co-worker. Needless to say, he did not keep the pipe for very long...I had pickpocketed him leaving the building. At any rate, I was unable to return the pipe due to my 'Yarder' schedule. It was a term passed around the drinking tables of the constables—a schedule so demanding it left little time for leisure, nor even rest. I only regretted this a few times in my life—at my wedding...and at each of my childrens' births.
I shook my head, gazing out toward the invisible horizon. What was I doing, fretting like this? My mind should be focused only on Colxton's arrival...to be precise, the possibility of Colxton showing up. However, I often tended to fill empty silences with my many thoughts, too used to my children clambering over me, and the chaos of battle.
The sound of footsteps issued from above me. Tensing, my hands immediately went for the boards I had loosened earlier, waiting for the right moment to tear them away-
"Say Colxton—I don't see anybody here." He had brought backup then. That wasn't entirely unexpected.
"How many times must I tell you, Bresnick? I prefer the American usage of 'boss' as my title. You shall refer to me as such. That rule applies to you as well, Muggs." Two guards—and Colxton was reported almost as small as I was. But there was no time to strategize—any moment now, and one of them would become suspicious. I ripped off the boards with all my strength, climbing out of the hole and whirling to face any attacker nearest to me. It was one of the guards, muscular and at least two heads above me.
Taking a board, I brought it down as forcefully as I could upon his head, and he stumbled backwards, dazed, off the dock. "Bresnick?" The other guard exclaimed, whipping his head toward me in suprise.
"Not anymore." I muttered, ducking as Muggs swung a punch at me. "Sorry." I told Muggs calmly, and delivered a swift blow to his diaphragm. He reeled back, drawing out a knife in an attempt to defend himself. He partly succeeded, managing to slash my arm as I grabbed hold of his hand and dug my fingernails under his own. He let out a sharp yell, desperately trying to pull away. I helped him, pushing him off the dock to join his partner. They both lay in the dirt, thankfully not face-down.
I turned to face Colxton, who held out his wrists in fright, dropping his weapon and his gun in the process. I snapped on the handcuffs with a bit of trepidation. "You'd rather be alive and jailed than dead and brave, I take it?" He nodded, peering over the edge of the dock to his fallen companions.
"Right." I said, attaching handcuffs to his ankles. "I would tell you to stay put, but it looks like you have no other option anyway. Now, I'm going to retrieve your bodyguards, and if you so much as try to speak you'll regret it. Understood?" Without wasting any time I went down and dragged up the bodies of Bresnick and Muggs. "Stop looking at me like that, I didn't kill them." I rolled my eyes at Colxton's wide eyed expression.
I set the bodies next to Colxton's own, and sat in front of them all, cross-legged. "While we wait for a constable," here I took out my whistle, blowing on it twice, "I think I'd like to talk. What do you say-!" Colxton had fainted at the sound of my whistle. Good Lord, the man was so pathetic it was a wonder I was spending my time on him.
"Ah—where was I? Oh yes. I'm going to talk now. I'm going to tell you all about the men I've killed, condemned, saved and wronged. The best part of it is that none of you will know about it." I chuckled, out of disbelief over the fact that I was rambling, and that it was probably better for Colxton to not hear this at all—he might have fainted away all over again.
"The first man I killed—pay attention, now—was when I was a constable, and a naïve, frightened one at that. It was my first week on the job, mind you, and the constable whose patrol I was tagging along with had disappeared into a pub for a drink. I was left outside the tavern to 'see my observational skills put to the test'. I stood out in the cold for over an hour, and only 'observed' three men. But the real fun—this is the best bit, Colxton, you'll love this-, came when the other constable burst open the tavern door and fell out onto the street, grappling with another man, both drunk. I came to his aid, causing the drunk to turn on me in his rage. I pulled out my gun, he fell on me in an attempt to strangle me and—well then, there you go. It's a bit sobering, you know, to think that a simple movement of the finger could cause another's death."
I took a deep breath, recalling that night with a bit of reluctance. Had the same event occurred, only I an Inspector, I am sure I would have handled things differently. I never did find out if the man had a family—something that may be a blessing. It would have been all the worse if he did.
"The first man I wronged, however—you surely know what I mean, Colxton—wrongly accusing another of a crime—was in my early days as an Inspector. Had the poor blighter in tears, even though he was a giant of a man. Luckily for both of us, Inspector Thistle...brilliant man, retired now, but his son's a constable...found out the truth and managed to smooth over the situation without the superintendent finding out." The feeling never changed—when you realize you've nearly condemned an innocent man—it never gets any better. Goodness knows I deserve it though. There has been many a case I have nearly bungled, most of them involving Holmes.
I really should have forced Bradstreet to stay home. He might endanger his own constables. I fidgeted with my gun, the silence overwhelming me. "I don't usually mind the quiet, Colxon, forgive me." I murmured. "But it allows so many unpleasant memories to surface. Perhaps my Aunt Molly was right...the Inspector life's a hard one. You criminals think you have it tough, think about us. My Lord, I haven't spent nearly enough time as I should have with my family, other Inspectors have lost their family over their jobs. Dear old auntie was right. I should have become a teacher. I should have done this, I should have not done that, I should have...have..."
"Sir—excuse me, sir, what's going on—Inspector Lestrade!"
Ah. Of course, this was Ross's route—I'd forgotten. "I found and subdued Colxton and his companions, of course." I replied wearily. "Let's just get them to the Yard. I'd like to go home to my wife." Ross, hosting up Muggs, looked at me warily. "But the superintendent requested that you meet with him as soon has-"
"I don't care." I stated flatly. "I might as well do something right for once, and that's raising my children whenever possible. ...Let's go, Ross."
Ross nodded, dragging with him Muggs and Bresnick as he headed toward the yard. An odd feeling overcame me, and gently lowering Colxton to the ground, I tipped my hat toward the stars in the sky. "Good night to you to, anybody."