Thank you so much to everybody who reviewed the first chapter! This is for you:
Chapter 2 - Facing reality:
Watson
Once the fog had cleared a little - both the actual one in the room and the figurative one in my mind - and I felt a little more up to facing the situation, I took my first close look at Holmes as he was now (despite the overwhelming evidence, I still had great difficulties in bringing myself to call him either a 'boy' or a 'child', even in the privacy of my own mind). There was one thing that immediately stood out: Though my friend himself had, for lack of a better term, shrunk, something else had very noticeably not.
"You need new clothes."
At the sound of my voice, Holmes' head snapped up from where he had been contemplating his trousers, which had come to pool around his feet - this, however, not being a problem, as his shirt and waistcoat now reached to almost below his knees. For an instant, I saw something that might very well have been panic flash across his eyes before he schooled his features back into their customary expression of calm - a look that sat decidedly odd on his, as I would guess, about 10-year-old face.
Slowly, he lifted his arms, which were still clothed in the now grossly over-sized shirt, to me, as if he were about to present me with a particularly detestable piece of evidence.
"This is ridiculous", he intoned gravely, his own boyish voice nearly giving him a start. As no reply from my side was forthcoming - for once, words had completely deserted me - he continued, looking down at his woefully dangling shirtsleeves: "Obviously, this is some sort of terrible nightmare brought on by overwork, as you have always warned me about."
This sentiment, admittedly not unlike the lines along which I had been thinking, roused me out of the stupor I seemed to have fallen into: "Really, Holmes, if that is the case, how do you explain that I am here?"
He spared me a dark glance as he began to roll up his shirtsleeves. "That is exactly what I should expect you to be saying if you were a figment of my imagination, is it not?"
This time, I did not refrain from rolling my eyes - even if my friend's physique had changed, as the small, slightly dimpled hands that now emerged from the white fabric once more proved, his character evidently had not.
I am afraid that, for the next few minutes, I offered a fairly life-like imitation of a gaping fish while Holmes, with an extraordinary calm born out of denial, proceeded to divest himself first of his trousers, then shoes and socks, after having ascertained that any endeavor to keep these articles of cothing on would prove exceedingly pointless, all the while ignoring me as if he really did believe me to be, as he had so charmingly put it, "a figment of his imagination".
Only once my newly diminutive friend had vacated the sitting room for his own - why I could not begin to imagine, as he could not possibly own any clothing in a size that would answer his current needs - I managed to collect myself. First of all, I went to the windows and opened them wide to allow the remaining blue fog to dissipate.
I was just about to finish mopping up the ink on my desk when two things happened: Holmes returned to the room and, at the same time, I heard the front door downstairs open and Mrs. Hudson come in, apparently returning from her morning visit to the market, which explained why there had been no furious outcry from her in answer to the previous explosion.
Immediately, my eyes fixed onto the cigarette Holmes was holding in his hand and which he had obviously been smoking. "Put that out!", I hissed across the room, and, as he showed no reaction whatsoever, I continued: "You are a child! You cannot smoke!"
Now, finally, he deigned me with an aloof glance. "Neither am I a child, nor will I bow to the fancy flights of my imagination", he stated with conviction and sank into the chair he usually occupied, his bare feet dangling a considerable distance above the carpet.
My own imagination meanwhile was busy conjuring up Mrs. Hudson's reaction should she come in to clear off my breakfast and find instead a half-naked smoking boy of no more than ten years in her sitting room - never mind that said boy was actually her very grown up tenant of many years, Sherlock Holmes.
Already, I could hear her step on the stairs.
As the door started to swing open, I saw Holmes suddenly stiffen. He sat up, and his frantic gaze settled on mine. In his eyes I read that the imminent arrival of our landlady had - finally - convinced him that all this here might actually be happening. In one fluid motion, he thrust the cigarette into my hand and settled himself into the chair much more modestly, only to spring up when Mrs. Hudson entered.
Our landlady, to her credit, barely batted an eyelid as she beheld me, the boy Holmes, the mess around the table where the explosion had taken place, and the blue sheen that had settled on every available surface in the room now that the smoke, at least, had cleared out. I had not realised that we had tried the poor woman so much.
Instead of launching into a lengthy tirade - as without doubt would have been her right - she merely effected a slightly puzzled countenance: "Good morning, Doctor. I see you have a visitor?" Ah, yes. The child would be the only thing that would strike her as terribly unusual.
I put a hand on my friend's shoulder and had just opened my mouth to start explaining the situation when my friend forestalled me by answering himself: "Sherrinford Holmes. It is a pleasure to meet you. Uncle has told me so much about you."
As he spoke, Holmes extricated himself from me and moved towards Mrs. Hudson, offering her his hand. Clearly smitten by what she could only conceive to be an extremely well-mannered young boy - if strangely clad - she smiled at him indulgently and shook his hand. However, the lost look on her face indicated that she still seemed to require additional information. I could not blame her.
Turning around, Holmes came back towards me, mouthing something which looked suspiciously like "She must not know". My gaze went back to Mrs. Hudson, who still seemed to be waiting for some sort of explanation. I fervently wished Holmes had come out of his fit of denial sooner, as I myself felt wholly unfit for the task of making up a convincing reason for both Holmes' absence and 'Sherrinford's' presence. However, apparently I had no choice in the matter.
"Holmes has been called away on an urgent case and..." Now that the easy part was over, I faltered. Perceiving I was in trouble, Holmes turned around and gave me a pointed look, and suddenly, I had a stroke of inspiration: "The case concerns Sherringford's parents. They are distant relatives of Holmes. It was too dangerous to take the boy with them, so they have asked me to take care of him." There - that sounded vaguely convincing.
I was pondering what to do about Mrs. Hudson's still doubtful look - after all, this in no way explained the boy's current attire - when Holmes started pulling on my arm, appearing for all the world an excited boy who had just had an adventure: "Tell her about the cab accident, Doctor Watson!"
He must have seen from my bewildered expression that I had not been able to follow him this time, for turning around to face our landlady, he continued: "There was a cab accident, right in front of the station! And the suitcases all tumbled together and everybody got really dirty and...", here he stopped and looked down at his knobby, boyish knees, sticking out under his adult-sized shirt, "and now I don't have any clothes."
The pathos in his voice would have been enough to melt even the late and unmourned Moriarty's heart - evidently, even in his current predicament, Holmes was a match for any of the famous actors of our time. I just hoped it would be enough to keep her from questioning why, in that case, we had not clothed him in a dressing gown or at least something more suitable than an adult's dress shirt and waistcoat. After all, I had no desire to be taken up on charges of child abduction before the day was over.
Fortunately, my fears appeared to be unfounded, for at my friend's appeal our landlady's countenance softened at once: "Oh, don't worry, dearie. I'm sure the neighbours will have something for you." As she straightened up to face me, I saw Holmes visibly bristle at being addressed in this familiar way.
Any demonstration of mirth on my part would have to wait, however, as Mrs. Hudson now addressed me: "Their youngest son is about his size and has just left for school. I am sure they won't mind the boy borrowing some of his old suits for the time being." Having spoken, she turned to leave, first collecting what remained of my breakfast, taking in its blue and virtually untouched state. In the doorway she paused, bestowing the scorched spot where the explosion had taken place with a pointed glare: "You can tell Mr. Holmes that any damages will be added to his rent."
As soon as we heard the front door close, I let out the breath I had been holding and turned to my friend: "Whatever are we going to do about this?"
Holmes, who had been scrutinizing his child-sized hands and still seemed very put-out by what had happened this morning, not to mention Mrs. Hudson's treatment, raised his head: "Obviously, Watson, the most salient course of action now is to locate the mysterious Dr. Edgeworth - if that is his name - and question him on the particulars of his curious elixir."
Then, surveying his stick-thin arms, he proceeded: "The Irregulars, I believe, would be best suited for this purpose. I would be very obliged if you could contact them immediately."
He gave me a wry smile: "After all, they will hardly accept orders from someone who looks as if he is still tucked in at night by his mother."
--
7 hours later
"Cheer up, old chap, it could have been worse - it might have been one of those Fauntleroy suits!"
Holmes shot me a look that could have curdled milk from where he sat in his chair opposite mine. Fortunately, I had grown immune to that kind of look years ago, and therefore blithely continued: "Besides, it is deucedly hot today - those short pants must be comfortable!"
In reply, he scowled darkly at the broad-brimmed sailor cap with the black twin streamers resting on the table that matched the blue-and-white children's sailor suit which the neighbours had seen fit to provide and which Holmes was currently wearing. They had even made a point of making a gift of it, as their Henry was "much too old for such childish fashions" now that he went to boarding school.
After this brief moment of self-pity, my friend went back to fingering the two sheets of paper he held in his lap - the answer to the inquiries he had made regarding the Winters case, which had arrived during my brief absence earlier when I had gone out to set the Irregulars on Edgeworth's trail. He had spent the afternoon what I believed to be alternately contemplating said case and his changed appearance, and it was easy to see that neither pursuit had been particularly gratifying.
"So the answer must lie within the house?", I asked, more to keep him from the black mood that hung like a threatening cloud over his head than from any need to have the matter clarified yet again. If he noticed, he did not comment.
"Yes. My queries into the family's past have proven my initial deductions: They are all utterly unremarkable individuals. A clerk in a secure but minor government position and his charming wife who dotes on their three darling children. No conflict with the law, nothing out of the ordinary. Positively boring." He shifted in his chair, and I caught him throwing longing glances at the Persian slipper containing his tobacco. His small fingers twitched.
The boyish voice continued: "Then, an unexpected inheritance. They buy a mansion well above their previous means. Soon after, the threats start - 'Leave this place', 'If you want to prevent something terrible from happening to your children', etcetera, etcetera."
While he spoke, my friend had stood up and started pacing. I noticed that now, with his much shorter legs, it took him much longer to traverse the room. "Of course, those bumblers at the Yard achieve precisely nothing in the matter. I am called in."
He turned to me: "Watson, we need to see that house. As you said, any answer to this mystery must lie with the house, not the family. We will go tomorrow." I had my doubts as to this plan, but there was no opportunity to voice them as our landlady was about to enter the sitting room. Holmes disdainfully took up one of the tin soldiers the neighbouring family had seen fit to donate to the poor boy who had lost his toys in a cab accident and started fiddling with it, as he had done all that afternoon whenever Mrs. Hudson came in to ask him if he wanted a slice of cake or needed anything else. Apparently, the presence of such a young child had awakened a wealth of long-dormant motherly feelings in her.
However, this time she came for a different purpose, as we could see by the towel she had slung over her arm. Holmes' eyes visibly widened. "Now, Sherrinford, it is time for your bath, and then some hot milk and off to bed."
I have noted before my friend's remarkable affinity for the thespian profession, but I believe the panic in his voice was not wholly due to this trait when he muttered: "But... but the sun is still out!" Mrs. Hudson smiled indulgently as she took his hand, as if she were dealing with an unruly child - which, from her point of view, I suppose she was. "It is nearly six o'clock and little boys have to go to sleep now."
As she led him from the room, Holmes threw me a helpless look the likes of which I had never seen on his face before - child or otherwise. Unwilling to desert my friend in his hour of need, I followed the pair.
We arrived at the bathroom, where our landlady had already drawn a hot bath and placed a little toy boat at the side of the tub - apparently our neighbours were desperate to get rid of all their children's assets now that they were out of the house. "Are you sure this is necessary, Mrs. Hudson? The boy seems quite clean to me."
Unfortunately, our landlady would not be deterred. "Nonsense. All children need their afternoon baths. Especially after such an exciting day." She smiled at Holmes, clearly referring to the story he had made up about the cab accident, for his afternoon had been distinctly unremarkable. Her attempt to placate him could not have had less of the desired effect.
Perceiving this, our estimable landlady changed the subject: "This would be a good time for you to move your things downstairs, Doctor." I blinked and turned my eyes from where I had been watching Holmes unenthusiastically fiddle with the drawstring of his sailor blouse. "Pardon?"
Indignantly, she went on: "Well, surely you do not expect the child to sleep in that criminals' den Mr. Holmes calls a bedroom? Why, the boy would almost certainly have nightmares! Besides, it is much too close to those chemicals - and you know what children get up to when nobody is there to make sure they don't get into trouble!"
At her confidential tone, I capitulated. Holmes' imploring gaze followed me up to my room, but I supposed that if he really wanted this to stop he could just swallow his pride and tell her the truth - after all, it was not me that had landed him in this situation.
With my nightshirt and a few other necessary toiletries in my arms I finally arrived back downstairs. For a while I stood in the darkened doorway to my friend's room, listening to the splashing sounds from the bath and Mrs. Hudson's mutterings about "family resemblance".
Silently, I gazed at the long rows of criminals' portraits lining the walls.
The criminals silently gazed back.
Yes. This was going to be a very long night.
Again, all comments and constructive criticism highly welcome and appreciated!
