A/N: Here is chapter 2 up. There are a couple little details I want to make clear at the end, but please enjoy the chapter. -SWS
Chapter 2: The Laws of Temple-Haunting
"You want me to go to the Temple with you."
I glanced around the busy main office of Scotland Yard, hoping no one was hearing this conversation."Well, you did agree to accompany me in the event that I planned another ... expedition."
Gregson was at his desk, idly pushing a crumpled piece of paper across the wood surface with the tip of a pencil. He was yawning and his eyes showed no interest whatsoever in events going on around him. Thus I deemed it safe to continue the conversation.
"That is true. And I am more than willing to go with you, but Clea's already made dinner plans."
I sighed out of exasperation and sheer irritability, praying for patience. "Inspector Lestrade, the ghost of Henry Hawkins appears in the hours after midnight, so unless Clea is planning a moonlit dinner with no children present -"
"Emily, do not say that word in here, among the ... skeptics."
"What word?" I asked. Moonlit? Children? Dinner?
Sighing, Lestrade set his jaw as he snatched a piece of scrap paper and a pencil, scribbling something on the paper, which he pushed toward me.
I picked it up, reading it with raised eyebrows. Ghost, it read.
I pushed the paper back to him. "That appeared to be a waste of perfectly good paper," I commented.
Instead of replying, Lestrade's eyes, fixed on a point somewhere over my shoulder, widened to the exaggerated size of dinner plates. "Damn," he whispered, followed by a prayer, most of which was mercifully inaudible.
What on earth? I wondered, and I slowly turned around to see what could have made Lestrade swear and pray at the same time.
Or who. Holmes had appeared, and was now quickly winding his way through the desks towards us.
"Curses," I muttered. I turned quickly to Lestrade again. "11 o'clock outside Baker St., then?"
He nodded, and as soon as I had the needed confirmation I turned to leave.
About half way to the door Holmes grabbed me by the arm, preventing me from leaving. "Emily! What in heaven's name are you doing here?"
"Giving Lestrade the weapon you were withholding from the Clerkenwell case," I quickly lied.
"You would not give him that!" exclaimed the great Sherlock Holmes. "I haven't gathered my deductions from it to solve the case yet. These imbeciles will never recognize the significance of it!"
My statement had given me enough leverage and Holmes enough shock that he had let go of my arm, and before he could further respond, I had turned on my heel and left the building as quickly as I could.
Holmes had refused to speak to me for the rest of the evening. I, however, had no reason to worry about it, as it had been my way out of a tight situation.
As I climbed into the cab alongside Lestrade, he shot me a half smirk. "It seems you caused a bit of trouble as you took your leave earlier."
I blushed. I hadn't even thought of what would occur when Holmes approached Lestrade, asking him if I had given him the weapon. Lestrade would realize that that's where the murder weapon had disappeared to.
"So he was forced to return it?"
"Or else I appeal to my superiors."
"So that explains his refusal to speak to me all evening."
The inspector's eyebrows shot skywards. "He wouldn't speak to you? That seems childish."
I shot Lestrade a look. "You know his moods."
"That I do." This with a nod.
I still had trouble believing that I'd set a trap for Sherlock Holmes and hadn't realized what I'd done. What was more, Holmes unthinkingly walked straight into it, approaching Lestrade after I left.
I suddenly wished I had been there to see the men's faces.
"They leave this place unguarded at night?" I asked softly as we approached the huge double doors leading in from the courtyard.
"There are two Scotland Yarders here each night. I fixed the records so MacDonald and I are scheduled for tonight. He's patrolling the other side of the building."
"At least MacDonald isn't a skeptic."
"That's why I chose him. I knew he'd agree."
I smiled knowingly. "Of course. He is a Scot."
Lestrade snorted. "So is Bradstreet, but he's in charge of the constables in Bow Street tonight."
"So we're on our own tonight."
"I suppose we could yell for MacDonald if something goes horribly wrong," Lestrade shrugged.
"Reports of the ghost say nothing about it being particularly violent, or even conscious of human presence," I replied as we eased open the heavy door and entered the long empty courts of law.
The silent atmosphere inside the old building was heavy and dark. It weighed down on my shoulders the second I entered the space.
"What time is it?" I whispered, trying not to make any more noise than our loud, echoing footsteps already were.
"Nearly twelve," was Lestrade's reply as he glanced at his watch.
"We're a bit early, then," I said. "He shouldn't make an appearance until at least one."
"A routine walk, then?" Lestrade suggested, implying that we walk around the inside of the building to get a feel for our surroundings.
I nodded in agreement and we set off.
In general terms, the entire building was the same, comprised of long, splendorous, marble hallways, granite archways, and engraved stairways.
Close to one o'clock we arrived back where we started, and strolled over to sit down on the staircase and wait.
It wasn't long, however, before footsteps manifested themselves above us.
"Do ghosts walk that noisily?" Lestrade breathed as we turned around to face the stairwell landing.
"I have no idea," said I in return. "Do they cast shadows?"
"I haven't the foggiest." Lestrade's brows had risen upward as he perceived the silhouette which flickered in the dim moonlight, growing ever closer to us with each footstep.
In the heavy silence we waited until the actual figure came into view, dressed in the traditional garb of a judge. The man wore a long, black robe and on his head was an immense powdered wig.
"Is that Henry Hawkins?" Lestrade whispered uncertainly into my ear. "He looks much too ... solid."
"It looks exactly like him, though," I pointed out. "And he's even carrying the papers."
I peered closer to affirm my statement. It was true: the robed figure held in his arms a huge bundle of papers. He continued on down the stairs, not acknowledging our presence, and when he reached the bottom, an awed duo of Lestrade and I parted to allow Judge Hawkins room to pass in between us. He did so with no emotion or acknowledgment, and as he did a cool breeze blew a strand of hair across my face.
Lestrade and I turned around to watch him as he continued down the hallway towards the door that led out the front of the Temple. But as he walked, the cool breeze that followed him took up one of the papers, which was carried out of his grasp, and fluttered down to rest upon the floor. Henry Hawkins made no move to retrieve it.
Instead he kept on walking until he reached the end of the hall. We could not tell if he opened the door and left through it, or else walked through the door. He simply dematerialized.
I knelt and picked up the paper, gesturing for Lestrade to come stand by one of the tall, mullioned windows with me so we could read it by the light of the moon.
"What does it say?" asked Lestrade, excited and breathless.
I opened my mouth. "It's the first page of a witness statement," I said, and began to read it. "A statement of the witness, Miss Eliza Whitney, in her testimony for the defence of Mr. Jonathan Landon, being accused of abduction and willful murder in the investigation by the Metropolitan Police of Scotland Yard. Presented before the courts on 23rd May, 1853."
"Jonathan Landon..." Lestrade murmured. "I've heard of this case."
"You have?" I asked, surprised. "What about it?"
"Well, not much," Lestrade said. "Holmes mentioned the name and date in passing once."
Oh. Like a one-time reference to the past misconceptions of Scotland Yard was supposed to be any help whatsoever.
We studied the document for a moment more before a cry of surprise sounded from outside, followed by the loud bang of the door closing and hurried footsteps coming towards us. Somehow I didn't think that Judge Hawkins realized he had forgotten one of his papers.
Sure enough, it wasn't our too-solid ghost. MacDonald appeared, out of breath and quite shaken.
Without waiting for a word from us, he breathlessly began to rant. "On my grandmother's prize-winning oat cakes -"
"On what?" I muttered into Lestrade's ear. Being Scottish myself, I knew this was not one of the popular euphemisms in the northern parts.
"- He passed right through me!" MacDonald continued.
"Surely you aren't surprised, Alec," I told him soothingly. "Judge Hawkins is, after all, a ghost."
Inspector Alec MacDonald violently shook his head. "Not at all, it was just a reflex I picked up in my early days as a constable in Edinburgh."
"So ... if something walks through you, yell and run for backup." I narrowed my eyes at him.
As he threw out his arms in a wild gesture of exasperation, Lestrade waved the paper in front of our faces. "Never mind that, look at this!" He exclaimed at MacDonald. "Hawkins dropped it. It's made of actual paper!"
Utterly brilliant, Lestrade."I swear to you, Lestrade, he wasn't solid. He walked right through me. It felt like taking an ice bath in the Thames!"
I turned to Lestrade. "Do non-material ghosts carry material paper?" I asked.
"Do non-material ghosts create echoing footsteps and cast shadows?" he asked in reply.
He made a good point. Unless MacDonald was lying, which was far more unlikely than the alternative, our ghost was real, despite any qualities that may have appeared to belong to some more human presence.
In any case, the haunting was over. "MacDonald," said Lestrade, "cover for me while I accompany this young woman home."
At Baker St. I alighted from the cab with the mysterious document still tucked into my pocket, too exhausted to ask Lestrade if he wanted to take it.
Wearily, I let myself into the house just as the grandfather clock struck a quarter until three in the morning and began to walk up the familiar 17 stairs.
On entering the sitting room I perceived John sitting in the armchair with the latest issue of the Strand Magazine. I pictured what Holmes would do if he saw the thing anywhere within the premise of 221, Baker St. Obviously he didn't know about the secret stash Mrs. Hudson kept tucked in the back cupboard of the kitchen.
"Is Holmes out?" I asked him, interest piqued ever so slightly.
"Yes," he answered tiredly. "The lunatic made me promise to wait up for him."
"Well, since he's out and you're up ... would you happen to know where to find his case study on the court trial of Jonathan Landon in 1853?"
If Holmes had referenced it even in passing, he had to have made a study of it.
John raised a finger to signify one moment, and disappeared into Holmes' bedroom, returning after a short moment with a surprisingly thin file. Evidence must have been scant that case.
I took it from him, uttering a thanks. "In that case, I believe I shall retire," I informed him, and traipsed up the stairs to my bedroom.
Several minutes later I sat down on my bed, wondering how much I would be able to read before my eyes willed themselves closed.
It turned out to be barely a page before I was forced to set the papers on my bedside table, and I drifted off to sleep almost immediately.
The next morning when I awoke, I went to the mirror to get dressed. Just as I was about to tie up my hair, I paused as I saw a reflection in the mirror and turned to have a look at the material thing.
My eyes did not deceive me. Holmes' case file still lay there beside my gas lamp, but the paper we had taken from the Temple had disappeared.
And then I knew: the ghost had been real, and the paper could not exist in this dimension for an extended period. It had gone to join the judge who had presided over the case.
I walked down to the sitting room to join my two companions for breakfast. "This came for you," John said, handing me a plain envelope.
I slit it open with a finger as I sat down. I took out the paper inside, which was a note from Lestrade, written hastily on a piece of Scotland Yard's stationery.
Emily, Re our very material ghost: the 6th of October, being today's date, is the anniversary of Hawkins' death. It appears that on the anniversary of their demise, ghosts may follow the same routine, yet take a more realistic form. I sincerely hope Holmes is more agreeable today. - Lestrade
"Oh, nothing of this world," I replied mysteriously, sliding the edge of the envelope under my plate for safe keeping.
A/N: So. First of all, all the chapters for this story stick very closely to the actual stories of ghost sightings, but some may have a small embellishment of mine to heighten the interest. In this case it was the paper that Hawkins dropped. Second: Henry Hawkins did not die until the 6th of October, 1907, but I did not realize that until I was done with the chapter. So forgive that small bit of inaccuracy, since I'd already put a lot of effort into writing it and didn't want it to go to waste. Thanks for reading, all :) -SWS
