This chapter contains line breaks to aid as bookmarks if you do not wish to read it all at once.
A sweet, sweet smile graced his face, mouthing words only the dead could hear. The guest of honour had finally arrived. Eyes alighted he called to her, his voice spinning provocatively out of control, pulsating in her ears.
"Oh refuge of my hardened heart, oh fast pursuing lover come, as angels dance round your throne, my life by captured fare you own . . ."
Falsely sung, corrupting and enticing, she realized she never had been standing on her own. The love affairs of spirits and ghosts danced inside her mind, pale and dead, kissing her with lips of wine. Twisting her bodice to regain nothing of the control she thought to possess, the ensemble moved her to an unearthly heart beat. Heavier and sinking, figures began to drop at her glass slipper feet. Haunted eyes watched her dance, smirking into a well worn, unabashed grin worthy of the Reaper himself.
A voice whispered, "poor little thing, why make your life a living hell?" Behind her now, in her soul he spoke rather than her ear. She sang, knowing not whence the song came, or if it was her voice catching in the air.
"Help me . . ." The plea of a fainting woman, bent on her own destruction in the form of a persistent needle in her heart, thousands of pin pricks never known to her, made by hands never touching her.
Cold fingers brushed her violently red lips, "child, you're dead." The corset grew tighter and tighter as a beauty she kept secret in her heart burst open upon her face.
"But the music-"
"Music of the dead."
"Music of the dead," she murmured, lying on the forest floor, the skeletons fading into trees, eyes glaring from soulless pits. "I left my body at the door."
"What door?"
"The door of the dead, was it not?" She couldn't remember.
"Perhaps , or perhaps such carnal love was made to you that it was your spirit left behind, surrendering to the dance of the dead. Hmm?"
Confusion swelled within her. "He never touched me."
"Who, my dear?"
"I don't know." She lied.
In her ear; "then how do you know your saving angel didn't slit you from one delicacy to the top of your pretty little head?"
"Sherlock?"
"Ah, yes," the voice purred, "a friendly face among the dead you think? He ripped his wings off all by himself, you know." Convulsions wracked her body. Roots snaked round her limbs. "And now he's torn yours asunder. Tisk tisk, child."
She sobs. "He never touched me." Anger. "Let me go." Pulling at her bonds.
"What do you want?" Softly.
"Let me go."
"What do you want?" Persistent.
"Let me go."
"What do you want?" Chilling.
"Out. Let me go, I want out!" Screaming hysterically.
"Liar." Gone.
Forest green to freshly bled blood, she drifted away falling through peach scented wraiths clawing her dress free of her bruised skin, already purple. An invisible kiss and the tears came without restraint. She closed her eyes, coughing, gagging, drowning in copper flavoured satin.
A lone voice, "From the over flow of the heart, child." Black. White. BANG. A piercing cry of anguish sprung forth from the depths of her gullet.
"Come now, surely the sound of a gun wouldn't upset you." Came a clipped voice, edged with trace humour.
Beth Lestrade flung open her eyes, looking up from the settee towards the fireplace to see a lean silhouette cleaning his finger nails with a jack knife. A revolver lay on the end table. The man's grey eyes sparkled with boyish amusement as the knife found its way back into the mantel.
"Did you have a pleasant nap?" His tone even and indifferent.
"A . . . a nap?" Her voice croaked.
"Yes," Holmes said at length, seemingly engrossed with a stain on his index finger. "You unceremoniously collapsed on my sofa after stating that you had been on your feet all morning, and promptly fell asleep."
"Oh, I," sitting up she buckled forward, " oh, oww." Lestrade encircled her chest.
Holmes frowned. Striding to the hall door he called out, "Watson, come here if you would be so kind."
"Whatever is the matter, Holmes?" His blue eyes caught sight of the slender brunette. "Oh my. Dear girl, what's wrong?" He sat beside her, adjusting his brown suit as he did.
"My ribs hurt and I can't breathe."
"Well now perhaps-"
"Perhaps she just fastened her corset too tight." Holmes interjected, once again taking aim on the far wall.
"Holmes!" Watson glared at him. The detective eyed him and shrugged, tossing the gun into a chair.
Lestrade sounded off in confusion. "Corset?"
Holmes set his gaze on her, drumming a finger on the wall. He leaned into the hall again. "Alice!" Promptly a young girl with dull brown hair appeared in the entry way.
"Sir?"
"Kindly take the lady somewhere where she can attend to her discomfort, then bring her back."
"Yes, Sir."
Holmes rolled his eyes once the two had left the room. "Women." He snorted quietly, stretching himself out in his arm chair.
"I do wish you had been more discrete in identifying her discomfort." Watson sat down opposite. His face showing his distaste in his companion's blunt suggestion.
"How, dear Watson, would you suggest I have done that? Whisper it in her ear?"
Watson huffed. "I admit I don't know, but surely you could have thought of a more tactful way to phrase it."
"Simplicity is best sometimes." Holmes closed his eyes.
Watson changed topics. "So what is she doing here?"
"No idea."
"No clue in which to guide you?"
The detective opened his eyes, his features honed in thought. "That's just it Watson, there are no clues to be had."
Watson started. "None?"
"Nothing. Not one thing about that lady tells me anything of importance." He threw his hands out in frustration. "Except." He trailed off, pressing his fingers against his drawn lips.
"Except? Then you did see something?"
Holmes sighed. "The dress is new as are her shoes and hat. She is also in the habit of using a gun and frequently types."
"Well, that's something."
"It's nothing! It merely suggests that she is from an area where she might need a gun in which to protect herself and she works as a typist, which could fit the profile of hundreds, each one more forgettable than the last. It's the fact that she's absolutely clean of any other identifying marks that make up the only real clue, and that is superficial at best. Observe, she has no mud on her dress, so she didn't ride in a hansom, and shoes are clean, too clean."
"Too clean?"
Another sigh. "They look as if they've never been worn outside, yet she claims to have been on her feet all day."
Watson looked incredulous. "Could she simply have changed shoes?"
"Perhaps, but I doubt it. If she had changed shoes to a pair she's never worn before, where did she put the other set?" He lit a cigarette. Pausing an inch away from his mouth, Holmes shook his head before taking a drag.
"Do you think she is touched in the head? She did seem rather confused."
Holmes shrugged. "Who is to say." A deep breath. "It doesn't fit, Doctor."
"What doesn't?"
"The lady, Watson, she doesn't fit." Watson knitted his brow. "In anything. She doesn't fit into anything." Holmes said, answering before Watson could ask.
"Did you catch her name? Perhaps a relation of hers could shed some light."
"I thought of that, but no, I didn't get her name."
Watson gazed at his partner in some surprise. "You mean she came up unannounced?"
Holmes's face took on the expression of pure confusion. "Yes, but the front door never opened, and I did not hear her on the steps."
Watson's mouth opened, then closed as he processed this new information. His hands went up in defeat. "I'm at a loss."
"As am I, my friend, as am I. Come in." The maid, Alice, opened the door in a shocked blush, clearly having been about to knock. Holmes stared. "Where's the lady?"
Alice decidedly looked at her feet, then shyly back at the detective. "Well, Sir, she's had a fainting spell come over her."
Startled, Holmes's mouth dropped slightly before he spoke. "She fainted?"
Head high, Alice broke into a rush of speech. "It wasn't because of her garment, Sir. It had been too tight for her, but once Mrs. Hudson and I loosened it she asked for the date. We told her. Her eyes went wide as the moon and on the floor she went in a dead faint."
"Where is she now?" Asked Watson.
"On the floor of the kitchen. Mrs. Hudson wanted to know if you would be kind enough to move her to a more suitable location."
Blue eyes met grey. "Of course." Answered Watson.
Once again Beth Lestrade awoke to find herself lying on the sitting room couch. This time two sets of eyes watched her, one seemingly anxious, the other unreadable.
The first of the pair spoke. "Feeling better, Miss?"
Lestrade cautiously moved herself to half sit, half lean beside the arm of the sofa. "Yes, aside from the headache that is." Her fingers straightening the skirt of her dress, asking questions her mind was currently against acknowledging.
Watson nodded. "Would you care for some tea?" He gestured to a handsome sliver set at his side.
"Yes, please." Lestrade said diminutively, her dark blue eyes glossy. "Thank you." Turning her head instinctively, she met with a steely vision as Holmes scanned her without apology. Taking the cup from Watson, she smiled. "Do I have something on my face, Holmes?"
His piercing eyes locked with hers for a moment, freezing her mind up. "My apologies," he said nonchalantly, breaking the spell.
"I bet."
Holmes raised an eyebrow. "Would you mind-"
"Tell me she was lying."
"Beg your pardon?"
"Alice. Tell me the maid was lying about the date." Her voice carried a chill. Lestrade set about studying his face for reaction of any sort.
"My dear, it's the first of June 1889. What did the maid tell you?" Watson asked in a worried manner.
"The same." Lestrade's voice dropping.
Holmes snapped. "Are you right in the head?" Watson and Lestrade fixed him with scathing looks. Ignoring them both, he continued on, "You will tell me your name and what business brings you here, or I'll show you the door. I can't have my time wasted in such a fashion."
Lestrade smiled then proceeded to unload a string of words, not a curse word among them, that by the end of which had Watson in shock and Holmes blushing. "What goes on behind my door when closed is no business of yours to reflect upon." He said coldly.
"So it's perfectly polite for you to over analyse me, but I can't do the same for you?" She asked in a falsely sweet voice. Watson glanced away, suddenly very interested in the wall.
Holmes clenched and unclenched his hands. "Who are you and why are you here?"
A sigh. Lestrade gazed at him imploringly. "My name is Beth Lestrade and I seem to be lost."
Holmes stared at her. "Come again?"
"You heard me."
"Are you a relation of Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard?" Watson asked hesitantly.
Lestrade thought for a moment. "No," she said, watching Holmes carefully, half expecting him to rebuke her answer.
Instead he simply asked, "How are you lost?"
"I don't know how I got here."
"Where? In London? My doorstep? Details, Miss Lestrade, details."
"Fine. I went to bed last night, around 11 p.m., only to wake up standing in your foyer feeling dead on my feet."
An indecipherable pause. "You're wasting my time. If you need a job that badly I believe Mrs. Hudson is in need of a second live in maid."
Lestrade's jaw dropped. Watson started, "Holmes, why on earth-"
"In a moment, Doctor. Miss Lestrade, if you would be so good as to follow the stairs to the foyer you will find a hall way to your right. That leads to the kitchen, and I believe the delightful Mrs. Hudson is there currently." He said, taking Lestrade by the hand and guiding her to the sitting room door.
Lestrade searched his face, trying to read him. Finally she nodded, giving his hand a slight squeeze before leaving his side. Holmes closed the door behind her.
"What are you up to, Holmes? That was a very unusual course of action."
"Indeed it was, Watson. But like I said, something about her isn't right."
"You think she was lying?"
"No."
Watson smiled teasingly. "She is lovely."
"Was she? I didn't notice."
"Then why send her down to Mrs. Hudson?"
His companion slouched against the wall deep in thought, looking mystified with himself. "I have acted on something foreign to me, Watson. I haven't been able to rid myself of it since I first laid eyes on her." Watson raised his brow with a humorous gleam in his eye. Holmes smiled faintly.
"No, Watson."
"What then?"
He sighed, sliding into the armchair. His cherry pipe appearing suddenly, lit and between his lips. "Despair, my friend, complete despair."
Watson smirked. "That is not so unusual."
Holmes smiled briefly. "True. No, Watson, our young lady has it in her manner in dizzying amounts, but why?"
"Perhaps she's lost someone close to her, a parent or a fiancé."
"If that were the case I believe she would have said so." His eyes flickered grimly. Hastily writing out a telegram and sending it off with the pageboy, Holmes sank into darkness. It was all Watson could do to bid his moody friend good day and promise to call on him later, leaving the angular man in a halo of bluish smoke showing no indication he was aware.
June 11, 1889
Asleep. The first time she had laid eyes on him in almost two weeks and he was curled up asleep on the settee. Lestrade smiled despite herself. His left hand twitched compulsively by his head. She frowned. Was he dreaming?
Sighing, she pulled the duster out of her newly acquired maid's uniform to start cleaning. She liked this place, it felt and looked how she thought it should. The perpetual scent of pipe tobacco and chemicals overwhelming the senses in a calm, homey way. Scattered newspapers, magazines, volumes upon volumes of scrapbooks and encyclopaedias organized in his own peculiar style lay everywhere. Dim lights gave the place a soft glow, throwing the reds and mahoganies of the study deeper in colour.
Lestrade thought of what the room would become and shuddered; cleaner, organized, touches of twenty-second century technology everywhere, no strange, lingering smells embedded in the furniture. Or on him, she mused.
She had cleaned the room all the way up to the sofa now and couldn't help pausing to study him. It felt strange. First, she had seen him as an old man suspended in time, then watched as he fell back into a twenty-five year old in full glory. She smirked. Now he was thirty-five and just as striking. His hair was considerably darker, almost a black brown, and a bit shorter. Definite lines on his face marked his life as a stressful one, even when at peace. His left arm caught her attention. Dotted and scarred beyond what she had imagined it would have been, she frightened herself in thinking that it suited him.
Scars on the outside to hide the ones within. She gently put his shirt cuff down, arranging his rumpled clothes as best she could, and manoeuvring his disreputable robe to cover him better. Lestrade felt a pinch in her heart, this is who he really is. Brushing loose strands of hair back into her bun, she quietly moved away to finish the rest of the room, turning when she felt the back of her head burning.
He was on his back staring at her with an unknown fire in his grey eyes. Lestrade felt herself start to blush out of nerves. He was awake the whole time, she thought, slightly embarrassed. Remembering herself, she sat down on the back of the sofa, feather duster dangling in her hand and stared back. Two can play this game. Her stubbornness surfacing while the blaze in Holmes's eyes darkened.
For some time the two sat and stared, neither one moving. Holmes's haunted gaze mimicking a candle flame across Lestrade's face did nothing to phase her as she unashamedly did the same. For a moment, she thought she heard notes from a music box, but pushed the notion away knowing full well the room was quiet. Her head fell slightly as disembodied music slowly filled her ears, growing in volume and stealing into her, reminiscent of a touch that made her flesh crawl.
A sharp breath broke through the fog in her mind. She raised her eyes in question, unsure who had made the sound. Holmes was expressionless, his eyes a ghostly fever piercing her. Lestrade paled. Holmes sat up, allowing her to slip down onto the cushion before her balance gave out. She jumped when he reached for her with a handkerchief, pressing it against her lips. Taking the cloth from him in some confusion, Lestrade started when she saw blood.
"It appears you bit your lip."
"Yes, but did I-" Lestrade quieted, shocked to see intense black eyes instead of grey. Uneasiness crept up her back and settled in her stomach. Returning the handkerchief to her lip she left the room without looking back.
June 17, 1889
Once again, Holmes had disappeared without a hint to his doings beyond informing Mrs. Hudson he expected to be away for a few days. Lestrade, knowing he was on a case, was itching to try and join him. It made her giddy with awe that she was in his world watching him solve the cases she grew up reading. Currently on break, she sat on the garden stoop, absently staring at nothing in particular, wishing she could follow him.
Unfortunately, I can't join in because I'm a woman. She frowned, only to smile seconds later. Oh, I bet he'd have a coronary if I showed him up.
"Beth!"
"Ah, duty calls," she said to herself, heading indoors. "Yes, Mrs. Hudson?"
The plump, jolly woman stood just inside the kitchen with a thick package in her arms. Lestrade cast a curious look at it. Clearly it was heavy, for Mrs. Hudson was panting slightly under the strain.
"I don't know why he insists on this, he memorizes it anyway." She said in a huff.
"Memorizes what?"
"Here. Take this." Mrs. Hudson pushed the four inch thick package into Lestrade's arms.
Lestrade grunted. "What's in this?"
"Sheet music."
"Sheet music! Why would anyone need this much sheet music?"
Mrs. Hudson smiled lovingly. "Well, Mr. Holmes is a unique fellow, but I can guarantee some of the best violin solos you've ever heard." The land lady paused. "On second thought, just dump it on the side table here. You can take it up to his rooms after lunch." Mrs. Hudson took her arm. "You are such a lovely girl, Beth. I do hope Mr. Holmes comes to his senses about you."
Lestrade blushed. "You're reading into things, I'm afraid."
"That is nonsense. I've watched you with him. He changes when you're around and it's not because you're a woman either." Mrs. Hudson winked at her.
Lestrade looked pointedly down and sat at the kitchen table. "Really, it's not like that."
"Then what is it like?" asked Mrs. Hudson, sitting across, eyeing the young girl.
Lestrade pursed her lips together, fiddling with her hands. "I don't know." She answered truthfully.
"Do you know what I think?" Lestrade shook her head, stifling a cough. "I think he cares for you, he sees something worthwhile in you."
Lestrade smirked. "He sees a mystery."
Mrs. Hudson smiled at the remark. "Mr. Holmes doesn't take mysteries into his home to stay and work."
"Well, it seems he's made an exception, but I can almost guarantee you it's because he deduced I didn't have anywhere else to go."
Mrs. Hudson's mouth thinned. "I hate to sound rough, Beth, but you're as blind as Mr. Holmes."
"I'm sorry?"
"He's shown everyone the door except for you and Dr. Watson."
Lestrade rose to leave, slightly annoyed. "Perhaps you're right, but it's not to be. It can't be."
June 24, 1889
Lestrade stuck her hand in the cool stream waters smiling. She couldn't imagine a better way to spend a clear spring afternoon than lounging by a river shaded by large oak trees. Smoothing her pale blue dress out, she leaned up against the largest tree wriggling her shoe free toes and sighed happily. Her deep blue eyes closed, telling her a nap would be perfect. A rustling beside her caused her to look up. Much to Lestrade's surprise a handsome man with brown hair and warm eyes sat beside her smiling.
"You are a difficult lady to find, Miss Lestrade."
She stared at him, recognizing him, but having forgotten him all the same. "Do I know you?"
The man laughed. "Why am I not surprised. Your attention is at half most of the time isn't it?" He chuckled, catching her annoyed look. "Don't worry, I must confess to being just as guilty as yourself in that regard. Although, usually I at least remember faces." His voice was thoughtful.
"I never said I didn't remember seeing you. But just because I saw someone once, doesn't mean I know who they are."
"Ah, too true, too true. How are you fairing on this particularly fine day, my dear?"
"I'm okay."
The man raised an eyebrow. "Just okay?"
Lestrade cocked her head at him, playfully. "You won't let me get away without answering, will you?"
He flashed a charming grin. "Only if you're sure you don't want to tell me."
Lestrade drew her knees up. "Well, I've recently started working as a maid. The experience is rather new and has me quite tired out."
"House work a bit much?"
"No, not really. My feet are sore by the end of the day and I've felt queasy a few times, but that's all."
The man looked into her face, his eyes kind. "Then what seems to be the trouble?"
Lestrade thought for a moment. "I don't know how to explain it, everything is so . . . different."
"How so?"
Lestrade faced the man. "I'm used to being listened to and to doing things my own way; being my own boss. I don't mind listening to Mrs. Hudson, she's a great lady, but working under her lodger is strange. This whole situation is strange."
"Sounds ominous."
"I thought I knew him pretty well, but I find myself rethinking everything about him and come off scaring myself because I feel like he's lied to me without actually saying anything."
"Do you fancy this lodger?"
"No, but I fancied us being friends. Come to find out he doesn't have friends, and that, unsurprising as it is, kind of, hurt. In fact, I'd be happier if he just straight out ignored me, instead of barking out orders like I was a golden retriever: fetch this, fetch that, hold this, stand still. This is a nightmare," Lestrade put her head in her hands and pushed her hair back. "I'm not even supposed to be here."
The man patted her shoulder gently. "My dear, listen to me. I'm not the wisest of men, but I do know something of the man of which you speak and I think you're exactly where you're supposed to be."
Lestrade frowned. "What on earth for?"
The man gazed up at the sky, seeing it cloudy, he sighed. "Why does God have us anywhere, but to learn."
"Are you a priest?"
He laughed heartily at the question. "Goodness me, no. I'm not nearly religious enough for that profession."
"He's an anti-social, eccentric, crime addicted, drug abuser who gets his kicks from seeing how cold he can make others feel. What's to learn?" She spat.
"Well, I suppose if you knew that you wouldn't be here would you?"
"So now you're going all inscrutable on me are you?"
"No, but I would remind you, as I'm sure you remind him, the world doesn't revolve around that man."
Lestrade laughed. "Good point," her smile faded, "not that it helps." She cupped her hands to catch the tiny droplets of rain that appeared.
"He's just a man, Miss Lestrade, and he does trust you."
Her face had the start of a smile. "Yeah, I know." Lestrade sneezed, which turned into a light hack. She put her hand up to her mouth and coughed properly instead of swallowing it.
"Goodness, we should get you indoors before the weather gets worse."
Lestrade gave a laugh. "You sound like Watson."
"Is that such a bad thing to sound like a doctor when a lady shows signs of a cold?"
"No, just overprotective."
He smiled lightly, his eyes sad. "It's called being a gentleman, Miss Lestrade."
"Do you know Dr. Watson?"
"We've met. I've played Billiards with him before."
"Ah." Lestrade placed her chin on her knees, watching the ripples in the water grow darker.
"Miss Lestrade?"
"Hm? Hey, there's something shiny in the water. Do you see it?"
The man followed her finger with his eyes. "Best leave it where it lies. It's pretty far out and I would hate for you to get soaked."
"Spoil sport. It's not that far out." Lestrade kneeled on the bank and stretched her hand out. "Shoot. I don't think I can reach it."
"Let it alone and come sit back down." He said imploringly.
"In a minute. I almost have it," her fingers now only an inch away. She smiled in triumph upon feeling the cool silver of a necklace, only to gasp in surprise when she lost her balance and tumbled in.
The man jumped to his feet. "Miss Lestrade!"
Lestrade turned on her back, seeing the man's rippled image peering down at her. She moved to stand, but her feet found no bottom. How deep is this?
"Miss Lestrade, come back!" Came a muffled shout.
Well, time to swim back up. No sense giving the guy a heart attack. The chain caught a snag when she tried swimming forward. What the? Lestrade shifted her attention to her hand.
"Miss Lestrade!" Fainter now.
Lestrade gazed up to look at the man and was shocked to see the surface barely visible. She tugged at the necklace roughly to see if it might come free. Darn thing. A cold blanket of water grazed her, sending a shiver over her body.
"Little child where did you lose your heart?" Someone held her gently from behind, whispering in her ear. "The ice that surrounds you will never melt. Pale in beauty, frozen inside out, tears dried on your cheeks for the dead to lick." The name "Elizabeth", by the time it reached her ears, could barely be made out although she was sure the man had shouted it as hard as he could. The man? What man? I was alone . . .
A hand softly trailed down her face. "Tell the truth. You dream of the Reaper at your door, wooing you, leading you off into the night. All you really want is the light, but in truth you crave the dark. Your wings are ripped, thrown aside, the goblins did pick them up to eat in a feast without you. Run little child, away from your soul, lost in the forest of your making."
The hand on her neck was ice cold. "Knotholes filled with eyes are peering at your door, little ones singing, "'Ring around Beth's neck, pocketbook of death, ashes, ashes she can't move now.'"
The hand tightened, twisting slowly with each word. Callously delicate kisses graced her temples, forehead, eyes, cheeks, chin, neck, a pause over her lips accompanied by a sardonic smirk. "I want . . ."
Lestrade bolted up breathing heavily, her blankets damp from sweat. Running a hand over her face, she gave into a fit of coughing as her fingers compulsively checked her throat. She found nothing out of the ordinary except her quickened pulse. She inhaled deeply, forcing back another spasm.
Oh man, what a dream. That voice again, the fourth time this month. I don't know if I can get back to sleep after that. Checking the alarm clock, she groaned. Three am. Beautiful, just beautiful.
Untangling herself from the sheets, something small falling off the bed caught her eye. Reaching down Lestrade picked up a long silver chain with a petite gold band adorning it. Turning up the light to see better, Lestrade decided it was a woman's ring, a wedding ring more than likely. It was a plain little thing against the intricate links of the silver, but charming none the less.
A well worn ring too, it's all scuffed up. I wonder. Taking the band off the necklace, Lestrade slipped it on her ring finger. Huh, it fits. It's kind of pretty, wonder where it came from. I should ask Holmes. She stole a glance at the clock again and smirked. The freak is probably still up. Thinking for a moment, Lestrade got up. Wasn't going to sleep anyway. Throwing on a simple light pink day dress, she set out for the great detective's sitting room.
Sure enough, she found him reclining in an arm chair violin in hand. She stopped in the door way and listened, enchanted. Smooth, gentle notes floated through the air in a caressing manner. Her heart suddenly felt light and calm. A dreamy hue filtered over the air, altering sound itself. Deftly the song morphed into a cascade of colour speaking of the player's bohemian air, hinting at wild thoughts of unknown origin. Then quite abruptly, she couldn't call it music anymore. It was rushed, cool, vibrant in its need to spit up whatever came to mind without hindrance, without consequence.
Lestrade leaned against the door frame and stared at the ceiling, letting the exotic sounds carry her into the wilderness. A frightening pace had been set, twisting, changing, sensual in some spots, borderline erotic and distant the next. Higher and higher the notes rose into the room, deep and low whines touching every nerve. The tune grew heavy with a spiritual prowess, flattening Lestrade to the wall, her senses enamoured. An unconscious gasp escaped her lips, a blush arose on her pale face, still he played on. His bow arm flying furiously, straining the strings. Every movement embellishing unrestrained presence of soul that might have startled both of them had they been fully aware. Finally, Lestrade gave a cry that either he couldn't ignore or this was the first he heard of her.
Holmes put down the instrument and turned to find the sleepless girl sitting against the wall in a slump. Her lips bright and moist, a red line running down her chin. The Stradivarius fell to the floor as Holmes leapt out of his chair, "Heavens, Miss Lestrade!" Gently he gathered her to him, and with a touch of delicacy dabbed at her mouth with a cloth. "Dear lady, are you ill and didn't say anything?"
In reply Lestrade held out the ring and necklace. "I dreamt I found it in a stream only to wake and find it with me." Her voice was quiet and liquid. "It fit. Holmes, Sherlock, it fit. It fits, but it's not mine." Tears forming in her eyes. Holmes backed off a bit, weary of her until a fit came over her and crimson filled the hand he held to her mouth.
"Mrs. Hudson!" He bellowed, moving Lestrade to the settee, then taking off at a run down the stairs to wake the landlady. "Mrs. Hudson!"
Dr. Strutherford frowned, his balding head wrinkling. He always thought it something awful when a young person fell ill, especially young ladies. The girl lying in front of him was no exception, beautiful even with a deathly complexion upon her. He sighed, this was difficult. What was he to tell them? Sorry, I can't do anything for her? No, that would be cruel. He had a daughter around her age, vibrant, full of life, looking forward to having a family of her own. It would be a cold day for him if a doctor told him they couldn't cure his Emily. He watched the steady rise and fall of his patient's chest, knowing it wouldn't stay that way for long.
Finally, Dr. Strutherford turned to the younger man leaning on the mantel. His eyes were dark and his aquiline face bore the unmistakable look of a troubled man. The doctor thought his heart was going to break when the young man met his gaze; he knew. He knew her situation was grave. The man broke contact, his eyes finally settling on the lady. A plump, older woman with a kind face sniffled from an arm chair, bringing the doctor out of his thoughts.
Might as well get this over with. He sighed and addressed Holmes. "I'm really sorry, young man, but there's nothing more I can do for your wife."
The surprise lasted less than a fraction of a second as Holmes spotted the ring Lestrade had shown him earlier still on her finger. Mrs. Hudson took that moment to excuse herself, choking back a sob. Holmes watched her leave, then turned back to the doctor playing with the silver chain absentmindedly. "Nothing?"
Dr. Strutherford shook his round head. "I truly am sorry. A bit of fresh air might help, but I would be extremely wary of moving her. I fear the shock alone might be the end of her."
"But it is consumption?"
The old doctor massaged his forehead. "Near as I can tell, but it seems like the worst of it hit her all at once which is strange."
"Unless she's been sick and didn't know it."
"Ah, that could be the case. But I thought, being married, you would have noticed a decline in her health." Holmes curled his lip into a tight smile, bordering on thinly veiled repulsion. "Peaceful sleep is best-"
"Is it?"
The doctor turned pink. "Ah, um, sorry, that was rather horrible phrasing wasn't it. I just meant that her rest should be as undisturbed as possible."
"Easily done."
"That's good. Unfortunately, all that remains to be done is to wait and see what happens."
"Thank you for coming out so late, Dr. Strutherford."
"You're quite welcome. I'm just sorry there wasn't more I could do; such a lovely girl."
"Goodnight, Doctor."
"Goodnight." He said sadly, leaving the hard-faced young man staring at the sleeping girl.
Holmes flopped down in a chair once positive the doctor was gone and retrieved his magnifying glass from the floor. His keen grey-blue eyes analysing everything he could about the silver chain. Made from real silver, the links formed tiny knots, and it was obviously a woman's necklace. Minute scratching spoke of nothing except that it wasn't new. He thought it strange that Lestrade should mention finding it in a stream when there were none close by. An image of the Thames River came to mind.
"Yes, that sounds much more likely." He muttered to himself. It would explain how she fell ill so quickly too, but she's been here all day. Supposing though, that her statement is completely true. His thoughts trailed off, venturing into other areas.
His eyes suddenly darted to Lestrade. In an instant he was kneeling beside the sofa taking up her cold hand to examine the ring she wore. On impulse, he felt her other hand and forehead, and found them cold. Holmes narrowed his eyes, extremely annoyed with himself and the doctor when he realized that Lestrade had been and was still barefoot. Quickly removing the ring, he fetched a couple of blankets from the clean linen downstairs and threw them over her.
Once again, he curled into his usual armchair with magnifying glass in hand, this time probing the gold band. His face started out impassive, drawn up in intense concentration only to have pure, unfiltered shock show through.
Where and how did she get this? Forgetting himself, he barked, "Miss Lestrade! Miss Lestrade!" He knelt by her again and gently shook her. I must know.
She took a deep, staggered breath, and gazed at him questioningly. "Holmes? What is it?"
Holmes looked deep into the blue of her eyes, voice ardent. "Where exactly did you find this ring?"
"In a stream."
"Details, now."
Lestrade pursed her lips, half thinking, half forcing back a cough. "The stream was fairly wide and surrounded by large oak trees. I don't know where it was, I told you it was a dream."
Holmes's face morphed into an expression that could have been either disappointment or frustration. "A dream." He said blandly, drumming his fingers on the settee.
"I was dreaming about a man, he-" Lestrade began choke, coughing strenuously into her hands. Holmes handed her a clean rag he had brought up with him, his arm holding her up as she let loose into the cloth.
Lying her back down, he spoke tenderly. "My apologies, Miss Lestrade, I did not mean to be so demanding of you."
Lestrade waved it off. "It's all right, you're just being you." Holmes smirked. "Anyway, what did the doctor say? I dosed off."
Holmes gave her a kind smile. "Dr. Strutherford believes you have an acute case of consumption. The prognosis was not good."
Lestrade smiled faintly. "I thought not. What did you find on that ring?"
"Nothing of real importance."
Lestrade sighed, smiling playfully. "You're horrible you know that?"
"I do now. Please, my apologies again for waking you, do try and sleep."
She watched him sit back by the fire. "Are you going to play your violin again?"
He glanced at her. "I had planned on it." Picking up the Stradivarius, he began to create a gentle, soothing song, the sound of which made Lestrade's eyelids start to droop.
She smiled drowsily. "That's beautiful."
"Thank you."
Her eyes closed, as happier dreams came to mind and claimed her.
July 1, 1889
"You look awful." Lestrade said to the face in the mirror. This illness was driving her up the wall, there was no conceivable way this was tuberculosis. She felt fine and was perfectly normal, until an attack came round, then she would end up doubled over feeling like she had severe asthma. The attacks always seemed to come when she exerted energy at length, like naught but ten minutes ago.
Ten minutes ago Lestrade had been out in the garden folding laundry, when a gangly man with fire red hair and blotchy face to match sauntered up to her attempting to flirt. He had winked at her, then proceeded to talk in so heavy an Irish accent she could barely make sense of him. She had, however, caught, references to a job and church, and his hazel-blue eyes continuously fondling her chest. Lestrade had snapped when he flashed a wide grin, showing off yellowed teeth, and started mouthing off in the most un-lady like manner she could. The man had thought it all a thrill and was smiling until she started coughing.
Lestrade had known what was going to happen before it started. A numbing cold had slowly crept up her body, washing over her, making her lightheaded. But she had continued shouting at the man until it became too difficult to do anything except cough. When the Irishman finally noticed the blood dripping from her hand he blanched and ran off, leaving her on the ground. Luckily, Alice had come out with some freshly laundered sheets to hang. The startled girl had dropped the basket on the stoop, called Mrs. Hudson, and rushed to her aid. Now here she was in the washroom cleaning herself up, muttering about lack of proper medicine.
Mrs. Hudson had thrown a fit, blaming Holmes for allowing her to do a few chores when she should have been resting. Holmes had been his usual politely curt self and proceeded to explain in few words that her fit had not been caused by hanging linen, nor was it necessary to keep her confined because what she had was more than likely a genetic tendency. He had also suggested that her attacks were heart related, not consumption as Dr. Strutherford suggested.
Great, a heart condition, just what I need. Lestrade reached for a towel to dry her hands and gave an abrupt scream. "Holmes!" She marched into his rooms where he glanced up briefly from his lunch, bread half buttered.
"You sound agitated."
Lestrade levelled her eyes. "No shit, Sherlock. What the hell is this and why was it hanging on the towel holder?" Clutched in her hand was a leather ball hanging from black string.
Holmes looked affronted, from her outburst or her presumptuous invasion of his washroom was anyone's guess. Despite that, he smiled when he saw what she was holding out. "Ah! That, Miss Lestrade, is a shrunken head from South America. An appreciative client sent it to me after I helped him out of a rather sticky mess concerning an unusual murderer. It was a queer case with some singular points of interest."
Lestrade grimaced. "I'm sure, but why was it in the washroom?"
"I put it there to dry out."
"Dry out? Wasn't it dry to begin with?"
"No, not completely. It had begun to drip and I rather not have my papers ruined."
"It was sent to you fresh?!"
"Do try and calm yourself, the last thing you need is another fit."
"Who was this?" Forcefully.
"That," nodding to the head dangling from her hand, "was the murderer."
"What? How? Who?"
"Miss Lestrade, give that here and sit down." Holmes took the head from her and tossed it into an empty tea cup.
"I'm fine, Holmes. I'm not going to fall down dead."
"I should hope not, but your tendency to over react does not speak in your favour."
"Fine." Lestrade sat at the table, watching Holmes resume his meal. Then after a while she asked, "do you still have that ring and chain?"
"Yes." A newspaper appeared in front of him, blocking her.
She waited. "Well?"
"The chain belongs to a well to do woman, probably in her late twenties, and the links are a French design."
"What about the ring?" A pause. "Holmes? Holmes."
"What?"
"What about the ring?"
Annoyance graced his features. "What does it matter, Miss Lestrade?"
"Hey, I found it and I want to know about it."
"What did you think of it?"
"I thought it was definitely a woman's wedding ring, well worn, like whoever owned it never took it off."
"My sentiments exactly." He went back to his paper.
Lestrade's blood boiled. "I hate it when you're like this." She snatched the paper from him. "Why bother being polite at all? It just makes you more of an ass."
"Mind yourself, Miss Lestrade." He said distinctly, eyes flashing.
"Forgive me for speaking my mind." She said hotly. "It's not like you can claim ownership to that ring, you know."
"I can and I will."
"What? How?"
"I knew the owner."
"Knew? Past tense. They're dead?"
"Yes."
"How do you know who it belonged to?"
Holmes raked a finger back and forth across the table."If you had bothered to use your eyes you would have notice the name inscribed on the interior of the band."
"What was the name?"
His steel eyes glinted, once again allowing Lestrade a glimpse of something within him that froze her to the spot. A tingle shot up her spine. Her hands went numb. Oh no, not again. She trembled, her heart starting to pound. "Uh, Holmes."
"What now?" He spat.
Lestrade opened her mouth to speak, only to have Holmes dash around the table and pour a sip of brandy down her throat after seeing her pale. She never had the chance to swallow the liquid. Her body lurched suddenly, casting her to the floor, taking the table cloth along for the ride. A warm tingling sensation spread throughout her body, dissipating into a cool numb. Lestrade was dimly aware of Holmes calling out in alarm.
It's like a baby created the world. I can't see, nor can I talk. I hear the words spoken to me and open my mouth to reply, only to gurgle instead. There is a voice in the room, but I can't place it. A rush of panic overtakes me. I know I'm crying, and I just realized I can't move. Spasms course through my every nerve. What's this within me that threatens me so? I feel my life slipping, consciousness is lifting me into the unknown, except it won't let me go. Constant rocking, and suddenly I can feel damp carpet beneath my finger tips. The pressure builds, my mouth fills and swallowing only hurts. My blouse is soaked through, clinging to my skin as it pulls from me.
Open your eyes.
I see Holmes gazing down at me. He's holding me, talking to me, but I can't hear him. I have never seen him look this way, nor has he ever held me as tightly as he does now. His eyes are as blue as the winter sky. Has he always looked so haunted? I want to touch his face, but I can't make myself perform the action.
Holmes had the knife.
This last thought entered my mind in alarming strength. What knife? Taking my eyes from his I glance down and this time I know I screamed aloud. I hadn't noticed before, but I was covered in dark red blood; my blood. I also then noticed that Holmes wasn't so much holding me in comfort as he was holding me down for Watson, who was obviously stitching up a massive cut. Oddly enough, the fact that I was laying there exposed to all the world didn't enter my mind once. Of course, whilst screaming my head off, I was also trying to figure out what "Holmes had the knife" meant.
There have been a few points in my life where I wished terribly that I was blind. This was one of them. A sharp prick on my left arm caught my attention, Holmes had just shot me up with something, I suspected cocaine, but it calmed me down enough to note the butter knife at his side. I've seen murder weapons less bloody than that knife. It was then I started wondering how all this had happened. My last memory was feeling a coughing fit sneaking up on me and Holmes pouring brandy down my throat in an attempt to quell it. As well as he meant by it, I do mean to lay into him about purchasing cough syrup. Coughing and attempting to swallow brandy at the same time is no picnic.
Holmes had the knife. It made no sense. Had he done this? Was he tired of me and confident enough in his reputation to make an attempt on my life? God knows he's a show off, and you couldn't get more showy than this on such short notice and have it written off as attempted suicide. But then, how long had Watson been there? What had he seen when he walked in? For some reason, my ears decided they wanted to work again, or maybe, I had been able to hear the whole time and my constant screams had made me deaf.
"Hold her still, Holmes. This is difficult enough without her moving so much."
"I'm doing my best, Watson." I had broken free of his arms for an instant.
"Holmes."
"Le condamner." My arms were now pinned behind me, and a sharp pain sent my nails into his thigh. "Ow! Femme fichue . . . Watson, will you hurry up!"
"I'm almost done. I just need to tie off this last suture . . . and done."
Hearing Holmes swearing in French would have been extremely entertaining to me had I been able to do anything except lay with my head against his chest. I felt warm water run over me and realized that Watson was washing the blood away.
"How on earth did this girl manage such a grievous injury?" The tried doctor inquired with a heavy breath. "With you by her side no less."
Holmes sighed, his posture shifting. "Self inflicted."
"Surely you jest."
"I do not." I dug my hand into his pant leg when I heard him say that, felt him flinch too. "One moment she's warning me that a fit is upon her and the next she was on the floor, the deed done before I could act."
"Heavens! I never thought she would be of the sort."
"Nor I, my friend. Have Mrs. Hudson fetch the leather straps from the coat closet will you?"
"You intend to tie her down, then?"
"Yes. I rather feel I must after this incident."
"But must you use those awful straps?"
"It was their purpose." There was a tinge of cold humour in Holmes's voice, but not much.
Watson sounded flustered. "Well, yes, but I don't suppose those people imagined you'd use them to mind a suicidal lady, would they?"
Holmes chuckled lightly. "No, I don't think this is what they had in mind, but it's how I shall use them."
Watson mumbled to himself in turning. "Better than no use."
"My blushes, Watson."
"Er, sorry, Holmes. Just trying to-"
"I know. The situation is not a light one."
Watson didn't reply, probably saying more in his manner than he could find words for. I don't know for sure, because I didn't see him. I couldn't see him, my eyes refused to leave that knife, but I could hear his heavy tread take him out of the room. After a few minutes, Holmes slipped his arms under me and gently lifted me off the floor. Yet again he placed me on the settee, this time wrapping me up in a blanket as my soiled clothes had been cut away by Dr. Watson. He didn't speak as he arranged me on the sofa and I didn't try to talk, having no idea what to say anyway. I did, however, take hold his hand as it brushed mine and held fast. I didn't care that it was Holmes, I just really didn't want to be alone. I guess he understood, for he sat on the floor beside me, his thumb rubbing the back of my hand staring at the far wall.
He spoke so quietly, I wasn't sure I heard him at all. The first had been in French, but what he said after was crystal clear although just as soft: "Don't do this again." I broke down after that, not sobbing, I hurt too much to do that, but I had tears down my cheeks. Nothing I could say would convince him I wasn't a danger to myself, and that tying me down wasn't necessary. So, I did the one thing that popped into my mind to try and show him I hadn't meant for this to happen, or at the very least thank him. I brought his hand to my lips and kissed it. He wasn't looking at me. He hadn't look my way once the whole time, nor did he say anything else, but he didn't pull away either.
Does it hurt much, little child? I'm really sorry he did that to you.
Who? Holmes? He didn't do this.
Oh my, believing in him are you? The truth must be so very hard for you. Of course it is, it's hard when someone you trust takes advantage of you like that.
What are you talking about? Holmes didn't do anything.
Didn't he? I'll leave you to think about it. You're a smart girl, you'll understand soon enough.
Sherlock Holmes stood in front of the full length mirror in his bedroom, adjusting his waistcoat and tie. His face reflecting one who was deep in thought, his eyes occasionally darting to Watson who sat on the edge of the bed, staring dejectedly off into nothingness.
"You handled yourself admirably this afternoon, Watson."
"Did I, Holmes? That poor girl."
Holmes cast a glance over his shoulder. "You did all you could. It seems that Miss Lestrade is as you said, disturbed."
"Come man, nothing but a straight answer if you will, what happened?"
Holmes ceased fiddling with his clothes and faced Watson. "We were having a heated discussion-"
"Holmes, I'm surprised at you! You knew she wasn't well."
Holmes held up a hand. "I beg you, Watson, let me finish, then you may have words. As I was saying, we were having a heated discussion over placement of a shrunken head and ownership of a ring and chain she found."
Watson stared at him wide eyed, then blinked. "Found the washroom's chief resident did she?"
"Yes, she didn't find it very amusing."
"I should think not. You mentioned a ring and a chain."
"I did. She woke in the middle of the night some days ago, said she had found the set on the floor, and brought them to me to see if I could make anything of them."
"I assume you did."
"Correct, but she suffered her first episode that night -morning really- and I didn't get the chance to closely examine them until the doctor left. Miss Lestrade has asked me on two occasions about the ring, the first being on that night, the other earlier today. Both times I have been reluctant to answer her inquiries because the information is, quite frankly, none of her business. She, obviously, did not agree with me on that point, and slowly came into the start of a fit -her second for today- which promised to be terrible as she collapsed almost immediately; taking the table cloth and dishes with her I might add."
"Yes, I saw them upon the floor, quite a mess."
Holmes gave a small shudder. "That, Watson, is a very large understatement. I had attempted to slip her some brandy in hopes of putting colour back in her cheeks, in effect calming her and therefore avoid the fit. But I admit that as fast as I was her reaction was faster still. The mistake I made was not trying to catch her. You must ask yourself, Watson, can a girl in the midst of such a paralysing reaction injure herself purposefully in such a fashion? That is what I have been dwelling on this last hour."
"If you think it was an accident, then why the restraints?"
"To avoid her further injury should she have another episode. I do not, as she thinks, believe her to be suicidal."
"Then how do you explain such a large injury? If she had simply cut herself on the way down I could understand. But, Holmes, that wound was quite deep."
"That it was, and I have a theory as to why."
"Let's hear it."
"I believe she latched onto the knife unintentionally as she reached out to try and steady herself. You have never seen her in the middle of a fit, Watson, she tends to fall rigid with her hands clasped to her, unconscious of doing so."
"So it's your theory that she unknowingly had the knife in her hand, clasped her hands to her body like she always does, but force of motion and the table working against her managed to produce the damage she sustained?"
"In essence. The wound was small compared to what could have been, but as you said, quite deep. Yet it was jagged in a way that suggested something other than a straight force, which explains the large amount of blood loss."
"Actually, her nicking a fairly good sized artery did that."
"Yes, of course"
Watson gazed at Holmes curiously. "I would like to ask you something, but I don't think you will answer me."
"Never hurts to try. What is it you wish to know?"
"Are you sure you don't fancy the girl? I only ask because I returned to find you on the floor beside her, holding her hand, and if I noted correctly, stroking it with your thumb."
Holmes looked at his friend. "Your eyes did not lie to you, except for one thing."
"What's that?"
"She had hold of my hand. I did not instigate contact."
Watson threw up his hands. "Same difference, Holmes."
"No, Watson, I don't fancy her in the slightest."
"Then why did you keep her? For that is essentially what you did by having Mrs. Hudson hire her. And I know you are paying her medical bills, maids don't make the salary she would need to keep up with an illness such as this and Mrs. Hudson, even with your way of making amends for taxing her so, doesn't either. I ask you again, why?"
"Because she doesn't exist."
"Pardon?"
"She doesn't exist, Watson. You yourself noted a faint resemblance to our Inspector Lestrade upon first meeting the young lady, as did I. In fact, I knew she was lying about being a relation of his. The telegram I sent off that day was to inquire for record of a Miss Elizabeth Lestrade born in the last thirty years or so, not just here, but in France and the States. As I'm sure you've noted that her accent is not a British one, but American. Upon receiving a reply, I was a little surprised to learn that there is no record anywhere of a young woman by that name."
"But how do you know she was lying about being related? The name could have simply been made up."
"You're quite right, Watson, but there are too many minute details to ignore. While our Lestrade is sallow in complexion, something the lady does not suffer from-"
"Thank God."
Holmes smiled. "Quite. There is something in the shape of her face that hints of him, only years younger and better cared for. She has his slightly turned up nose, only thinner-"
"Thank heavens she didn't get his eyes. I should prefer soft eyes on a lady."
"I have to agree with you on that."
"Let's see, Miss Lestrade's eyes are more of a cobalt blue are they not?"
"Yes, I believe so."
"Any other points?"
"Yes, but those are the main superficial ones. The rest tend to deal with mannerisms I suspect might be genetic."
"Then how is there no record of her? She has to have been born to someone."
"Very true, Watson. She can't have appeared out of thin air, but for some reason I cannot shake the feeling that is exactly what she did."
"And the ring that started this whole mess?"
"Ah, yes, the ring. I had wondered if you forgot."
"Was Miss Lestrade claiming ownership to it against you?"
"No, not really. She merely wished me to tell her that which she did not see."
"Which was?"
"A name, inscribed on the inside of the band."
Watson frowned. "An innocent request enough, why not just tell her?"
"Because I felt the knowledge would excite her into spending energies which she could not afford, and I did not want to deal with the incessant questioning she was sure to engage in."
"Would you consider telling me the name?"
Holmes was silent for a moment, then pulled open his top dresser drawer, removing from it the ring in question. He handed it to Watson without a word. The doctor gave it a careful look over, giving a start as he read the name.
"My goodness! Holmes, was this woman your-"
"Yes."
"How on earth did Miss Lestrade come across it? I assume you were not in possession of this ring until now?"
"No, I was not. I don't know how she came by it, because I believe she's telling the truth so far as she knows it."
"It doesn't make any sense."
Holmes smiled. "No, my dear doctor, it doesn't."
Watson handed the ring back to Holmes, who returned it to the drawer and locked it. With a friendly slap on Watson's back, the two men headed back down to assist in what would be an awful cleaning task.
July 8, 1889
A week had past and still they kept her tied down. She had only suffered one attack since then and it had been prompted by the appearance of Sherlock Holmes, in all his arrogant glory, sticking his head in to ask a question of her, then taking off in the middle of her answer. After really only having Alice to talk to as Mrs. Hudson couldn't keep herself from crying around her, Lestrade had been pleased to see the detective, until that instant at least. Dr. Watson had been in to check on her numerous stitches every other day, but he said very little concerning anything other than her health. Her breathing was more laboured, but Watson had been confidant it had nothing to do with her cut, which she supposed was good. But the fact still remained that she was bored out of her mind. She had been dream free as well. Whatever little voice she thought she heard hadn't been lying when he said he'd leave her to think.
She guessed it was in the wee hours of the morning when she heard footsteps in the hall outside her door. "Mr. Holmes?" She called out. The idea did occur to her that it might be a burglar, but she quickly dismissed it due to her belief that Holmes's rooms were a walking death trap in the dead of night and one would have to be crazy to attempt them.
Her door opened to the tall, slender silhouette of a man. "Miss Lestrade? Are you in need of assistance?"
She smiled. "I was wondering if you would untie me from this bed. I'm sick of looking at the same four walls."
Holmes regarded her carefully. "For a bit, but I will not have any rows from you. I would never hear the end of it if your stitching were to come undone or another fit befall you."
"I promise I won't start anything, just please."
"Very well." As Holmes leaned over her to untie a strap she caught the very distinct scent of chemicals oh him.
"Another late night experiment?"
"Ah, no. I finished my latest chemical analysis few hours ago and have been going through the sheet music I ordered since then."
"What time is it anyway?" Upon trying to sit up, Lestrade quickly realized there were benefits to laying down, the pain wasn't as great.
"1:49 a.m., or thereabout." Gently lifting Lestrade to her feet, supporting her in case her legs should give after a week of disuse.
"Huh, not as late as I thought it would be." She coughed.
"Miss Lestrade?"
"I'm fine."
"Are you positive? Perhaps this should wait until you're more rested."
Lestrade chuckled. "I'll willingly rest anywhere other than this room."
"The sitting room then."
"Works for me." She tried taking a step, but Holmes scooped her up instead. "Uh, Holmes?"
"You will I'm sure pardon me, Miss Lestrade, but this will be much faster than you attempting to walk on your own and has the least chance of re-injury."
"Unless you drop me."
Holmes eyed her. "I assure you that won't happen."
As good as his word, they made it to the sitting room without incident. Holmes set Lestrade in one of the arm chairs, drawing a blanket round her shoulders. She leaned back, resting her head on the side. Holmes sat across from her, stretching his long legs in front of him, simultaneously plucking a briarwood pipe from the hearth. Lestrade watched his graceful movements in silent adoration, memorizing the sight of the man and his pipe. The almost childish way he dug into the toe of his Persian slipper for the tobacco to meticulously packing down the shag, finally lighting it with a match. Her mouth curved into a sad, yet thoughtful smile as he waved the flame out.
"I'm sorry, Holmes."
"What for? Nothing that has transpired was any fault of yours." Pale smoke rising from his lips, taking fanciful forms in the air.
"Maybe not, but I feel like I've signed your life away."
Holmes knitted his brow. "I believe I would be aware if that occurred."
Lestrade's face fell, her voice quiet. "You would, wouldn't you? And you probably wouldn't say a thing. Oh God, what have I done."
"This is really too much, Miss Lestrade. What you are saying is confounding at best, what do you want me to make of it?"
"Nothing. I shouldn't have opened my mouth."
"But you did, as always. Because of the state of your health, I have been inclined to let pass this habit of yours providing you've always made sense. You have now reached the proverbial glass ceiling, I will have no more of this."
"Because of my health? You mean to tell me that you believed I was ill from the get go?"
Holmes levelled with her. "Healthy women do not collapse without warning. I admit I suspected you of suffering from a form of brain fever manifesting itself in delusions, and I am
not entirely convinced otherwise, which is one reason why I've been lax on propriety where you concerned." The pipe hung from his lips, his grey eyes pointing to her nightdress.
Lestrade's eyes flashed."Why you arrogant-" She sat up.
"Come now, it's perfectly believable that a person suffering from delusions would have an idea of their name, and-"
"Wait, an idea of their name?"
"There is no record of an Elizabeth Lestrade having been born in the last thirty years. I would ask you your real name, except I don't-"
Lestrade let out a frustrated groan. "You nosey Dick! Just because there's no record of it, doesn't mean it's not true."
"Granted. The more rural parts of America aren't likely to have the best records. It is possible that I simply overlooked them, or they were written up in a place I never thought to search."
"It's the latter. You'll never find it, so don't even try."
"Sure on that?"
"Positive. It'd take you a little over two hundred years to find any record to my existence."
"That long?"
"That long."
Holmes smirked. "Well then, I suppose I should start by asking for your real name."
Lestrade rubbed her forehead. "Quit mocking me. The answer isn't going to change, Holmes, deal with it."
He let loose a stream of smoke. "Very well."
"Stop staring."
"Staring, Miss Lestrade?"
"Yes, staring. I can't think when you look at me like that."
"What did I say about your delusional manner of speech."
"Oh, shut it." Lestrade threw a pillow at him, knocking the pipe out of his hand and scattering its contents. "You were staring and you know it."
His eyes narrowed where his pipe fell. "That was highly uncalled for."
"So is a lot of the crap you pull." She drew in an uneasy breath, clutching the blanket ends to her chest. "You need to quit fighting me."
"I think it's time I returned you to your room, I fear this outing has been too much for you." Holmes stood and held his hand out to her. Lestrade knocked it away.
"I'm fine. You're just angry and want me gone."
Holmes snorted. "Quite right, but you're also pale and breathing erratically. I could not consider myself a decent gentleman if I stood by and did nothing to aid you."
"Holmes, more often than not, you're a gentleman in the most sarcastic sense of the word. I'll be just as pale and winded in that room as I am here." She started wheezing, trying to swallow.
"Drink this."
Lestrade took the glass and sneered at it."You need cough syrup." She said between breaths, downing it in one gulp only to erupt into a fit of coughing. The glass fell from her hand and shattered. Red droplets started forming in the corners of her mouth.
"Miss Lestrade, you must fight this. Sit up and breathe slowly." He pushed her hunched form back into the chair and held in place. "It will be all right, try for slow breaths."
A gurgle issued forth from her, followed seconds later by a steady flow of burgundy trailing down into her nightdress. Holmes yanked the handkerchief from his waistcoat, attempting to remove the blood from her face. Lestrade managed a small gulp and pressed his cloth covered hand to her mouth. Their eyes met briefly before her gagging sent another gush past his fingers, spilling into her lap and down his shirt-sleeve. Overcome by sudden horror, Holmes instinctively pulled his hand away, staring wide eyed at the red mess in his hand.
"It's cold! My God, Elizabeth-"
"I know." She half mouthed, half tried to say as her body repeated the vile process a third and fourth time. Eventually, Lestrade collapsed within the chair completely exhausted, her skin shimmering with beads of perspiration. Her normally pink lips were moist and unnaturally bright. Giving the soiled handkerchief up as lost, Holmes used his ruined sleeve to dab her face. He felt her gaze and forced himself to meet it. Lestrade's deep blue eyes were glossy, dull, and full of an intensity only the mad and the feverish were blessed with.
"My chest hurts. It's not over." Her voice was dry and cracked. She twitched. "I can't stop it."
"It will stop on its own, like has, try to remain calm." He kneeled in front of her as she curled up in the chair.
Lestrade shook her head, hair falling in her eyes. "No, no-" a gulp, "you're wrong. You're wrong-"
"Miss Lestrade, you need calm yourself. Everything will be fine."
She ran her eyes over him and smiled teasingly. "Eyes and brains, Holmes." He graced her with a soft smile in return.
Her smile faded, her eyes rolled back and she slipped forward. He caught her by the shoulders, her head against his chest. She whimpered, choking on her own breath and spitting out blood. The sound of her gasp did it. Holmes pulled her the rest of the way out of the chair and embraced her, his gaze disturbingly vacant. Lestrade leaned into him, her hand clinging to his arm as she tried fighting the urge to cough. Choosing to focus on his heart beat rather than the tightening in her stomach, she barely noticed the icy fluid appearing on their clothes. In the depths of her mind she was aware of a retching sound, but latched onto the steady beat in her ears and the warm arms around her. Lestrade closed her eyes and started rubbing her thumb on his arm. Turning her face into him, the familiar scent of soap and pipe tobacco filled her lungs. She smiled, the mix of fragrances washing over her bringing in a calming peace she hadn't felt for a while. Her breathing eased, and she dared hooking the fingers of her other hand through a belt-loop on his slacks. His body stiffened from the blatant contact, then shrank when the young woman's coughing ceased.
From the overflow of the heart . . . he has killed you, child.
He never touched me.
The ring on your finger suggests otherwise.
What ring?
The one he placed on your hand, of course. Didn't you see him?
No.
Why not?
Because I left my body at the door.
A/N January 2010
Minor changes to select sentences, fixed spelling and punctuation.
French phrases translated from English by way of an online translator. "Le condamner"- damn it. "Femme fichue"- damn woman.
"Overflow of the heart" is a direct reference to Luke 6:45 NIV.
"Refuge of my hardened heart" line is a lyric from "Hymn", Much Afraid (1997), Jars of Clay.
"Music of the dead", "left my body at the door", and the like are references to "Dead Man's Party", Dead Man's Party (1985), Oingo Boingo.
Title is from a song of the same name off the Top Gun (1986) soundtrack, sung by Marietta Waters.