"Holmes, why—?"
"Here," Holmes thrust the paper at Lestrade, "read this." No sooner had he done so when he lit his pipe and began pacing furiously about the room, trails of smoke following after him like the smoke clouds out of a fast moving train.
"'Our regards,'" Lestrade repeated thoughtfully, "Nightside. Are they—?"
"Yes, the notorious Nightside gang known for making petty crime into statements. They are too old and too cunning to be one of the youth street gangs, but not involved enough to break into the larger circles of organized crime. They pick pocketed the Count and Countess at a royal function under the nose of half of London's entire police force and now they have turned property damage into premeditated murder."
Lestrade sighed as he watched Holmes' progress about the room. He knew better than to expect tears from the man, but he had thought that out of all the things in the world that could have possibly shown the human heart of Sherlock Holmes, it would have been the death of John Watson. But instead the man seemed to be going on as he always did when presented a case. Lestrade wanted to be angry. Genius detective or not, the death of such a loyal and devoted friend should have warranted some sort of emotional response. Watson deserved to be missed, to be grieved for. But the anger was only half-formed because he had not missed the searching look Holmes had bestowed on the contents of that box or failed to recognize the mad gleam in his eyes as he considered—nay, decided that he would see this case to the very end.
Lestrade also remembered the steel that had overtaken the detective's voice after perusing the letter's contents and he speculated grimly as to exactly what end Mr. Holmes would see it through.
The Inspector cleared his throat, attempting to clear his mind of the gruesome thought as well before he posed his next question, which would sound no doubt both obtuse and insensitive considering the circumstances.
"Are you quite sure of this, Mr. Holmes? The implications—"
"Implications?" Holmes sneered, "This was meant to be nothing less than an affirmation. The state of the ink and its saturation into the paper indicate that it had been penned more than eight hours ago, much too early to have awaited the official findings of the casualties or even the accident itself. It is stamped with the known Nightside insignia, one I have already cross referenced with another that I have in my possession. The match has minute traces of the brick that was specifically used in the construction of Highgate, which is shared by only half a dozen other buildings in London contracted by the same architecture firm. It also bears the faint scent of kerosene, which was most likely used to quickly spread the fire. And the most important detail of all," Holmes continued, eyes shining with a strange light, "the letter was sent to me. If they had merely wanted to announce their involvement in the affair they would have sent it to the police, but instead their regards were directed to me, therefore they wished for their actions to be explicitly noted by myself. After all, where is the statement with the mere burning of a public building?"
"And where," Lestrade cursed himself thrice over for the words he was forced to speak, "is the statement in killing a general practitioner without a practice of his own, a title, or wealth to speak of?"
He saw the anger suffuse across the taller man's face, but none of it touched his voice or words when he replied, "They have committed a crime of which had personal significance to me and proved successful. When I say that besting me is statement enough it is not with undue vanity and Lestrade," his voice lowering to a menacing growl that rendered the otherwise polite words into a hardly veiled threat, "I would appreciate if you would not speak of Watson in that fashion again and never in my presence."
Lestrade dropped his gaze. "Any other time I would never have suggested that the doctor was anything other than courageous and possessing great strength as well as compassion, whose aid was both necessary and extremely valuable to the police force or anyone else he happened upon, but you must understand my reasons for asking, man," the Inspector said imploringly. "You said yourself that this case had personal significance to you. You are a brilliant man Holmes, but your judgment could have been compromised due to your emotional attachment with Doctor Watson. It is not an uncommon occurrence in the force or anyone else amidst the grief of a loved one. It is standard procedure."
"You need not bother. I am not an impassioned fool. Logic is the very basis of my nature. That does not change and believe me when I say that it makes this all the more difficult rather than easier," Holmes said, his previously impassioned voice becoming toneless.
Lestrade then knew the full extent of the grief the other man felt. What is more horrible than knowing with absolute certainty that your friend is dead? A heart can be tricked. It can be told there was still a chance it could not be true, told that he could still be found hurt, but alive, lying in a hospital somewhere, that someone else had made a mistake. A heart can be soothed, knowing that they have gone to a better place or that time will eventually erase the pain of loss, but Holmes was a brain and it could not be tricked or soothed. Holmes of course could postulate in every way his friend could have survived, but with each piece of evidence he was forced to concede to the previously reached conclusion. A brain could not accept anything but what logic could confirm. In everything he saw, Holmes could see the death of his friend.
A heart laments a friendship, but a brain grieves for the friend and whereas a friendship can live on, the man will always remain lost. Holmes would always be a brain and the pain would last forever.
Lestrade was nearly overwhelmed by the sheer anguish of the mere thought of it.
"I'm sorry," Lestrade said simply, for several things and especially one.
Holmes nodded in acknowledgement. "If my logic has proven sound, perhaps you will now fill me in on the pertinent details of this case. I would be exceedingly grateful."
Lestrade had not the heart to deny the man, despite his concerns.
"As you had guessed earlier," Lestrade began, Holmes scoffing at the offending word, "I had nothing to do with the fire and although I had been among the officers to have gone to Highgate last evening to celebrate, I had only stayed a little while, leaving before eight. However, I will be more than happy to give you the names of those who were present throughout the night and willing to send some of them here to Baker's Street to be interviewed. In the meantime I can tell you what was on the official report. Bear in mind that I did endeavor to research the matter as thoroughly as I was able."
"I thank you for your considerations," Holmes said, although sounding just a tad impatient.
The Inspector felt somewhat heartened by the familiar behavior and went on, occasionally referring to the notes scrawled on his notepad. "Doctor Watson arrived at half past six and dined with the other officers in the main dining hall. Afterwards he played cards where he evidently hit a regrettable losing streak and left the tables around nine o'clock and retreated to one of the smoking rooms to talk awhile. He had been planning to leave around ten when one of the staff members asked around requesting a doctor. Apparently a doorman was having gastrointestinal problems and was too ill to work. Watson offered his services and planned to stay at the club in order to determine whether than man's illness was due to a virus or serious infection in which case he would probably be needed to be transferred to a hospital. Although Watson was given a room, he decided to stay with the sick man, a Mr. Collins."
Holmes eyes flashed. "He was alone with this man the whole night?"
"Yes, but Mr. Collins was one of the people severely injured in the fire. He is in critical condition and the doctors say he will probably die from infection. I doubt he could be the mastermind to the whole plan and be injured as a result."
"And the staff, you recognized all of them? There was no one new?"
Lestrade shook his head. "No one that I saw."
Holmes exhaled a steady stream of smoke. "Where was the body found?"
"One of the sitting rooms. He had only to cross the hall in order to find an exit, but by that time the fire could have been simply too much. It had spread so fast."
"What had been the initial findings for cause?"
The Inspector rubbed the palm of his hand against his forehead. "We thought it was an accident and most of the building had burned down. There was hardly anything left. We couldn't—" he strangled on the words.
Holmes flicked his hand dismissively, like he had been expecting the answer. "I will make my own investigation on the place. What of the body, are you certain it belongs to the Doctor?"
Lestrade swallowed. "The coroner's estimation of the height and weight of the remains are congruent with a man the same size and shape of Doctor Watson. There was not enough of the face or fingers to confirm identity that way, but with injuries as extensive as the Doctor sustained during the campaign in Maiwand were as unmistakable as a fingerprint. The bones of the shoulder especially showed signs of previously healed damage. The coroner informed me that at one time the scapula must have splintered, leaving hairline fractures in the surrounding bones and joints and that receiving a bone injury of that nature in adulthood would have lead to a decrease in strength and mobility despite healing. This," Lestrade withdrew a small, brass snuffbox from his pocket, "was extracted from what was left of his leg. The coroner found it in his right femoral rectal muscle."
Holmes smiled, but there was very little mirth in it. "I believe you meant the rectus femoris."
Lestrade had wanted to say something in his defense, but fell silent as Holmes took the snuffbox from his hand and removed the tarnished lid. With haunting grace, Holmes' thumb and forefinger probed its contents and slowly withdrew a jezail bullet, glinting dully in the afternoon sun filtering through the windows. Holmes' face fell and Lestrade mused that there must have been a heart somewhere in that clockwork body if he could feel hope's spluttering death as keenly as his face expressed.
Holmes, for his part, allowed himself to wallow in the bitter irony that this bullet, in this moment had accomplished what it had failed to do all those years ago in the Afghan plains and killed John Watson once and for all. He studied the item with quiet contemplation, debating internally on what exactly he should do with it. For some time he toyed with the idea that he should keep it in his pocket, but dismissed it as impractical. With his lifestyle, sooner or later he would forget it as he stripped off his waistcoat to pursue a villain or it would slip out when examining footprints and be left behind, nestled in the grass and he couldn't bear the thought of losing such a singular item because of his neglectful nature and disregard for material objects. The mantelpiece was out of the question. He didn't want it there, didn't want to see it at all times of the day or night. He thought about placing it somewhere in Watson's room, but felt such an act was fraught with idiotic sentiment. Watson no longer lived here and the bullet was not his anymore, it belonged to him.
Holmes strode purposefully to his desk drawer, keys magically appearing in his hand and making its way into the lock. With precise movements he turned the key and opened the drawer, placing the bullet somewhere between the Blue Carbuncle and the leather photo jacket that contained the picture of the only woman he had come to respect. These articles and some few others were the start of his illustrious museum. This bullet more than anything else in Watson's possession, belonged there because even though it had wounded the man, pained him, forced him to limp, it was that bullet that had brought John Watson to Baker Street and into Holmes' previously singular life. The bullet no longer functioned in its previous capacity while lodged in the leg of its host, therefore it only fulfilled as one part of what had made John Watson his friend, meaning it belonged to him and belonged in his museum.
With this thought firmly ensconced within his rational mind he replaced the lid of the snuffbox and handed it back to Lestrade.
"It does not belong to you, but a man who shoots with his right hand, which is fairly small in comparison to his wrists, has recently been to the seaside, and on most days keeps his wedding ring inside the box along with his Braced brand powdered tobacco," Holmes announced without flourish.
"Yes, it is Sergeant Berkley's. His desk was close to mine and I thought you would appreciate me to not just hand the thing to you like a copper halfpenny."
"Indeed, you are right."
That was as close to a 'thank you' as Lestrade would ever receive, so he stood up from his chair and collected his hat, firmly resolved on bringing up the last and final issue. "What will you do now Mr. Holmes?"
"I will investigate the case and bring these men to justice," Holmes shrugged, "the usual fare."
Holmes' newfound nonchalance was somewhat belied by the fact that he began loading his revolver, which he had retrieved from beneath his armchair's seat cushion as well as checking the chambers of Watson's old service revolver.
"Perhaps you could work alongside the Yard this time," the Inspector suggested.
Holmes scoffed as he tucked his loaded revolver into his pocket and begun spinning the cylinder of Watson's purely for sport.
"No, that will not do. I work—" he began thoughtlessly, but all too soon Holmes' lip curled in a self deprecating manner, "I work alone."
Before today, his 'I' had always meant 'we' and 'alone' had meant without anyone else, but 'together' had always been implied.
Lestrade decided that eggshells be damned, it was time to be stern with the man, especially since, after a moment's consideration, the detective also placed Watson's revolver in the opposite pocket of his waistcoat for good measure.
"Listen Mr. Holmes, I know your opinion of the law and that you operate on your own set of rules and even if I think that true justice would be seek out the men responsible and enact my own retribution, such a thing is against the law and no matter how much I should like to, I cannot simply turn a blind eye to whatever it is you plan to do."
"Torture, murder, revenge?" Holmes listed coldly. "In all my years in this sordid business I have yet to turn to a life of unimaginative and rather pedestrian crimes."
"No, as you are not swayed by petty feelings of greed and ambition you have had no reason to do so," Lestrade agreed tightly, "but now you have one."
"Yes, I do."
"Holmes, please," Lestrade said gruffly, "I would not ever want to see you in jail, not for this."
"Now of that, Inspector Lestrade," he paused, his gaze unnervingly blank, "you have nothing to fear."
Lestrade suppressed a shudder, Holmes' assurance having given the wholly opposite effect. He turned his back on the detective and made his way to the door. Behind him he could hear the detective rifling through his many index cards and case files. With his hand resting on the door knob, Lestrade looked back once more, watching the other man scattering papers with reckless abandon.
"Mr. Holmes, Watson's lawyer, Mr. Ellis, will be here to meet you at six o'clock."
"No, I am far too busy Lestrade. I plan to make inquiries among several of my contacts tonight. Perhaps in a few days," Holmes muttered distractedly as he flipped through one of his date books.
Emotionally drained and severely past his limits, Lestrade barked, "Too busy to listen to your friend's last will and testament?! You will be here at six o'clock, goddamn you or I will forbid any officer to so much as speak two words with you. Good day!"
With that the stocky man exited the room in a huff, tromping down the stairs like an angry water buffalo. Holmes stared after him bemusedly. He had apparently put the Inspector through quite an ordeal. In fact, this had been the longest period of time the two of them had ever spent in each other's company while in conversation. His presence had always been a trying one and Lestrade was certainly not a saint nor was he Watson. Indeed, no one was like Watson.
Clearing away his maudlin thoughts, Holmes, realizing he did not have his watch, impulsively reached into the fateful box and drew out Watson's. It was fast approaching one, meaning he had only five hours of meaningful time in order to make a thorough inspection of the scene of the crime. Then he had to be here and listen to the tediously indolent words of that dratted lawyer.
For a moment, under not a single eye and without a living witness, Holmes' shoulders sagged and his head bowed.
"Oh Watson," Holmes whispered, "I wish…"
Instead of finishing the sentence Holmes straightened, gathered a few things from his chemistry table and left Baker's Street for Gillingham, determined and his face a careful mask of stoic composure. The rooms he left behind, as much as rooms were able, wept at the unfettered emotion that echoed unfinished inside its walls, never to be seen or heard by the public eye. These rooms had kept many secrets and it kept this one as well, holding its master's heart in the privacy of his home, but now there was no one to share it with. The only other person to share these rooms was gone, but not enough because his presence still permeated the room. It was far too early to be erased.
From his things, to the traces of life he left behind, they all whispered back, "I know Holmes, I know."
The public records office had provided him with the original building schematics for Highgate with little fuss. There were distinct advantages to being known outside the criminal circles. Holmes tried not to think about who he had to thank for that or the number of times he had complained about it.
For the first time in his life, Holmes regretted the amount of times he had brought Watson on a case with him. As often as it was, he now found it exceedingly difficult not to notice Watson's absence. The cab was too large, forcing him to bump about uncomfortably in the seat rather than be squashed, yet suitably anchored by Watson sitting next to him. The weather looked severely understated and dull—though it was a perfectly agreeable summer's day—without Watson to point out how lovely the sky looked and how fresh the air was in that intolerably romantic wistfulness of his. Everything seemed to remind him of the Doctor—pens, papers, books, tweed jackets, bowler hats, the color brown, the two men who stood arm and arm on a passing sidewalk, chuckling at a private joke.
Holmes' head dropped into his shaking hands, the building plans falling to the floor of the cab. He had never imagined such a thing could hurt so badly, could feel so raw and afflicting. As the cab approached Gillingham Street however, he forced his mind to begin its systematic line of deductions and told himself that what he was doing now would be the first steps towards healing the pain. When he exited the cab, the plans were folded carefully beneath his arm and his mind was as sharp as ever.
There were still people milling about, a smattering of the Fire Brigade and Scotland Yard officers, who were mainly there to keep back the ogling crowds. Holmes paid them no notice as he began his search around the premises.
As Lestrade had described, all of the main rooms had burned down while the southernmost guest rooms had been relatively untouched. As to why, the gaping hole in the middle of the floor was indicative enough. The fire had started in the basement, which spanned beneath all of the main rooms, but none of the guest quarters. Several things at once struck Holmes as odd.
Locating the manager, who was standing off to the side watching men shift through the burnt remnants of his establishment, Holmes asked, "What was kept in the basements?"
"Oh I dunno, extra furniture, blankets, that sort of thing. The water heater was down there of course and some club records. Why?"
Holmes pursed his lips, keeping his own counsel on the matter. He took samples from the various ashes strewn about the place and was soon on his hands and knees with his magnifying glass. It must have been more than an hour when he picked himself up and made his way to the now doorless entrance to the portion of the basement where the water heater had been kept.
"You there," Holmes called to a nearby Yarder, "I require a light. If you would be most kind as to fetch me one, I would like to investigate that room."
"Oh, Mr. Holmes, I am Constable Peterson."
"Ah."
"I heard about what happened. I wanted to say I am real sorry about Dr. Watson. I have seen you two together and I thought, 'Well, that must be a real friendship there' and I do read the stories in the strand so I just knew—"
"I asked for a light, not your condolences," Holmes interrupted sharply.
"Right, right," Constable Peterson murmured as he biffed off to get what Holmes required.
After that, no one dared approach the detective as he made his way down into the charred and blackened boiler room. This was definitely where the fire had started, although the water heater looked to be in working order other than having some of its front crudely bashed in with some sort of blunt instrument. Holmes was hardly impressed. What was interesting was all the pipes that led to the room. Holmes could count at least seven that did not correctly attach to the boiler. Although he could smell the traces of kerosene in the room, he bagged samples with the intent to chemically prove the fact and proceeded into the neighboring room.
He was surprised to discover that this room had obviously carried papers in it. All the books were burnt to crumbling leaves, but why should anyone store records of any sort next to a boiler room? Satisfied with his findings, Holmes went to locate and interview the staff before preparing to make his rounds amongst his less than reputable contacts.
It was half past five when he made his way to the Steer and Stine Pub near the London Docks. He placed himself in a booth in the far corner by the fire with three mugs of beer and had scarcely waited ten minutes when a man as tall as he and twice as broad slid into the seat across from him. He was imposing and yet did not give off the feeling that he was overly large. He downed the first mug seemingly without the need to breathe and set the glass down with a thud before he leisurely began to sip at the second.
"What do you want, you festering boil."
"Do not take that tone with me, Forcas," Holmes chided, examining his nails with feigned interest. "If you did not wish to be coerced into being my informant, you should not have embezzled from your boss' personal shares. If you want to stop, it can be arranged and you will be dead by Monday and I only give you that long because your reputation is still worth something and they would try and verify my claim."
"Not many in my profession appreciate blackmail, especially from a man who claims to uphold justice."
"I solve crimes, not humanity's failings," Holmes corrected. "If you wouldn't mind I would like to return to business. My demands thus far have been both fair and discreet as well as infrequent. The bottom line is that you owe me and I expect you to deliver."
"I owe only two more favors after this."
"Done," Holmes agreed. "I have come about the recent activities of Nightside. I have confirmed beyond a doubt that the Highgate fire was not only caused by them, but two of my sources also confirmed that it was an intentional plot to kill Dr. Watson."
Forcas lit a cigarette. "Who?"
"Avery, Nix, Bailey, Weston and La Grassa."
"La Grassa?" Forcas laughed. "What do you have on that poor devil?"
"I saved his wife."
Forcas raised his eyebrow.
"From his other wife in Italy," Holmes finished. "It was purely by accident."
"Indeed," Forcas took another puff of smoke followed closely by a deep swig of beer, "I concur. The deed was premeditated and was definitely not the work of any of the higher clans or families. I also happen to know one of the newer heads of Nightside has a grudge against you. He was a hired hand some years back and you sent him and the rest of his operation to a jail cell."
Holmes nodded. "Motive, but how did they know the Doctor was going to be at Highgate? The meeting had only been planned that day."
"Informed, crooked cop most likely or someone else on another's payroll."
"It sounds as if there was a third party involved."
"It does, doesn't it?" Forcas replied cryptically. "I will tell you one thing Mr. Holmes, lots of the bosses are mighty angry. Plenty of them would have been more than happy to take a shot at you. You might not be big enough to come after them, but your interference in their operations does not encourage warm feelings."
"Envy and jealousy among organized crime? Shocking," Holmes drawled.
"Envy? Not likely, more like a professional pride. You think you are hurting now Mr. Holmes, if my guys got a hold of your friend you would have suffered a lot worse. Body parts would be sent to you every week and photographs. There would be demands even if they weren't the ultimate goal. You see in our business, when you want revenge, there's a method to it, steps. You squeeze a person until there is barely anything left, then you take that away too. What Nightside did was heavy handed."
"How very interesting. How would one go about infiltrating Nightside?"
Forcas started on Holmes' beer without asking. "You don't. They may not be family, but to be a member you need to know someone personally. They don't hire outside help either, so unless you are willing to build a year long friendship with one of the men who killed your friend, I don't see it happening."
"Would another favor covered provide me with a more favorable answer?" Holmes asked.
"There isn't one unless you would like me to kill someone, although that would be two favors."
"I will consider that offer in the future. Thank you for your services. I am grateful you do not always live up to your namesake."
"You are very amusing to talk to."
"Some would disagree, which reminds me that I am late for something."
Holmes left Forcas to his beer and cigarettes and made his way back towards Baker's Street.
Incidentally, Holmes was more than half an hour late for his meeting with Watson's lawyer. Although he was not at all eager to carry on with the proceedings, he was more than ready to bound up the stairs and face the odious ordeal head on when he was suddenly accosted by Mrs. Hudson about a third of the way up the stairs. Her eyes were watery and she had a handkerchief clutched tightly in her hand.
"There is a," she sniffed, valiantly trying to control her speech, "there's a Mr. Ellis for you Mr. Holmes. He said he is here t-to settle the m-matter."
She choked and could not go on. Holmes belatedly remembered that he had left the house without informing Mrs. Hudson about Watson. It would have been a complete shock to her to have received the official enactor of Watson's will when she had expected the man back for dinner at any moment.
"Oh Mrs. Hudson, I'm so sorry." In a rare act of compassion, Holmes took the woman in his arms, her head of rich, dark hair punctuated by the occasional grey pillowed against his chest as she was not a tall woman in any respects.
"Such a good man. He didn't deserve it," she whispered brokenly, her hands, roughened by honest labor, anchored firmly on his lapels.
"No, not many do."
"When I spoke this morning, I never thought—" she banished the statement with a small shake of her head, "Things won't ever be the same around here."
"No."
"He meant so much to you."
Unlike with all the others who had approached him thus far, Holmes didn't become angry at the woman's sentiments. Mrs. Hudson was not an avid Strand reader or Scotland Yard officer who had worked with the two of them but a handful of times and then professed to know the depths of their relationship. Mrs. Hudson…Mrs. Hudson knew. She understood, saw the many times they had cared for each other's injuries and bore witness to the rare moments of affection, saw when Watson presented Holmes his first birthday gift and when Holmes purchased his first Christmas present. She knew as no one else did, making her words the precious comfort that Holmes had yet to hear all day.
"Yes he was," he agreed, his hold tightening somewhat.
"I read the letter," she said after a few moments of silence.
"Oh?" Holmes had no doubt in his mind as to which one she referred.
"You will excuse me if I don't prepare any dinner tonight. I doubt you are much inclined to eat anything and for once I will condone this behavior if it means you will catch the devils who did this all the more quickly."
Holmes chuckled. "Mrs. Hudson you are the noblest woman in my acquaintance. Do not worry, I will find them."
Her next words were said unwaveringly and deadly serious. "Will you make them regret what they have done?"
"Yes," he breathed, so quietly that only Mrs. Hudson and the devil himself could have heard it.
"Good." Mrs. Hudson pulled back, a fresh wave of tears cascading down her cheeks. "I bought leeks while I was out today," she said weakly.
Holmes graced her with a small smile. "Thank you, Martha."
She nodded and toddled off down the stairs with the grace and dignity that did not suggest she had illicit a promise that Holmes would do everything in his power to see that Watson's death was properly avenged. She certainly was a most singular woman.
Holmes entered the room with considerably more cheer than he would have previously, but it dropped by several increments when he caught sight of the man waiting for him in Watson's usual chair. He had an air of self importance that spoke from his clearly expensive pocket watch to his fastidiously clean and orderly appearance as he sipped his tea. Seeing Holmes, Mr. Ellis set down his tea cup and stood with a broad and decidedly, soppingly fake smile.
Inexplicably, Holmes took an immediate dislike to the man.
"You are the one who upset my landlady."
The lawyer blinked and dropped his proffered hand at the accusatory address. "I am Mr. Ellis. I had been unaware that your landlady was not informed of the situation."
"Then perhaps you should not have simply announced your name and purpose to someone who had obviously not been expecting you. I would have imagined more tact from someone who had been in their current occupation for over twenty-three years."
"How the deuce did you know that?" the man marveled.
"It was really a very simple—STOP!" Holmes bellowed suddenly, arresting the man's steady descent into the chair. "Please," Holmes said, straining to maintain a distant air of civility, "refrain from what you were about to do at once and relocate yourself to the settee."
"But surely—" the man spluttered.
"Do it or I will make you," Holmes hissed threateningly.
Mr. Ellis had the nerve to give Holmes a look of blatant disbelief as well as affront before he sat down on the settee.
"Really now Mr. Holmes, I am merely trying to make this as easy as possible for you."
"Indeed," Holmes commented dryly. "Thus far you have accomplished in upsetting my landlady, forced her to fix you tea while she was in obvious distress, and of all the furniture in the room, picked the favorite chair of my departed friend in which to sit. You really are doing a most splendid job."
"How was I to know?" Mr. Ellis snapped.
"I would have thought the black medical bag that had been previously placed upon it, bearing the stamp 'John H. Watson, MD' with the inscription 'Primum non nocere quod permissum haud vulnero adeo vos' beneath it, would have been clearly indicative of that fact, an item which you so unceremoniously discarded upon the floor," Holmes replied sharply as he reverently replaced the bag to its former position.
Holmes experienced an irrational surge of satisfaction at watching the other man flush deeply.
Mr. Ellis coughed and cleared his throat. "You seem to be awfully familiar with the Doctor's things. What does it mean?"
"It means, 'First, do no harm', the Latin maxim used by all in the medical profession. Added alongside it is, 'and let no harm come to you'," Holmes forced the irony from his voice, "and I should think so as I was the one who purchased it for him."
"Yes well," Mr. Ellis cleared his throat once more, "getting back to the matter at hand. You will be happy to know Dr. Watson had no outrageous debts to settle."
"I do know, I kept his chequebook and his confidence," Holmes returned.
Mr. Ellis doggedly continued on. "Then you should also know that Dr. Watson had no family to speak of. In consequence, he left everything he owned to you. He had noted in his will that you could do whatever you pleased with them. It was quite generous of him, although a tad inconveniencing. Auctioning possessions is usually a very tedious endeavor for those involved."
Holmes stolidly ignored the man's rather careless remarks and silently considered what he had just been told. That he had inherited Watson's material possessions was not wholly unexpected. In fact, Holmes was secretly glad of Watson's distinct lack of kin or close acquaintance. As a man who noticed the slightest alteration in his environment, Holmes was very much averse to change within his immediate sphere of physical inhabitance. It bordered paranoia, considering one misplaced vase could indicate a break in, and he even became quite agitated after any of Mrs. Hudson's bouts of spring cleaning, usually spending a ridiculous amount of time returning everything to the exact way it had been before she had begun. He was grateful that he would not have to worry about strangers coming in and out of the house taking things without his knowledge only to be discovered in a panic later. The thought itself greatly disturbed him.
As for an inconvenience, it was hardly that. Watson, for all his romanticism, lived a very pragmatic lifestyle. He was not one to collect trinkets and mementoes to mark the passing years. Perhaps it had something to do with his army days, that he not clutter his living space or keep what was unnecessary or he was unwilling to carry, but Watson kept little else in personal effects than what Holmes had received in a cardboard box this morning. There was also a small trunk where he kept his army uniform and metals, a few antique daggers—his only mementos of his tours in India and Afghanistan other than the bullet currently residing in Holmes' desk and the ache he had felt on rainy days—his books, and of course his many journals containing their case notes and his florid story outlines. All those things Holmes would never dare to sell, even if the journals would fetch a fair price when the news got out. Apart from that, there was a desk, a bed, a bureau, and a chair, all things he could contemplate using himself someday, if not at present.
Somewhere along his reflection, Mr. Ellis had begun to talk again.
"His finances have been split accordingly. Most of it has gone to a distant nephew or some other relation to help fund his schooling in Edinburgh and the rest as a donation to St. Bart's. There is a small sum set aside for Mrs. Hudson, but this only encompasses his current earnings," Mr. Ellis said with a touch of dramatic build up. "Dr. Watson had also been setting aside the money he had been receiving through his wound pension for the last two years in a kind of retirement fund."
Holmes perked up at this information. Two years, the connection was obvious enough. Two years ago, Watson's writings in the Strand and their continual assistance with Scotland Yard had brought enough acclaim to his consulting work as to become a steady business. By that time Watson also had a fairly good understanding with St. Bart's and with the increasing income coming from his pen, Watson would have been financially able to live off of what he was earning without the supplement of the government provided wound pension.
"In the event of his death, Dr. Watson left this money to you, Mr. Holmes. It is no fortune, granted, but it is no paltry sum either. I estimate that if you do not squander it, his half of the rent would be paid for the rest of this year and perhaps another two years after," Mr. Ellis announced, almost breathless with excitement and there was still more to come. "Dr. Watson also somehow managed to place you as a dependent so that you may receive the amount of money he would have received this year from his wound pension in cash almost straight away, like any widower or children would have received if he died unexpectedly. I had never heard of such a thing being done before outside of one's immediate family. Apparently, Dr. Watson was able to accomplish this feat with the help of a Mister," Mr. Ellis' eyes darted down to the stack of papers in his hands, flipping the pages furiously to locate the name, "a Mr. Mycroft Holmes. I suppose it pays to have friends in high places, does it not, Mr. Holmes?"
Holmes sat nonplussed upon his chair. Watson had never been a pessimist surely and yet, he had designed a decisively planned will, something that would have required him to seriously contemplate the likelihood of his imminent death and to revise it at least once a month. Holmes was the less optimistic and cautious of the two and he had never thought himself so in danger as to write such a detailed legal will. And this involvement with Mycroft? It was utterly insane.
Unbelievable as this whole affair was turning out to be, there was still more.
"Dr. Watson designated the funeral arrangements, guest list, etcetera, to be dealt with by his colleague Dr. Agar. A lieutenant Brandon will be handling the military branch of the ceremony. Dr. Watson had also arranged to be buried in a family plot in Edinburgh, so no expenses there. Dr. Watson noted that he wanted nothing more than a simple gravestone and any casket that would suffice. He seemed to be under the opinion that there was no need to fuss over flesh that was not him. The only thing you really need to worry about, Mr. Holmes, is the date of the funeral and transport of the body. If you haven't already sent it to an undertaker—"
Holmes waved the man off. "There is no need. Watson's body was too badly burned in order to retain enough flesh for the embalmers to do much work."
So lost in his own thoughts, Holmes did not notice the queasy look Mr. Ellis soon adopted. It was so very like Watson, Holmes thought exasperatedly, to take the burden of his death from everyone else. Watson had thought only of others and asked nothing for himself. There was no justice in the world and no God if such a tragedy as allowing the last decent man on Earth parish in a fire. Holmes felt thoroughly embittered by this thought. If there was an all powerful God of mercy and love as so many of those fools would insist, He would have taken the time to spare one of his saints from the designs of his sinful creations.
"The funeral will have to wait until the conclusion of this case," Holmes said with a tone of finality. Tearing his eyes from the window, Holmes addressed Mr. Ellis once more with and air of pure sufferance at prolonging the interview. "I assume Watson left a letter for me to be delivered posthumously?"
Mr. Ellis shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Uh no, I can't say there is."
Holmes' body stilled. "What?"
Mr. Ellis avoided the intense gaze bestowed upon him. "Dr. Watson left no personal letters for you or anybody else."
"Impossible," Holmes capitulated from his seat and moved straight towards Mr. Ellis, "you have over fifteen pages there."
"They are all legal, finance outlines and the like, its terms made in our offices and only dictated by Dr. Watson. There is nothing that was directly penned by him."
"But how! How could he have prepared for everything else, but not left me a letter!" Holmes exclaimed wildly.
The gaping wound in his chest became wider still.
Mr. Ellis shrank as far back into the settee as he was able. "Perhaps he did not leave anything with the firm, but left it among his personal effects. Relatives often find letters written from the deceased between the pages of books or hidden in the back of a desk drawer."
"That is illogical. Watson would never have written something of that nature without informing me where I could find it. I own to having an insatiable curiosity, but I would have never have betrayed his confidences in that manner. It would have also been impossible for Watson to hide, physically or otherwise, the existence of this letter within this house without my notice."
Mr. Ellis swallowed nervously. Holmes' words might have been calmly delivered, but every muscle in his body looked taught and ready to snap.
"As you say, Mr. Holmes."
Holmes turned his back on Mr. Ellis. "Thank you for your services Mr. Ellis. Get out."
Mr. Ellis beat a hasty retreat. The second the front door was closed, Holmes did the illogical and began to systematically tear apart the room. When he found nothing, he moved to Watson's room and every other, not allowing a single potential hiding place to go unchecked. When the search proved to be as futile as he had predicted, he donned a disguise and made his way out into the night where he could pretend to be somebody else and the thought that in the absence of a letter, Watson's last words to him had been the ones he had uttered when Holmes had dropped him off on the pavement in front of Highgate that evening.
"Goodbye Holmes, I will see you later."
As he stole into the night, seeking a method in which to infiltrate the ranks of Nightside, he didn't think about how Watson's last words had turned out to be a lie and that the only voice that could have comforted him was lost forever.
Holmes was not thinking about that. He was thinking about Nightside and what he would do when he found them.
Story Notes: Forcas is the name of the Angel of Silence. And for all those who freaked out, which amused me to no end, this is not an AU.
A/N: Did I say I was going to update on Friday? Haha about that…What's that, I was supposed to update last Friday. Ah, umm. Well, here it is! I hope everyone enjoyed it. Lots of information giving in this chapter and angst, a very hard combination to balance. I hope the level of emotionalism is acceptable to you readers. Please review. I really want at least one more review than I received last chapter. I mean, seriously, this chapter was long.
Who both hated Mr. Ellis and at the same time felt rather sorry for the poor guy? I know I did and I made him like that.
Thanks: Thank you mia83 (who shares my Christian name, BTW, although I'm a baptized Catholic empiricist atheist) and LA Suka for putting me on their Story Alert list, but shame on you for not reviewing. That's totally mean. It's like eating from someone's pantry without thanking the host. Especially you shared namesake83.
Reviewer Responses:
dragon- I'm glad you noticed my flare. I strive to put something fresh and satisfying in whatever I write. Haha, another double hitter for the slash/non-slash fans huh? I love it too.
reflekshun- After this chapter the perpetrators should double fear what Holmes will do to them. I'm glad to see you went to check up on my other works. You reviewed so nicely (and frequently) in my last Holmes fic Good to see you on board.
KCS- It's always a stunning honor to get praise from you as well as illicit a panicky emotional response. In my defense it wasn't exactly like I was doing false advertising. I had plenty of foreshadowing and my summary wasn't exactly cheerful. Haha, the reason why my Holmes is so spastic is probably because of the many interpretations of him and I try to pull from them all. About those straws you were grasping, uhhh, pretty much burned them this chapter, but keep reading on. So excited you've taken interest.
Marty- Here you go Marty, second chapter and twice as long to make up for the late update. Enjoy.
Savethellamas- I know your pain. I actually wrote the bulk of the first chapter while traveling to Florida on that wretched five hour flight, plagued with constant paranoia of virulent diseases every time someone coughed. Sorry to have caused you distressed, but not so sorry that I wasn't thrilled to see your review. Now that your fever is over I expect more shoutouts, thank you very much. Haha, can you believe that the Watson playing the victim scene nearly didn't make it? It was a flash of inspiration on how to start this whole sad and sordid affair. Um…about Watson being dead…I can explain…
Literatech- I think the greatest fear of any writer attempting to remake the Holmes story is the man himself. I'm soooo gratified you think I did him justice. Yes, poor Watson and the things he does for friendship. I miss him already. Here's another chapter and I do have another story planned once this is done. I'll be in the fandom a little longer yet.
Pompey- Another esteemed reviewer who followed me over from my previous fic and that I'm deeply honored continues to leave reviews for me. Yes, as you read in this chapter it was rather fruitless to hope the body was too burned beyond recognition for Lestrade to notice. I'm glad you liked the Holmes/Lestrade dialogue. It always struck me that a genius like Holmes just thinks too fast for the rest of us and thought it'd be funny if all he ever did while talking to Lestrade is interrupt. Keep reviewing, thanks, yay!