Things We Lost In The Flames
Chapter 2:"All that we have amassed….."
The backstory of why Sherlock Holmes shot Charles Augustus Magnusson.
This tale should run to around 25 chapters. I will post a chapter every weekend, all being well!
2/25ish
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He was walking so fast, slamming his feet down hard and angrily into the pavement, that his long bones were already starting to hurt. The pain was good, it was distracting and calming and almost dispelling his upset.
Park Lane was always quiet at this time in the evening, and it was a relief to not have the distraction of having to negotiate dawdling and meandering pedestrians and waste mental energy on that irritation. Walking through London at night was something he usually looked forward to and was normally an aid to his thought processes, but tonight he was too wound up, disturbed and far too angry. And he was angry that the anger was so illogical.
He had not wanted to attend the event - he didn't do events - but the venue was only a short walk from Baker Street, and he had no case on, nothing else to do this evening but look for distraction from boredom and from the dark creeping sense of wrongness that threatened to overwhelm him these days.
So when Lestrade had appealed to him to be a last minute replacement for one of the speakers at the police charity fund raiser, his nonchalant and careless 'why not?' came out before he had even thought about it. Lestrade had been amazed and pathetically grateful, but Sherlock was dismissive. He couldn't be bothered to concentrate on creating a talk, he warned, so would simply play the Guarneri instead, he was sure that would do. And Lestrade - who had seen him play - almost purred in agreement.
The evening had been tolerable enough - borderline boring, as these things always were - and it was only afterwards, as he was about to leave, that Kitty Riley had put herself in his face and demanded his attention.
It had been a shock. He had barely thought about her at all around the time of The Fall. And in the two years and eight months since, had had no reason to. Her role in leading him to the Fall had been transactional, merely part of a necessary process - to blacken his name to the world - and as a young investigative journalist looking for her big break and her first big story she had been a not overbright but willing dupe.
And James Moriarty had duped the best. From Sherlock Holmes himself and Molly Hooper downwards. So Sherlock had never blamed Kitty Riley for his downfall. She was just a pawn, a part of the process. If it had not been her, it would have been someone else
There were other things about Kitty Riley that had disturbed him more than just her role in his downfall.
She had broken basic barriers of etiquette and used her sexuality against him, and that had disturbed him from the first; when she had entered the gentleman's lavatories at the Old Bailey to corner him.
The prospect of giving evidence against Moriarty had rattled him more than he had thought possible and would ever admit. Only John Watson had realised. As they had prepared to leave the sanctuary of 221B for court, Sherlock had frozen, stuttered to a halt, his back literally to the wall, before John put his hand out ready to open the door and propel them both into the real world.
"Ready?" Watson had asked softly, and for a moment Sherlock could only nod; words would not come. He swallowed hard, straightened his spine, managed a terse 'Yes' and the ordeal began.
Ducking Sherlock into the car, looking neither left nor right and not speaking, John Watson had tried to protect him from the press crowding round, then focus him, coach him for his testimony on the journey, all to calm his nerves.
Remember….let's give smart arse a miss…..
Before being called to Court Ten he had taken refuge in the otherwise empty gents and shut himself into a stall for three long minutes of total privacy, arms locked against the wall, forehead pressed to the cool tiles, trying to quieten his panic attack and force down a feeling that might just have been fear - if that was an emotion he would ever admit to experiencing - at the prospect of meeting the black and fathomless eyes of James Moriarty across the courtroom.
Eventually he had pulled himself together, washed his face and hands, looked up to reach for the paper towels - and straight into the blue unblinking eyes of Kitty Riley reflected in the glass.
He did not know who she was then, of course. He had thought she was some stupid sycophantic fan - the deerstalker above juvenile ginger plaits, the 'I heart Sherlock' lapel badge. Her nails were bitten and chipped, her skirt showing the ridge of two separate hemlines above the current one, a skirt over worn and sketchily ironed. Feigning extreme youth, not feigning poverty and a desire to impress.
"You're him," she gasped breathlessly, dropping her handbag to the floor for effect as if in awe as their eyes met through the mirror.
"Wrong toilet," he rapped out, hoping she had not been there and spotted his earlier lapse down into something akin to despair.
"I'm a big fan," she gasped breathlessly.
"Evidently," he rasped, refusing to connect, sensibilities oddly offended
She was not put off and stepped closer to him, doing a doe eyed innocence routine he found especially irritating, and seriously invading his personal space.
"I read your cases. Follow them all. Sign my shirt, will you?" Her voice is a low purr. Her eyes remain on him, the pupils dilated. She finds me interesting, he acknowledges with something like contempt. Attractive and charismatic. Sherlock almost laughs. Irene Adler she is not. This young woman is virtually a child. And a blatant one at that.
As if in confirmation of his assessment she waves a marker pen in his face, opens her jacket to reveal a pale shirt open far too many buttons down to reveal a large amount of a small right breast. Sherlock remained impassive and unsure what to do. Make an embarrassed quip and smile archly to be accused of over familiarity at best, lechery at worst? Sneer dismissively as he so much wants to do, and be accused of perversion or homosexuality? So he ignored her naive and tasteless invitation and felt vaguely soiled by it.
"There are two types of fans," he said calmly, as if giving a lecture. "'Catch me before I kill again' - Type A…"
"And what's Type B?" she interrupts.
"'Your bedroom's just a taxi ride away.'"
"Guess which one I am?" she asks coquettishly.
Sherlock leans away from her closeness, just looking, deducing her.
"Neither."
"Really?" She seems disappointed. Such a shame!
"No. You're not a fan at all." He takes her wrist, notes the indents on the inside caused by resting on the edge of a desk, the smudge of newspaper ink that she has put there herself "deliberate, to see if I am as good as they say I am." And tells all her flaws.
Sees in her pocket the bulge that is Dictaphone shaped; and with it's red light blinking, so it is on and recording his every word. Deceitful and dishonourable. He readies for the kill.
"Wow! I'm liking you…." Kitty Riley smirks, impressed, thinking he is about to praise her cleverness. He is not.
"You mean I'd make a great feature; 'Sherlock Holmes, the man beneath the hat'" he quotes sardonically.
She introduces herself, says politely she is pleased to meet him, holds her hand out to shake his. He ignores it.
"No," he declares. "I'm just saving you the trouble of asking. No, I won't give you an interview. No, I don't want the money"
He steps around her and makes for the door, but she anticipates and is quick. Even quicker than him. Moves fast to block him, to demand an answer to a question.
"You and John Watson. Just platonic? Can I put you down for a 'no' there as well?"
He remembers being disconcerted by that. She is pressing her body against him as she stops him opening the door and leaving, and he hesitates to push her out of the way, not knowing where on her body it might be safe to put his hands, indecisive because he knows the recorder is on and everything - anything - can be misinterpreted, and because he can also tell his proximity actually makes her breathing quicken, her face flush, and he does not know how to deal with that either.
But he is more disconcerted by the direct demand to know what John Watson is to him. People do not normally ask, and he does not care what they think anyway. He has always been buffered by his indifference and the good manners of acquaintances.
That is no-one else's business. It is between him and John, and ignored by both of them, separately and together. He knows there is a great deal of press speculation about them, but he does not care about that; he never cares about the opinion of others.
He simply recognises Watson is the only person he has ever allowed through and beyond his defences, and that is more than enough for him to both recognise and to admit. As for sex….with John….or with anyone….that is ridiculous, and a place Sherlock will never go within himself. Sex, emotion, romance, normal emotional responses, are all things he foreswore with cold deliberation many years ago, and has cauterised himself against ever since. Not going there. Not ever. Relegate to a locked basement in the Mind Palace, abandon and forget. Leave untouched, undisturbed.
She is speaking again….he rouses himself to pay attention, even though he hates her, hates whatever she might be saying before he hears it…..
"There's all sorts of gossip in the press about you. Sooner or later you're going to need someone on your side….
John had said as much…it's true…..but that is not in line with what needs to happen…..
She tells him she is smart. That he can trust her. He remembers the recorder running, resists the curt put down on the tip of his tongue, stops breathing as she suggestively slips her card into his breast pocket and taps it intimately down.
"Smart, OK…" he says And he can tell by a movement across her eyes she thinks she has snared him. He is coldly angry. "Investigative journalist. Good. Well, look at me and tell me what you see."
He steps back and she is speechless, wrong footed by his openness. "If you're that skilful you don't need to interview me. You can just read what you need. OK? No? Now it's my turn."
He walks around her, his deduction flaying her. "I don't see smart…." is what she remembers from his quick fire catalogue of all her flaws; of character, clothes, approach And the fact that everything he says has truth within it and he sees it all, even without knowing her, and that hurts more than any invective or abuse. "I don't see trustworthy….but I'll give you a quote if you like….."
He takes the dictaphone, holds it close to his mouth, his eyes - those strange, compelling opal eyes - only inches from hers. The power of his presence has overwhelmed her, like a mongoose with a cobra.
"Three little words….." he breathes closer to her in a mockery of sexual intimacy and she sways towards him as if entranced. So his next words are like a slap in the face.
"You. Repel. Me."
He might as well have slapped her, his words as tangibly hurtful as a physical blow. Her eyes fill with tears.
And he is gone.
He strides down the corridor towards Court 10, breathing deeply through his nose to regain control. As he walks and calms, he smiles. The skirmish with Kitty Riley has sharpened his senses, strengthened his wits, wiped away any after effects of the panic attack. Thank you for that, Kitty Riley!
o0o0o0o
Now he walks on and away from their meeting, heading for home. Once prompted, his eidetic memory unspools the scene afresh in his mind's eye as if it had just occurred. Even in memory he still finds her presence thrusting, overtly sexual, disturbing. A child with youthful confidence blithely unaware of the responsibility her actions should bring.
He takes a deep breath now, shakes his head to clear it of memories from before the Fall, and crosses Oxford Street. But after a few minutes freewheeling in the here and now, finds he cannot leave the memory alone.
Kitty Riley was in the public gallery for Moriarty's trial; he recalls it all despite himself, but he did not see her again until some days later - when he and John Watson had been escaping police arrest, and visited her flat - that unwanted business card had come in useful after all - to find out more about her expose and the scoop of the century.
Her flat was tiny but pretty and surprisingly tasteful. Picking the lock had been no problem, nor had been picking the handcuffs that shackled them together when having the luxury of light to see and time and peace to do so.
Their conversation with Kitty was interrupted by the arrival of Moriarty himself, Moriarty disguised as bit part actor Richard Brook -worrying about the shopping and waking up to smell the coffee - the man with the revelations.
After that, Kitty became a mere background blur: Facing down Moriarty was the task in hand - until the man bolted and escaped through the bathroom window.
Kitty had been venomous against him in what she saw as her victory. She believed totally in Richard Brook, in the revelations she had written that exposed Sherlock as a fraud and a criminal. May even have harboured romantic feelings about him. Sherlock recognised all this at a glance, and in the deepest and coldest part of his heart knew this had to be.
This utter conviction of the innocent girl she really was, not the cynical perspective of the experienced adult crime reporter she tried to be. A child sent to do an adult's job. And perhaps that was the only way such an audacious scheme would have worked. The corruption of an innocent, overfaced and over extended by a master of deceit..
"You repel me," she spat at him, throwing his own words back to him. He met her eyes with his, saw her blazing blinkered honesty and belief in her story there, her trust in the weak and indecisive and oddly attractive young man Moriarty had pretended to be to fool her. To bring the femininity and protectiveness out of her to his advantage and her eventual humiliation.
He knew there was no point in even forming a reply, never mind snapping back at her. She would never hear him, never believe him. And events were now playing out towards his destruction as they surely must.
So he turned away without a word, and ran out of her home, Watson on his heels, and ran on and towards his Fate and his fall.
He did not blame her. She was just a pawn on the board, a cog in the machine, a soprano in the chorus.
But he still would not have wanted to meet her again.
Recollecting all this, he is confused. The Reichenbach Fall seems a lifetime away - not just thirty two months. He is a different person now. Not better - different. He is still dealing with and assimilating that change.
For the past two years have changed and reshaped him. He is more callous, more ruthless, than he had been before. And yet also more emotional somehow, and he hated that. Felt his normal cold control crumbling away, some thing, some deficiency, that surely must be evident to everyone he met as well as himself?
He had worked and killed and sacrified and suffered fear and torment and torture. All in the knowledge that when he finally destroyed all that had been Moriarty's network he would return home to Baker Street and all would go back to how it was, and all would be well.
But life had not happened like that, and he had finally realised it never could have. Mycroft had been right. People who thought he was dead had had to learn to live without him. They moved on. And it was too much to expect them to learn to live with him again. He wasn't nice enough, kind enough, generous enough, to merit that effort.
John Watson had suffered the most, moved on further than most. Leaving 221B, changing his job, finding a woman. A clever, sympathetic woman he had fallen in love with and married.
Just a week ago Sherlock Holmes had done the bravest thing in his entire life. He had been the best man at their wedding, made a speech and solved a murder. Spoke his heart in tribute to his only friend and yet no-one seemed to recognise the guileless courage of this, heard the plea as well as the heart and the honesty in his words.
Sherlock had been nonplussed and brave and oddly humiliated by the whole experience. He had bared his heart - for his friend - for the first time in his life, and yet no-one seemed to realise this or to care that he had done so. Not even John Watson.
And as he had afterwards lifted the Guarneri and played the waltz he had composed especially for John and Mary, after solving the attempted murder and saving the life, he saw everything of himself and of value in his own existence ebbing away, all his securities and his self confidence failing him. And his diagnosis by deduction of Mary's pregnancy had drawn a line and provided the final conviction he needed.
John Watson had a new life now, and he was no part of it. Deserved no part of it. Was needed in no part of it.
He was himself, he now recognised and admitted, a very real and present danger to John Watson. However much Watson may have thought he was saved and inspired by sharing a life on Sherlock Holmes's particular knife edge, that edge cut two ways.
Moriarty had threatened Watson with a sniper, and because of that threat alone, Sherlock had been prepared to take the Fall and enter a road to vengeance that took him into exile. He had thought that would be the end of it when he returned. After all, Moriarty was dead, wasn't he?
And yet. And yet he had been back for merely days before John Watson was taken from the street by two men, drugged and dumped under a bonfire. Ready to burn - I will burn you. I will burn the heart out of you! Words that still haunted - and if Sherlock had not solved the clue, danced again to someone else's tune, Watson would indeed have died in the flames and the smoke.
He may have saved Watson's life, but he had lost something in those flames; strength and confidence and companionship. Hope. And the sense that had only been half formed of a new beginning to start to make everything right again; or as right as they ever could be from now on considering Watson's new and different circumstances.
John Watson had been slow to forgive Sherlock's sacrifice on his behalf because he was hurt; viewed the way it had been done, the secrets it involved, as mistrust and betrayal. Sherlock did not agree, but he understood. Even if it was making him bleed inside to admit that no-one took his own hurt into consideration, had ever taken his own hurt into consideration, even if it was the hurt of a man who never admitted to feeling hurt, or feeling anything. Well, there were reasons for that.
Be careful what you wish for….
So how to make things right again? Saving his life in a tube train bomb would not do it - Watson would not have been in danger if he had not joined his friend to solve the puzzle.
Watson had said he forgave him; but the circumstances in which he said that were under huge stress, and Sherlock was still not confident in that admission as truth.
The next day John Watson had reappeared at Baker Street dismissing his injuries as feeling 'smoked' and bearing the cuts and scratches from his ordeal. He had demanded to know why he had been put in a bonfire….and, uniquely, Sherlock had been unable to tell him. Unable to work out who was now targeting Watson, making him dance and perform party tricks. By making Watson suffer on his behalf. The only stimulus that would make him react for his own sake and on his own terms. That were no terms at all, because they were any terms. Any terms that came in to play would make Watson safe.
And until someone claimed responsibility for that, a killer was still out there, A killer and a watcher. A watcher following both Holmes and Watson who could be ready to pounce again at any time.
Marriage had distracted Watson. Nothing distracted Sherlock, and especially not in this….and that puzzle worried and worried at him, day after week after month. For Watson was his responsibility. And until he could make John Watson safe again, he could never truly rest.
The problems of his return, the problem that is John Watson, had Sherlock Holmes out of kilter. He knows this only too well. Getting back to whatever normal should be now is ripping his insides out. But he is persisting, because there is nothing else he can do. He would never admit it out loud, but Mycroft had been right about that too; the task he had set himself and undertaken with such single mindedness had been too much, even for him. And the torture in Serbia had just taken him to the edge of another precipice.
Solving the Gunpowder Plot had pushed him further out of his safety zone to teeter on the edge of a precipice even more dangerous than the rooftop at Barts.
Be careful what you wish for!
He had warned himself as much as he had warned John Watson when they both stared down death in a dusty dark railway tunnel. He wanted John Watson by his side - had grown to need him there.
But in the tunnel, as he realised the thing Watson would miss most would be his future with his new wife…. that had been the moment when Sherlock had recognised he could not do this any more - he could no longer ask John Watson to risk death and danger at his side.
For John Watson was an adult now, an ordinary mortal with an ordinary mortal's responsibilities - a wife, a child-to-be, and a conventional future. That to Sherlock was no future for a field surgeon and a soldier, a fearless companion in arms with a strong resolve and a steady aim, but that decision was Watson's choice, not his. And who was the braver, the stronger? The reckless adventurer who shunned convention, or the brave soldier who stepped back and chose quiet convention instead?
He knows he is the only person who feels the Fall was not in itself an end but just one incident among many. Not a landmark and full stop in the way everyone else feels it was. He recognises their response but does not fully understand their feelings. But then, he was always the only one who knew how much the Fall was only a part of a bigger process.
So he had never considered Kitty Riley as a major player, nor expected to see her again. She had served her purpose in Moriarty's grand plan and been filed away as a past purpose functionary and disgarded from his mind.
Therefore what is she doing bothering him again now? It makes no sense. Does she not understand she does not exist to him? That she is of no interest to him? That he has no desire to speak to her or simply be polite? That he has only contempt for the press?
And yet now she has put herself in front of him again, is clearly needy and showing some sort of despair, and it seems - to her at least - that only he can provide the help and succour she needs. Why is this? And what is it she really wants from him?
An interview seems such a puerile thing, an unnecessary, intrusive thing. Yet so important to her. And he suddenly needs to know why this is; he needs more data. For surely in her line of work anyone would do to fill the space in every tomorrow's fish and chip wrappers and sell the newspaper on any and every given day? Pop stars, celebrities, minor aristocracy, footballers….all are far more appealing than him. So why him? Why now?
For a moment he deliberately switches off the thought processes again and takes a mental break as he negotiates the underpass system around Marble Arch, heading south and then east onto Oxford Street and towards Baker Street. But then he slows his speed as he walks, crossing the Baker Street turn instead of heading left into it, plunging instead into the quietly dark and irregular streets beyond - Duke Street and Manchester Square and Hynde Street, Thayer Street…avoiding crowds and security cameras and just rambling around his home patch now, walking with a sort of blindness and seeking calmness and distraction. Just moving and observing, walking to achieve peace of mind.
He finally begins to circle back towards Baker Street. If he had walked home in a direct line from the hotel he would never have seen the silver grey Rolls Royce Ghost parked quietly against the kerb in George Street, it's rear facing him.
Instinct jolts him out of his thoughts to full alert. This is a part of London where Rolls Royces are frequently seen, but this one Sherlock recognises as different from the norm. In an instant he observes the car sits more solidly on the road than usual; with dropped suspension and wider, lower profile wheels.
A customised Ghost, then, with side skirts, tinted glass and a dual sport exhaust system. A 6.6 litre V12 engine with 22 inch alloy wheels and a kerb weight not far short of 6,000lbs. Armour plated then, with bomb resistant floor pan and reinforced windows that would repel sub machine gun fire. Standard number plates, not diplomatic plating, not personalisation.
Something in his head switches to alert, and his senses turn cold. It is parked there, waiting, because of him, he realises immediately. A few yards only from 221B, yet out of sight and parked discreetly away from Baker Street. And definitely not Mycroft. This is different, something other.
He walks forward, crossing the carriageway to pass close to the Ghost on the same side of the road. A man is sitting quietly in the driver's seat, Sherlock observes. A square faced, broad shouldered man in his late Fifties; past the age for field service, but still handy if needed to be.
Sherlock smiles briefly to himself. The chauffeur impassively watches him walk towards the car, does not attempt to slump down in his seat or pretend the relative invisibility of attention held elsewhere in a book or newspaper. Sherlock impassively watches the chauffeur in return.
As he walks past the car the nails of his left hand rap the vehicle gently so only he and the driver can hear, or would even notice the tiny motion concealed between coat and car for anyone who might be watching. Four long taps, a short, then another long.
Eyes meet fleetingly through the wing mirror and the driver nods very slightly, mouths Sherlock's morse code signal back to him in English - OK - and then Sherlock is past, heading for home. Calm, but intrigued. So why is he needed with urgency at 9pm on a Tuesday evening?
As he approaches his home he looks up to the bay window to see the sitting room light is now on in the flat, which is not as he has left it, and he turns his key very quietly in the front door lock. As quiet as he is, Mrs Hudson is watching, listening, waiting for him. She flutters up the hall from her kitchen.
"You have a visitor, Sherlock. Wouldn't say no, determined to wait. Thought I should warn you…did I do right, letting someone in like this? I wasn't sure how long you would be. I did say…"
She was looking worried, concerned for him. He spoke very quietly.
"It's fine, Mrs Hudson. I know who this is."
He cupped the side of her face in his hand and dropped a light kiss onto the top of her head, and she was mollified. Retreats back to her flat with a reassured nod.
Why have I started doing this? I never used to do this. I must stop. I don't touch people. And she is even soothed by it…..
He paused with his hand on the newel post, looks up at the light showing under the sitting room door. Sighs and for a moment bows his head, letting all his muscles release from the tension within him. Gathers himself and walks slowly and with resignation up the seventeen steps to the flat.
Sherlock opens the door and looks into his home.
A tall elegant woman with a severe blonde chignon and wearing a dark formal suit is sitting in his chair, legs elegantly parallel and turned to the side in fashion model pose. A black briefcase and handbag are propped against the chair.
She is in her early sixties, but looks younger at first sight, still radiating energy, intelligence and power, still possessing a pale ethereal beauty. Her hands sit collected and calm in her lap, and as he pauses in the doorway she turns her head slowly towards him. Cool blue eyes look him up and down with a steady unhurried assessment.
Sherlock allows the scrutiny, and knows she is aware he is permitting her to do that. Neither seem in a hurry to greet the other. He shuts the door softly and takes a step forward.
"What do you want?" His voice is quiet, level, without surprise or inflexion.
"To the point, as always," she observes mildly, in a voice just as neutral as his.
She has a pleasant and well modulated voice which gives nothing away. There is no answer to that, so he gives none.
"It has always grieved me you decline to work for your brother, and with us. Such a waste. We could well utilise your many talents, William."
"Sherlock," he corrects quietly.
"Sherlock. Of course. My mistake." she smiles. "It is so long since I last saw you. You have matured….."
"I should hope so."
"…..yet you are so like your brother in many ways. Except he is ice, and you are fire."
"Are we done with the pleasantries?" he asks, not reacting.
"Almost." The force in her psyche surfaces into her voice for the one word. Then she deliberately relaxes. " Are you quite recovered from your ….depredations whilst away?"
He knows she is referring to his capture and torture in Serbia.
"Thank you, yes." Archly. He realises he sounds like Mycroft at that moment
"Hmn. Mycroft has never been sure."
"None of his business. He worries too much. Always has. And, for the record, I did not need him to rescue me."
"That, of course, is your opinion."
"The only opinion that counts from the only person close enough to judge."
He turns away from her, removes the violin case from his back and places it on the table by the window. Leisurely removes the coat and scarf and hangs them on their pegs in the hall. Smoothes down the tuxedo and sits opposite the woman.
"To business, then?"
He notes her new hesitation when he speaks, something akin to embarrassment.
"I see it is not the your work that brings you here. This is something else, yes? Something personal."
She sucks in a ragged and telling breath. Looks away briefly then back at him, her shoulders dropping.
"You see too much. You always have." She complains, then sighs. "I have always regretted you not working for us. Until now. Now….your independence is…..vital to me."
She wipes a hand across her face, and looks up at him with ravaged eyes.
"And yet it may….I don't want…..to put you in danger because of this. But you are the only….."
He reads the stress and indecision within her she has been masking until now. He looks closer and sees fear. Something alien to both her personality and her role within the upper realms of the British government.
He frowns at her, deducing her, and she tries a small, tremulous smile, eyelids unconsciously flickering, as if ashamed of herself and her need of him. He sits forward, hands on knees, almost touching her now but resisting any temptation to reassure. His eyes are intent on hers.
"Pull yourself together and talk to me, Lady Smallwood. Tell me what you need from me."
TO BE CONTINUED…