Two Suspects

DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any of the affiliated characters or ideas--their creator is the remarkable Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

KS: Welcome to chapter three of my contribution to bcbdrums's CHAS AU challenge. Pardon me for the couple of days without an update... As usual, I really don't know where this is going to go (I really should start planning things out) so I was a little concerned what I would put in this chapter.

It's still based on canon...though I do hear Colin Jeavons's voice as I type...XD;

(And I'm sorry if there is anything wrong with it in any way...I had no beta. XD)

Please, enjoy!

I put my face into my hands. There was no way. It was impossible.

I was just too tired. That was it. I had finally worked myself further than my body could bear, and now my mind was playing tricks on me. I had been running myself ragged the past few days...what with that forgery and murder case...

I leaned back in the cab. Maybe Gregson or someone else would take this blasted case.

A somewhat shaky hand reached into my coat for a cigarette. I had to think. Surely it was pure coincidence that the descriptions I could get of the two murderers coresponded with Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson. There was certainly more than one tall, thin gentleman in London, and certainly more than one strongly-built, moustached gentleman.

I finally found a match and lit the cigarette, drawing on it thankfully.

It was only natural that the tall, long-legged one should greatly outrun the stockier culprit. And I had never seen the Doctor run with a walking-stick before. But then...last night was rather foul. Perhaps his leg wound had been acting up.

If I had suspected them before, I could have tried to read guilt or something on their faces when I mentioned the murder. Mr. Holmes's stony visage would have revealed nothing had I been watching for anything, I was sure, but the Doctor's... his face was too honest to hide much. But I had been focusing on getting the amateur interested in the crime.

I shook my head. I had no solid proof that it was either of them. It certainly would not be the first time that I jumped too quickly to conclusions. Since I sorely did not want it to be them, I would have to look elsewhere until more evidence came up to prove me wrong.

Or, right.

I had to be wrong. Dr. Watson would never shoot anyone that many times, even if they were in danger. And if Sherlock Holmes had been the shooter...he would have carried the crime off with more precision. He wouldn't have shot so many times as to rouse the house so instantly that they could barely make their escape.

With this thought in mind my chest felt a little lighter, though I still had an ill feeling in my stomach.

Once I had arrived at the Yard I hopped out of the cab, hoping that this truly was one of those times where I was totally wrong. I went inside, fully intending on keeping the whole business to myself until I was sure, one way or the other.

I made my way back to my office, seating myself heavily at my desk. I had just begun to leaf through the mountain of documents that had been left there when there was a knock at my door, followed by the ruddy but honest face of my foot-mark specialist.

"Come in, Evans," said I.

The man stepped in further, holding a small portfolio under his arm, and closed the door behind him.

"I saw you come in, sir. I have the report."

"Good. So, what did you find?" I waved him into a chair, and he produced a few sheets of paper.

"We found three sets of foot-prints on the carpet, not just two."

"Three?"

"One was a lady's. You know the mark in Milverton's face? We think that's the lady's heel--the blood remains for a few steps away from the body."

Ah, so that's what it was...

"So there was a lady present at the murder," I said.

Evans nodded. "As far as we can tell."

"Then, why did no one see her at the escape?"

"She seems to have fled first. The footprints of the other two both overlap hers."

"Ah, I see. Then the other two must have stayed behind to burn the papers..."

"Most likely, sir. There's another little thing...I'm starting to think it was an ambush."

"Ambush?" I asked in surprise.

"The men's footprints first go behind the curtain, and they stay there for a while. The men and the lady came in from separate ways, too."

I furrow my brow in thought, leaning forward with my elbows on the desk.

"So...you think that the woman was a distraction, to help the men take Milverton unprepared?"

"That's my opinion, though I could very well be wrong. I just analyse the foot-marks."

"Hm," I muttered. "Well, is that all you have?"

"One more thing," Evans said, handing me the papers he held, "I have with me the written reports for you."

I glanced over the documents.

"The first fellow was around six feet tall, and quite active. The second was probably about five feet with eight to ten inches, and he had a limp."

I felt my face blanch, but I never for an instant took my attention from the papers before me. Thankfully, Evans did not seem to notice.

"Which leg was the wounded one?" I inquired casually.

"Well, it might have been a birth defect or something other than a wound... But it was his right, I think."

I swallowed hard.

"The taller fellow spent more time in front of the safe than the shorter one," Evans continued.

The safe that had been so 'cleverly opened'...

"Is that all you found?" I asked after gathering my voice.

"Yes, that's all really there is to note. There are a few other slight particulars in the papers."

"Yes, of course. Thank you."

Evans stood and left, leaving me far more perplexed than before. Surely I was being paranoid. Surely. But Mr. Holmes had once said that I possessed little gift for imagination... how was it, then, that my mind was conjuring up such a mess as this?

I sighed, setting my head in my hand as I leafed through the remaining papers... "the burnt documents are absolutely unintelligible..." Little good they would have done us, anyways, with Milverton already being dead. You cannot put a dead man in gaol.

"Police sketches of the criminals and suspects..."

The first was of the plumber, Escott. He was a thin, young, rakish fellow with a goatee beard... He hardly looked threatening. The second was of the tall suspect. It was a very poor sketch... there was a note at the bottom that said the witnesses could not agree on anything but the fellow's body-shape, and the facial descriptions were far too vague to make anything with. The third... was almost a portrait of the Doctor--save for a bit of malice in the features. There were differences enough, but those could be attributed to the dark night.

Wonderful...

It was obvious, by what I had seen and heard, that this was far deeper than the average case. Surely there were coincidences somewhere, because it was too tangled for me to make any clear sense of.

I had learned by more experiences than I would care to acknowledge that the razor-like brain of Sherlock Holmes could cut through that which was impenetrable to me. And it had been a long time since I had faced anything as impenetrable as this twisted skein. I huffed. My gut's primary suspect was the only man that could help me.

Whether he was the murderer or was completely innocent, I decided that I would drop by Baker-Street once again to call upon the unofficial detective. Perhaps with a bit more pleading he would at least shed a little light upon that which was so dark to me. Or give a confession.

KS: Thanks for reading! Please, please review! I'm most definitely unsure about this chapter. XD