Disclaimer: I don't own "Sherlock Holmes" or any of its characters. That all belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Guy Ritchie, etc. "The Three Musketeers" is the property of Dumas.
Inspired by: "La Vie Boheme" from the Broadway musical RENT.
May 27th, 1891
"Mrs. St. James, you have visitors," Mrs. Hudson announced the Wednesday of the second week. The younger woman exchanged rapid looks with her companion over his paper. The police had come several times in the past two days, informing her that they were ruling the case an accident, but still searching for the driver. The look on Inspector Lestrade's face when she told him that she wished her case to be handled by Mr. Holmes was priceless: furious with a touch of embarrassment and malice. After a moment of verbal blundering, the inspector scoffed and said that any "theories" the consulting detective had would remain thusly as theories. Still Madeline stood firm by her decision; even though she still hadn't told Sherlock much information, she just didn't feel comfortable with anyone else taking the case. The man had given his blood for her, and she felt she could at least give him some work in return. But only when she felt safe enough to speak. She rather hoped it wasn't Lestrade back at the house again.
"Who are they, Mrs. Hudson?"
Madeline's bright green eyes lit up profusely when the landlady continued, "One of them told me to say that 'Porthos and Aramis have come to see the lonely Athos.' Peculiar creatures…I told them I would see if you were well enough before allowing them to barge through."
Holmes, examining the newspaper with renewed fervor, snickered at the name choices.
"The musketeers have come? 'Pon my word, I best absolve myself of all my crimes, lest they find some fault with me and decide to do away with me like Milady."
Madeline rolled her eyes, shooting him an exasperated smile and then told Mrs. Hudson, "Let them come, please. I am feeling well, and would so enjoy speaking with someone other than the nosy old detective."
"I believe I shall take that as a compliment, as it is my duty to observe and know what other people don't," Sherlock responded, lowering the paper and smirking. "Do show them in, Nanny."
The landlady bobbed a short curtsy and closed the door behind her, pattering down the steps as fast as she possibly could. Shortly afterward two pairs of clomping feet ascended the staircase. Cocking his head to the side, Holmes quickly rattled off the data acquired.
"Two women, one with a sweeping dress and heavy steps indicating extreme height or weight and the other stepping slowly yet unfettered by yards of silk and iron. Incense is perfuming the air. Nun, perhaps?"
"Very astute, Mister Holmes, but there is one thing you've missed."
"And what is that?" he wondered, curious.
"You've missed that since I am still mostly immovable, you have to get the door. They been waiting outside while you've drawn up your conclusions," Madeline remarked, pulling a blanket around her shoulder and sitting up. Her ribs were definitely on the mend, but not quite there yet. "Please show in my old friends."
Sighing and grumbling about women overtaking his domain, Sherlock ultimately did the gentlemanly thing and swept open the door. The sight that greeted him almost made him laugh. Even so, he barely managed to get out his next comment calmly.
"Well," he nearly spluttered, "I see that they do indeed live up to their namesakes."
One of the women was, well, nearly giant. She stood at an even six feet tall, her bright red hair spilling out of her hat and her obnoxiously pink dress spilling everywhere else. The other was petite, wearing the habit of a novitiate and clutching a bouquet of violets in her left hand. Both women looked at Holmes, then to each other before bursting out in laughter.
"Oh dear," the Amazon said in an American accent (specifically Southern), "if I'd known that there would be someone else here, I wouldn't have told that old biddy our nicknames."
"It's just as well," the other intoned, her own accent lightly Scottish, "you would've announced it to the neighborhood anyway."
"Hullo, girls!" Madeline cried, pulling their attention away from their conversation. Immediately they flew at her, cradling her as gently as they could. "Julianne, Constance, mind the ribs and arm!"
"So sorry, dear Athos. It's just that we've both only received telegrams from Mrs. Bray of your condition, and we're both so grateful to see you alive," the giant Julianne crowed, patting her friend's hair. "My, that cut is so scandalous! You didn't do that yourself, did you?"
"Oh, yes. I was able to somehow cut my hair with the use of one hand."
The redhead blinked, and was silent for a few moments. "…That's not funny."
"Tut, tut, Madeline, you know you cannot be so literal with her," Constance murmured, pulling up a chair and shrieking when she spotted a dead rat sitting there. The violets scattered everywhere, the newly-added decoration to 221B.
"My apologies, it appears my experiment was not a success," Sherlock intervened, swooping over and collecting the animal carcass. The two new women stared at him in confusion and horror. "What is the matter?"
"Oh my, where are my manners?" Madeline jumped in, shaking her head at her acquaintance's faux pas. "Julianne, Constance, this is Mr. Sherlock Holmes. He and Dr. John Watson were the ones who pulled me out of the street and saved my life."
He and the ladies exchanged nods and "how do you do's", with him discreetly throwing the dead rat out the open window. The one called Julianne gushed about how she'd read about him in the papers, and how relieved she was a brilliant man like him was able to rid the world of Lord Blackwood. Constance just gave him a look of repugnance, until Mrs. St. James decided to speak again.
"Mr. Holmes, these two are my friends from finishing school. The lovely creature in pink is Mrs. Julianne Tyler," the bed-ridden one supplied, knowing full well he was about to dissect her character in five seconds.
"Ah, yes, wife to Mister Stephen Tyler, the up-and-coming steel tycoon from the Colonies. You indulge in the finer pleasures of life, being an outright glutton and a forthright speaker. You've recently ended an affair with your husband's personal attendant and you've just arrived from your new estate in Kent," he listed off, enjoying the look of surprise in the giantess' eyes.
"How did you know all that?" she whispered, almost reverent in her tone. Madeline closed her eyes and groaned under her breath.
Holmes shrugged. "Simple deduction. You have a ticket stub for the train from Kent protruding from your purse, indicating that you live in that county, and Mr. Tyler was reported to have purchased a new home there with his wife, Julianne. In other words, you. You have flecks of chocolate, coconut, and thyme occupying the corners of your mouth, showing that you have no restraint when it comes to food. The way you burst into the room and chattered on without thought preamble is evidence enough of your unrestrained speech. Upon my opening door, you leered at me in a way that shows that you have thought of pursuing an affair before outside of marriage, and you did it so confidently that it means that you have done it before. However, since your husband as of yet is not friendly with the gentry of this country, one would conclude that you had the affair with his single manservant. That, and the society column reported such drivel of a rumor about you recently."
Julianne collapsed on the side of the bed, her mouth gaping. Madeline just shot her a pitying look. She did ask, though…
"I rather suppose, Sister Constance, that you would want me to keep my observations about you to myself," he said, glancing towards the postulant.
"Yes, please," she replied, eyeing him with disdain. Actually, she was eyeing everything with disdain. Clearly the switch from a barren chapel cell to a room encompassing abandoned equipment, bullet holes, and tea sets was a bit disturbing for her. "How strange, sir, that you seem to have your eyes wide open and yet cannot see the disarray of your rooms."
Madeline, with a burst of strength, reached forward and gave her friend a small pinch.
"Do excuse her, Mr. Holmes, she's merely defending Julianne," she said, covering her friend's little croak of pain. Rather than point out that she had just defended him from Constance, he only smiled.
"I do believe there is a passage in the Bible that goes, 'Look to the plank in your own eye before pointing out another's.' Roughly paraphrased, of course," Sherlock quoted, sitting himself down and perusing the paper again. He was looking for any story that could be linked with his new client, and so far was coming up with nothing. The nun could not keep her opinions to herself, though.
"How lightly you use that phrase, sir. It does so seem to apply to you as well. This room, such squalor! How is it habitable?" Constance purred, lacing her acid words with a demure tone. "It's just so…so…"
"Bohemian!" Mrs. Tyler proclaimed, withdrawing from her shell once more. "Truly, this is a clear example of bohemian living. No distinct order, your art being your livelihood, your home exploding with color and chaos! It's all about freedom of expression, and so beautiful!"
"You are romanticizing me, madam. I do believe you may need to meet with my biographer; he tends to share the same opinion as you upon my habits and such," Holmes said, giving up on reading the newspaper entirely. Vaguely he wondered if Watson wouldn't mind walking with him to escape the hens cackling in his home.
"It takes some getting used to, but it is functional, this style of living," Madeline said softly.
"Chuh, bohemian living...dens filled with degenerates and their wasted lives. Where is the merit in that?" the postulate said, raising her eyebrow in challenge. Madeline's hand connected with her head; the afternoon was not going well at all.
Sherlock gasped, mockingly, "Degenerate, madam? Heaven forbid the thought. I suppose nowadays the idea of 'do not judge lest ye be judged' is more of a guideline.
"Perhaps I and my home are not conventional, but my methods provide for me and allow me to observe things no normal person can deduce upon their first look. In fact, I am willing to argue that people are more bohemian than they care to admit. Identifying that everyone is simply either man or woman and title bearing no more weight than any other word…there is the merit, my dear woman."
"He does have a point," Madeline said, smiling almost proudly. Julianne sat, enraptured by the detective's smooth talking, and Constance frowned. Intentionally she turned her face away, instead focusing on her injured friend once more. Sherlock shrugged imperceptibly, rising for his chair. He really wanted out of the building at that moment.
Before he left, though, he went to the mantle and reaffixed the hunting knife to a different stack of papers. Upon further reflection, he also dumped the tea kettle's contents on the aging wood, causing the air to become scented with the smell of soaking tea and old water.
It was still his home, and how he wanted it to be, it would be that way. Society's outlook be damned, that's how he would have it.
"Now, if you ladies will excuse me, I have some business to attend to," he graciously announced, bowing to the women and gathering up a scarf and jacket in the same movement. Five steps later he was out the door, and down the stairs. As he strode away, he could hear the hearty applause and thigh-slapping from two ladies, and the huff of indignation from the third.
It was time to be around at least one member of the male populace. Hailing a cab, he instructed the driver to take him to Cavendish Place, with an extra bit of money to be paid if he could be there in ten minutes. At least Providence had smiled on him enough to bring the Watsons back a day early from their French tour.
xXxXxXx
It was long after sunset before Holmes returned to Baker Street. A sojourn at the Watson abode was much-needed, although he did receive an earful on proper behavior in front of ladies.
"There was only one lady in that room, and she is accustomed enough to my habits now that she did not find it offensive at all," Sherlock ascertained over dinner.
Watson, raising an eyebrow, chuckled, "Indeed? Hard to believe that you'd call the woman who named you a specific part of a horse's anatomy a lady."
Making his expression blank, Holmes replied, "Yes, well, it was true in this case. It would've been rather unintelligent for her to complain about her surroundings when we've already discussed it."
John felt a slow grin growing upon his face. Holmes, reading the implication there, frowned.
"Something amusing you, Watson?"
"I think you're starting to like her," the doctor commented nonchalantly, spooning potatoes onto his plate.
"She's easier to live with, since everything is properly arranged," Sherlock said, eager to change the subject. Glancing at Mrs. Watson, he asked, "So Mary, do tell me: when the baby will arrive?"
Mary's face paled, a bit mortified, before giggling, "In about seven months' time, Sherlock."
"I will not even deign to ask how you knew that one, Holmes," Watson said, coughing and shuffling his feet.
And so the dinner went, with much discussion on what the names would be for the newest edition to the Watson family and how far Holmes could progress without a full account from Madeline. Eventually, his visit had run its course and it was time to go home.
The house was dark, save for the single light coming from the upstairs window. He was ecstatic to not have to meet "Nanny" at the doorway, with her chiding him for his abysmal timing and his work keeping her up at all hours. Slipping off his shoes, he carefully treaded the stairwell, avoiding the creaking steps with ease until he reached the landing.
The minimal candlelight poured from a crack between the door and opening, and he couldn't help but peer in. At this late hour, Madeline was still up, lying upon the window seat and gazing sightlessly at the darkened streets below. In the candle's glow she looked alternately sickly and stoic. The blanket was still tossed about her shoulders, covering the mishmash of clothing she was forced into that morning. Her cropped hair, tucked gingerly behind her ears, was falling loose the lower her head dipped to her chest.
Knocking on the door, Sherlock chortled a bit at her spastic movements. Jerking her out of a reverie was a hilarious thing.
"I saw the light," he explained, waltzing in and reoccupying his abandoned chair. Taking another look at her bowed head, he queried, "Penny for your thoughts, Mrs. St. James?"
With a tight grimace and rapid closing of her eyes, she mumbled, "I apologize for Constance. She was raised in a rather strict family. Things have to be done a certain way with her, and her years at the school have taught her to speak up about it…I admit that the order in her life is something I admire about her, but she wasn't right to insult you that way. I feel responsible for her behavior; she was my guest, after all. One can only hope when she becomes a full nun she will learn to bite her tongue."
Holmes just shook his head. "No need to feel that way. I gathered from her prim way of dress and demure posturing as being habits of a lifetime, and not just of her calling to God. Once she opened her mouth, she confirmed it. Her scope of the world is so small, I had no hope of fitting into it from the beginning. It's all just words, inconsequential prattle."
"I also think you've gained an ardent admirer in Mrs. Tyler. With you ripping her person to shreds verbally, one would think she would be put off, but no," Madeline teased, "she rather fancies you now."
Her companion shuddered. "Heaven forbid that."
"She's an acquired taste, that girl. Both of them are…but when you've practically grown up with them, you get used to it."
She spread her right arm wide, as if to say, "what can you do". He snorted, and rubbed his eyes briefly.
"Yes, yes…any more to tell me?"
She glanced to the left, and shook her head no. He pointed a finger at her and wagged it.
"Liar," he remonstrated gently. Watching her eyes blink swiftly from being caught out, he added, "Looking down and to the left indicates it."
Heaving a great sigh, she shifted in her seat, and held out a piece of paper. Taking it, he surmised that it was from Mrs. Bray, handed over by one of the ladies during the visit. Scanning the note, there was only two lines of text:
Lawrence arrived at my home, looking for you. He knows not where you are.-RB
"I wanted to wait, to see if something like this would happen," she said, pressing the heel of her hand to her forehead. "If I'm going to be honest, I was afraid that he would attempt to find me right after the fact. But this late note, it just makes me wonder at Lawrence's…carelessness, if you will. Why would he wait so long? To hear if I was dead…or alive?"
Pocketing the note for later examination, Holmes persisted in staring at her, willing her to speak.
"I'm ready to talk now. About that day, I mean."
Leaning forward in his chair, Sherlock pressed his fingers together and rested his elbows on his knees.
"Pray, start from the beginning," he stated, eyes wide and ears opened. "Leave no data out; it is imperative for you tell me everything."
Author's note: Whew, that was a lot to write. Sorry for the cliffhanger, but I wanted to at least get the case going and this was the only way I could figure out that wasn't a bad idea. With my spring break virtually over, I will be going to posting only once a week, as I'm in at least three classes that require me to write many papers for them. So thanks for reading, PLEASE REVIEW, and I'll be seeing you all in about a week!
