Monday's Child

Part Three

Though Lestrade had given a fairly accurate description of the body while they were still on Baker Street in the sitting room, Watson found he was not as prepared for the sight as he had thought. Lestrade stood quietly nearby as Watson uncovered the body, as if offering silent support. He was uncertain how well the doctor had known the lad, but he was not about to assume Watson's previous experiences in dealing with the corpses of friends and family members had left him inured. Even counting the doctor's experiences in the horrors of war had obviously not hardened him to the sight he now beheld.

He watched Watson's brow furrow slightly as those green eyes softened sadly. Though his hands were steady as he removed the sheet and began his observations, Lestrade could see there was something stirring beneath that mask of professionalism.

"It's quite alright, Giles," Watson said softly, interrupting his chain of thought. "You don't have to stay."

It was rare that the doctor would address him so informally in such a professional setting. Realizing that some of his thoughts must have been showing through his expressions, Lestrade colored slightly.

"I'm not questioning your professionalism, John," he was quick to assure.

Still bending over the child's body, Watson nodded once. Turning to Lestrade, he eyed him critically. "I did not mean to imply that you were. You seem rather more disturbed than I am accustomed to seeing from you. I am aware that there is more to this case. Is it personal?"

Only now did Lestrade realize Holmes had obviously never told him. His eyebrows shot up at this understanding. Though, he thought he really should not be surprised by this, it somehow did catch him off his guard. Finally he nodded, running a hand through his hair in muted frustration wondering just how much he had a right to tell.

"It was how I met Holmes," Lestrade started uncomfortably looking everywhere but at the body or Watson. "I think, perhaps, it would be better to let Holmes explain."

For a moment Watson almost argued this point; more out of a sense that the inspector needed to talk than to satisfy his own curiosity. The man looked tired and haunted. But something about this case having gotten far enough to involve them had seemed to take some of the weight off the inspector's currently bowed shoulders. Nodding slowly, he let the matter drop as he turned his attention back to the task at hand. Again, he forced away his own thoughts and feelings as he began the disheartening task of taking in every horrific detail; going so far as to precisely sketch various parts for Holmes' further perusal without having to be present. He was so lost to his task that he failed to notice Lestrade finally leaving to attend to his own duties elsewhere.

What he discovered later made him unspeakably grateful that Holmes had agreed not to attend to this himself.

~o~o~o~

Lestrade stared down at the little body on the dissecting table. Not for the first time he offered a silent prayer that it was not one of his own children. Though, after his first confrontation with that insufferably arrogant man in the gaol, he could not prevent the feeling of guilt that followed. He had not expected that little incident to weigh on him quite so heavily as it now did. He found those words coming back to him with each corpse that appeared in this sickening investigation. His heart rebelled at the truth of the matter, even as his mind lashed him with those words.

Mr. Holmes had been correct. Somewhere along the way Lestrade had grown to be like so many others in this cesspool of a city. Human life was ranked by social status and monetary value. He could clearly remember a time when he had been one of the lower-ranking members of society clawing his way up. Not until he had achieved a name for himself within the ranks of Scotland Yard did he at least feel accepted. He vividly recalled those years when he thought no life should be worth less than any other.

He wondered what had become of that man.

The bitterness that welled up at the realization that he was no better than so many others now had brought him to this point. Despite the warnings given by Mycroft Holmes of the dire consequences of dealing with this private consulting detective, he found himself seeking out those accusing gray eyes that haunted his thoughts. It had taken him a few days, but when two more little bodies turned up, he found himself willing to accept any help at all. As infuriating as the man's belittling demeanor towards him was, he was willing to suffer the indignity of the young man's presence if it would ease that guilt that now plagued his soul. These children deserved justice no less than any other inhabitant of this city; and he would not allow himself to give up without exploring all possible avenues in this investigation.

However, he again questioned the sanity of the young man as he watched him practically dancing with excitement over the body. The elder Holmes' warnings flitted through his mind again, as he wondered just what he had gotten himself into with this. Meanwhile, the younger Holmes began to share his observations on everything from the dirt under the nails giving away the child's residence to the particular type of stitch used to sew the dismembered parts back onto the body. Some of what he called simple deductions appeared anything but, to the inspector. Finally, when the young man was finished, Lestrade took him too his office as requested to view the information gathered from all the previous bodies.

"As I had expected, nothing useful. Really, Inspector Lestrade, are all of Scotland Yard's finest so very blind?"

Lestrade bit back a remark that would have done nothing to improve the situation. "Would you care to explain yourself, Mr. Holmes?"

Heaving a sigh as if dealing with a wearisome child, Holmes launched into his explanation. "All you really have are an ever-compounding list of bodies. You cannot tell me more than where they are found and approximately how long they had been left in that state. What evidence have you of the perpetrator? Have you tried tracing the thread purchases, as this is obviously not surgical material? Even the needles themselves have proven not to be those used in the medical profession! It is unlikely we are looking for a seamstress. The next obvious conclusion would be a tailor or some similar profession. Have you not even noticed that every single body has been facing a northerly direction? Though none of the children have been taken from the same place twice, they were all—"

"And how do you know that?" Lestrade asked pointedly, still questioning that vague suspicion crawling around the back of his mind.

The look of cold understanding in those gray eyes sharpened for a moment. "You still do not trust me."

"Not entirely, no."

For a moment, Lestrade thought he would be soon rid of this little annoyance as it seemed the younger Holmes was about to exit his office. Then those pale features smoothed and quickly transformed into a smirk.

"I have my sources of information, Inspector. It would not be in my favor to divulge them at this time. However, I can promise you that regarding me with suspicion is an utter waste of your time that will only leave you with more bodies. I urge you to put aside your feelings on the matter and deal with me rationally. Though I can imagine how difficult those concepts are for your limited intelligence to grasp—"

He'd had enough. Rising from his seat, he came around the desk ready to take the young man by the scruff of his neck if need be. Before he'd come more than halfway around the desk, the wiry young man had danced out of reach in a movement so fluid as to appear boneless. This did little to deter the irate inspector as he maneuvered closer to the door, instead.

"Out!" he barked.

"Inspector—"

"Not another word, Mr. Holmes!"

"I only meant—"

"Out! Now! Or I'll haul you up for trespassing!"

"Inspector—"

"That's quite enough!"

Lestrade was pleased to see something akin to fear cross those mask-like pale features as he turned to call for some constables.

"Wait!"

Lestrade crossed his arms to keep his hands from wrapping them around the young man's throat as he passed through the doorway with his nose in the air. Desperate as he was to at least find some answer to this miserable investigation, he would not put up with such abuse. At least with what the young man had given him, he would have a place to start. He had been correct in that their surgeons had remarked upon the fact that none of the materials used in the murders had in any way been medical supplies. But that still left them with thousands upon thousands of other sources.

Feeling more than a little overwhelmed by this, Lestrade had to re-affirm for himself that he was making the right decision. He would never again give those glittering gray eyes cause to haunt him. He would pursue this case for the rest of his career, if that was what it took. He just wished he could figure out what it was about that infuriating, egotistical young man that made him constantly feel he had to prove himself. Shaking off these sensation that he was being tested and found wanting, Lestrade turned back to his desk and the incredibly detailed findings that private consulting detective had given him thus far.

Maybe there was some chance he could find and catch the killer. But he'd be damned if he'd let Mr. Holmes know how very much he had just helped in setting him on the right track.

~o~o~o~

A knock on his office door roused Lestrade from this memory of the first and only time he'd ever bested the detective in a confrontation. He smiled to himself ruefully even now at the recollection that it had only happened by weight of his authority. Now, even that held no sway with the man that continued to inspire him.

"Come in, Dr. Watson," Lestrade called, having recognized that knock.

Despite the grim look on the doctor's features, he spared a concerned glance at the inspector. Realizing the doctor must have been knocking before the one he had heard, Lestrade flashed him a quirky curve of his lips in an approximation of a reassuring grin that fell far short; if Watson's expression was anything to judge by.

"I was lost in thought, John. Would you please stop fretting? Cee might start getting jealous," he tossed out, attempting to lighten the mood.

He was gratified to hear huff of a laugh as Watson took a seat in the chair across from him. "Your wife could do worse than fretting over you more than the grandchildren for a change," Watson returned lightly.

"Are you implying that I'm being neglected, Doctor?"

"I hear you've taken an occasional day off, even, to get her attention."

"I have no idea where you could pick up such rumors. Gossip is rather beneath a man of your stature."

Watson laughed openly for a moment before growing more serious. "How is she, Giles?"

It was not difficult for the inspector to remember Watson's own dealings with his now deceased wife as she had slowly faded away. The fact that this was a case of physical disease did little to lessen the doctor's sympathy. Of course, he would not be the well-known healer he was without that empathetic concern for even those of his patients he knew not at all.

"She's improving," Lestrade finally confessed. "Some days are better than others. And I think having Abby and her daughters with us now has helped considerably. She always did have more energy for children."

"And you?"

Lestrade again waved off his concerns as he noticed a hint of something akin to guilt behind those green eyes. "I'm quite alright, John. Just tired, is all. The worst of the shock has passed. I know I should retire, but Cee insists that doing so will be the death of her. How is Emily?"

Watson smiled broadly. "More beautiful every day."

"And a handful, I imagine, if she's helping to manage keeping Holmes out of my hair."

Watson chuckled again, acknowledging the truth of that statement. "Quite so."

For a moment they sat in the companionable silence of two men wrapped in their own thoughts. Finally, they could put it off no longer. Lestrade glanced down at the stacks and stacks of reports he'd pulled from his files. Watson tossed his own onto the desk, having no need to look at his notes to recall every horrific detail he had thus far uncovered. Lestrade picked up the papers, his eyes drawn to those precise sketches that had once amazed him when the doctor had begun using them from time to time in an investigation. Though he could not deny the usefulness of this talent, it disturbed him that the man was now using it for such a gruesome purpose.

MONDAY'S CHILD

Watson had perfectly captured the jagged edges of the flesh in which this had been carved, all the way down to the exposed ribs beneath. Lestrade stared down sadly at this sight, captured in such gut-twisting detail. Worse, however, were those precise, neat stitches Watson had also duplicated to perfection. They stared back at him mockingly as the ghosts of an investigation eighteen years ago stirred his memories. So much of this was different, but the mutilation and stitching matched perfectly.

"He's older than the previous victims," Lestrade offered, tearing his eyes away from those sketches. "The previous ones ranged in age from four to ten. I don't understand the reference, though I am aware of the nursery rhyme."

"Holmes received a note last Monday. I had hoped he would bring it along, but..." Watson gave a shrug, not needing to explain to Lestrade of all people. "Monday's child is fair of face."

"That's all?"

"Yes, but we had made little of it, as nothing seemed too threatening. Now, it would seem it was deliberately meant as a warning to Holmes."

Lestrade nodded sadly. He could not blame either of them, if the message was as unassuming as he suspected. "There was no way even Holmes could have known. The original case was before you had even left Afghanistan. And it had not been a targeted attack against Holmes, even then. This is something new, but the similarities are undeniable. The...suspect...died before Holmes could gain enough evidence to prove his part in the matter."

Watson had not spent all those years working alongside the detective for nothing. "There's more."

Turning away from his friend, Lestrade stared back into his memories. Before he had a chance to elaborate, Holmes knocked smartly on the door. The inspector put aside his thoughts as he called for the detective to enter. Dr. Watson would know more than he cared to soon enough. As Lestrade's eyes met those of the detective, something passed between them that Watson could only guess at for the time being.

~o~o~o~

Holmes stood outside the offices of Scotland Yard growling in disappointment. He had actually held some hope that the little inspector would be more accommodating. The fact that the man still held him under suspicion was bad enough. But that he couldn't take even mild criticism was just pointlessly hampering their investigation. Holmes paused as he considered this. He wondered when exactly he had taken to feeling it a shared investigation. After all, the man had been nothing short of blind thus far.

Dismissing this notion as quickly as it occurred, Holmes resumed his furious pace. He had no intentions of sharing this case with a man who would not acknowledge the truth of the situation. Instead, he would return to his original lines of inquiry with this new knowledge he had gleaned from the body. These things had only confirmed his earlier lines of investigation. In conjunction with the vague description the children had given him, he was well on his way to at least establishing a suspect. In all his research of past crimes and criminals, one thing he had learned was that repeat criminals hunted familiar territory. Now that he knew where the children had been taken and the confirmation from the dirt found on the body, he could begin there.

But, the nagging sensation that what he really wanted to find was the place the murders took place continued to nag him. There was something conflicting there. The children were taken from one place, murdered in another, and then dumped in a third. Obviously this was a native Londoner with a good knowledge of the city and its alleys. However, the patterns, though consistent, were not entirely similar. The areas from which the boys were taken were of a better class of living and business. The murders had clearly occurred along the shabby, dirty dwellings of the Thames where little more than shacks and docks existed. Then, the dumped bodies had been deliberately left in the East End.

The transportation alone would be difficult. He let his mind turn these thoughts over as he made his way back to Montague. The blistering air of the July afternoon did little to help in his thinking processes as he observed the people coming and going all around him. Often he wondered what crimes these people kept secret. But the idea that this man was hunting children and could be walking right beside him disturbed him. He could not fathom the mind that would inflict such mindless cruelty on a helpless child. And, even more disturbing, was the fact that he'd begun to suspect more than one man.

One had the appearance and all the indications of someone of a higher class of society than those usually found in either the murder location or the East End. The other clearly knew his way around the darker places of this city. Gradually he formulated a theory that would suit this contradiction. Likely, the one man was securing the children, while the other committed the actual murder. Yet, even that didn't fit; for it was most likely that the gentleman the children described was the one committing the acts, as he would have the skill with the needle. But, what part did this other player have in the scheme? Was he just paid to dump the body?

The scowl Holmes wore then as these thoughts and so much more chased themselves around his mind had people along the sidewalks quickly dodging out of his way. His meandering steps hadn't taken him very far from the Scotland Yard offices when somebody even more distracted than himself pulled him out of his contemplations in a most abrupt manner. Holmes found himself staring at a tall, thin fellow in a similarly undignified position on the sidewalk as others carefully stepped around them with little more than a curious glance.

"My apologies, sir!" the man exclaimed, quickly scrambling to his feet to offer Holmes a hand. "I was not—"

"You were on your way to deliver a package to Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard," Holmes calmly announced, ignoring the man's offer of help as he rose to his full height, only an inch or two above the man's red face. "If it is a new suit, he is in desperate need, I must say. However, your skills leave something to be desired. Or, perhaps, it is simply his taste in attire."

The man's dark, glinting eyes flared briefly at these insults. "Giles' clothing is none of your concern, whoever you are. Off with you!"

Holmes sneered as the man waved him off before continuing his hurried trek back in the direction from which Holmes had just come. However, something about the man's retreating back sparked a thought. For a moment he resumed his own walk with more purpose, so as not to draw further attention from onlookers. Once he had established his obvious route, he quickly ducked int an alley and circled around. Finding a safe, relatively comfortable position within view of the main doors of the Yard, he waited.

Much to his disappointment, the hours spent waiting were for nothing. Holmes growled quietly to himself, having wasted the afternoon and most of the evening in the hopes of finding that man again. Either the man had not stopped at Scotland Yard, or he had already left by the time Holmes had found his hiding spot. Despite the disappointment and wasted hours, he had had plenty of time to turn over those thoughts that had formulated and coalesced into a working theory in his mind. Sighting the inspector now leaving for the night, Holmes decided to change tactics. He could almost smile as he plotted his next manuverings.

~o~o~o~

As the inspector and the detective met gazes, Watson took in many things. There was something almost physical about the tension for several seconds that made him fear an explosion. However, Holmes nodded once, and visibly relaxed as he moved to close the door behind himself. Lestrade's finely wrinkled face did not relax in the slightest. For his part, though somewhat at a loss, Watson was relieved to see that Holmes had calmed considerably in the intervening hours. What would take place next, he knew would not be pleasant for any of them.

Watson handed around his sketches and details of all he had learned. The fact that Matthew had been alive during the initial mutilation starting with his fingers had both sickened and horrified him. He had intended to spare Holmes this much, but was not entirely surprised when the detective leveled a gray-eyed glare at him that clearly told him to stop being shy about it. Of course, that was just before he set aside the sketches and detailed Watson's findings back to him as if having already memorized the report.

"Exactly the same," Lestrade confirmed.

"No, Inspector," Holmes countered quickly, seeming lost in thought. "Matthew is far older than his previous victims. And, there is the addition of the note and the...message left for me. These are targeted."

"But there is no doubt that the rest is the same. These were never in the newspapers because no one cared," Lestrade said pointedly, not flinching away from Holmes' glare at this reminder of their early relationship. "You know that as well as I do."

Though Watson caught something there in that exchange, he doubted he would ever receive and answer from either Lestrade or Holmes. Still having very little to go on, he was left making his own deductions as the two continued speaking as if he were not even present. This was not the first time, nor would it be the last. He had grown accustomed to these kinds of exchanges from Holmes. He never bothered to interrupt, knowing the detective would fill him in on the missing details where and when he found it necessary to do so. Pestering the man, especially in these circumstances, was likely to produce nothing more than some biting remarks about where he was needing to spend his time. Then again, as Holmes' face colored slightly in barely contained anger, he was reminded that being an invisible presence had its uses.

"He is dead!" Holmes snapped, quivering angrily. "We both saw him, Lestrade. Yet I refuse to believe this is a copy. It is too precise, and now too targeted as well."

"I was the one who handled the original investigation," Lestrade reminded him, sitting back with a tired sigh. "Your name was never in any of the paperwork then. The only one that could have known was Patrick."

"He is—"

"I think it's safe to assume we are looking at someone more accustomed to working with cloth than human flesh," Watson finally cut in, sensing the growing frustration at talking themselves in circles. "It is not unreasonable to assume that this is both a copy and not."

Having broken his silence reminding them that he was present, Watson only barely managed to restrain a sigh as he found himself pinned to his chair by two angry glares.

"An apprentice, or a child, perhaps?" Watson prompted, hoping to bow out of the conversation beyond this point.

Both parties seemed to pause to consider this before Holmes' eyes returned with renewed admiration, and no small amount of returned self-control. He had only moments ago proven his point, highly strung emotions clouded his thinking. And, without Watson, he likely would have torn himself to pieces mentally before even reaching this possible conclusion. Watson waved off this his glance of gratitude with quick nod.

"Someone perfectly capable of copying the stitches to perfection, who might be aware of what was happening when he was younger."

"Or she," Watson added.

Two sets of eyebrows, one dark the other peppered with gray, shot up at this suggestion. This was the part of his experience as a surgeon he disliked giving in detail. However, his knowledge of human anatomy from living creatures and not just dead gave him a perspective neither could hope to understand.

"The stitches are most definitely not surgical, nor even attempted to masquerade as such," Watson continued, as if trying to grasp something he was only just beginning to realize himself as he stared at one of his own sketches. "They are clearly meant for cloth of some type. They were a lockstitch in every place upon the body. But they were a continuous type more often used in a double-layered lockstitch for clothing of a heavier quality; not unlike leather. Which, in this case is a grotesquely accurate attempt. But it is still not exact. The second layer over the original stitches was incomplete. It is as if the person never used leather or worked with heavier materials. The hand is neat and deft, obviously experienced, but lacking in some dexterity. A woman's hands roughed by hard work, or afflicted with rheumatism would also explain such."

"But they're exactly the same..." Lestrade mused.

"I would not know unless I could view the piercing of the skin on the previous victims. I would, however, venture a guess that these are not quite as accurate as the previous stitching; despite the initial appearance of identical spacing, locking, and tying."

Holmes nodded with approval before taking some time to consider this himself. Certain now that he had been correct in his belief that the original perpetrator was dead, he now set his mind to alternatives he had not previously considered. The rest of their little meeting produced nothing more of interest beyond something of a refresher of the current circumstances. As annoyed as Watson was with this lack of information gleaned from the two, he was by this point, too weary to care. After the events of the day, he just wanted to go home and spend some time with Emily. Eventually Holmes called the meeting to an end in his own usual fashion by tossing some rather unpleasant remarks at the inspector and marching out. Watson offered his own apologetic shrug that Lestrade shrugged off before returning to the perusal of his own thoughts and case files.