Chapter Notes: I had to use a non-linear method of story telling this time out kids. I know it will ask you to read carefully and it might take more than one time to get the gist, but this is the only way to get the affect I am after.
I know most of my intelligent readers will believe they know what is going to happen, but I hope that Uncle Barty has a few tricks up his sleeve yet.
This is not the last chapter, I still have somethings to wrap up but I think it ends on a satisfactory note. So please read and enjoy. I hope it's not too confusing.
Bart
All characters but James belong to Artie Doyle. Please forgive me world for bringing such a complete and utter bastard into existence. :)
Doctor John Watson, Police Surgeon: Scotland Yard 3
Esau have I hated
Chapter Four
Dark gray eyes watched from the swirling fog as they escorted the target down the steps of the Diogenes Club. The eyes narrowed taking in everything at once. Inspector Lestrade had a hand on the target's arm. The hair was short, and the moustached trimmed, the clothing tailored, so it looked like the foppish twin brother taken to a safe location. The hand Lestrade kept on the arm, leaned on more heavily than a man taken into custody would do, maybe to disguise a limp? The leg had a slight drag of the heel; the left arm did not rise as high as a healthy shoulder should when the target reached for the hansom railing. The man spoke like the target, but was too alert and prescient to be James J. Watson; his serious eyes swept the shrouded evening far too competently.
With a swirl of mist, the assassin changed directions, crept up a side street and saw a smaller contingent departing from a back exit used for services.
The man led out by two Diogenes soldiers was wearing clothing Doctor John Watson wore earlier that night. He strolled lazily behind his shepherds with a cane he forgot to use twice, faking a limp a little too forced to be natural. He blithely smoked a cigarette giving one of his handlers a look of irritation, speaking in a low precise burr accented voice when the man indicated he was to climb aboard a carriage that had clearly seen better days. The twin rolled his eyes in annoyance, and complied shooting a nervous look into the clouded street facing the wrong direction. A lizard smile crept onto a pair of lips. Target identified.
The carriage crept along in a meandering path roughly in the direction of the Battersea Fun-Fair and its amusements, and the docks beyond. The driver expertly switched back twice.
They disembarked heading down the promenade through the enshrouded cobblestone pathways, they reached the bridge without mishap, the fog rolling off the Thames wrapping the causeway like a cloak. The weather kept most of London away from this area, no one thinks of riding the Ferris Wheel where there is no view to enjoy. The only other patrons they encountered was a lady dressed in gray tweed with a pinafore strolling along her purse clutched in a wool gloved hand, a young couple strolling with a carriage speaking obliviously loud of future plans staring into each other's eyes, and an elderly man bent with age creeping along ahead of them near the rail for support.
The miasma skulked over them, obscuring them from sight for a moment.
There was movement, grunts and two pops of a Derringer before the cries for help rang out.
-
Lestrade watched as Rollins, the talented young Scotland Yard photographer sat his camera tripod for an overhead view. Lestrade winced as the lightning of the phosphorus flash powder brought everything into sharp relief. He looked grim as Rollins packed his gear. The young man had earnest brown eyes behind his horn-rimmed glasses, wore a gray linen driving-cap backwards over a shock of blond hair. "I'm sorry about your brother, Doctor Watson," he murmured to the man beside Lestrade. Watson nodded to the lad, absently staring at his twin lying on the ground his eyes closed and peaceful, blood pooling around his side where he was stabbed, Derringer still in hand. "At least he got the bastard that did this to him," Lestrade commented pointing to a few drops of blood leading to the railing and over. "We'll never know until we see a body," Watson stated.
Rollins nodded to himself. "I'll have the photo prints by tomorrow." He left the two men alone in their thoughts.
Lestrade waved two men in white over, they loaded the body onto a stretcher. "You want to ride with your brother?" Lestrade asked Watson. The other man nodded, they followed the body, walking past the cordoned off crowd, whom gathered even with the haze nearly obscuring anything there was to see.
The two Diogenes Club men, who were supposed to be protecting the man carted past them, looked positively morose in the dying light.
Lestrade and his companion got into the back of the ambulance with the body, and it departed for its destination in no particular hurry.
-
Two days later...
Doctor Watson watched in silence as the coffin was loaded into the baggage car, he signed the forms the clerk had on the clipboard, visually checking the body with the conductor, as was company policy.
Lestrade waited patiently for him on the platform his head nearly obscured by cigarette smoke.
Watson made his way to him and they strolled off without another word until they cleared the station.
"So you have people in Northumberland to see to the burial?" Lestrade inquired as they boarded the hansom.
"I have an old family friend in Hexham seeing to the entire affair. He assures me that they will plant James in the grave that already bears his marker," Watson remarked wincing as he settled. He rested his chin on his cane deep in thought, stroking the thin, trimmed moustache he was sporting these days. "At least now there will be a body in the family plot, I'd hate for the space to go to waste," he remarked in a wry tone.
Lestrade once again checked the man for signs of shock. He looked like he was fine, but Lestrade still worried. "Are you sure..."
"Yes." Watson interrupted his hazel eyes steely in the afternoon vapours. This discussion had been ongoing for the better part of two days, Watson was through arguing, Lestrade dropped the matter.
-
They arrived at the docks at Wapping. Lestrade disembarked, and paid the hansom driver before Watson could. His generosity, met with a glare, but Lestrade made sure to show he was unrepentant. If Watson could be stubborn, he would as well.
They made their way down the gangway to the berth of a characterless cargo ship.
"Where are they?" Watson asked, peering though the clearing vapour.
"Come to see me off have you?" said a man walking out of the fog. He had shaved his moustache completely, and nearly shaved his hair down to stubble, but there was enough distinguishing features left to show it was James Watson.
"No, James, we came to make sure you leave," John answered, wincing as he turned to frown at his brother.
--
Two Days Earlier...
Lestrade knew he had the floor. Doctor Watson and Mycroft were both staring at him in interest; James was as well but with open disdain. He felt intimidated for a moment when he thought about the intelligence behind those three gazes, but he did what he had always done in over his head, he ploughed forward.
"It's like a magic trick, really, you have the promise, what is expected, then you have the turn, which is when the expected is turned on its ear, then you have the prestige which is the moment when it all comes off, preferably with the death of this Charon character," Lestrade explained with trepidation. "I say we use James as bait. We make it look like James escaped the Diogenes Club, then follow him from a distance until Charon makes a move. John does not need to be involved."
Doctor Watson leaned back staring off in space, deep in speculation. "Charon will be expecting us to attempt to decoy him, what is the turn?"
Lestrade glanced up to see Mycroft's gray eyes were dissecting him. He wondered if the man was following his reasoning or just questioning his intelligence. He saw no condescension in the large man's gray eyes, but Mycroft never showed any emotion, it was difficult to determine any nonverbal expression.
"I propose that the Inspector has the correct tact, but he is not going far enough with his execution," Mycroft commented.
"Now, wait a minute, we are not listening to this bungling imbécile are we?" James blurted. He fished out a cigarette he had secreted somewhere, and flipped open a lighter from one of his robe pockets, Lestrade had a hunch one of the Diogenes would be looking for that later.
Mycroft smiled at James, it was not a pleasant expression but a bearing of teeth. "You, sir, are soft, Charon is expecting soft. I propose we give him a hard target."
Lestrade shot up in his seat. "I was not proposing this," he sputtered.
James actually looked relieved.
Doctor Watson was still staring off into space. "What makes you think that I will fare any better against this assassin than my dandy of a brother?" he inquired turning to Mycroft.
Mycroft poured himself a brandy from a decanter on his desk. "I have in the course of my position, encountered many dangerous men, Doctor, men to whom killing is second nature. I have staked my life upon my ability to identify such men on site. You, however, escaped my attention before you laid your pistol on my desk. That makes you one of the most perilous men I have ever had the misfortune of stumbling upon."
Lestrade noticed that the normally vocal James faded into the background. He was removing himself from this discussion, sensing that the onus was switching off him and onto his brother. Lestrade wished he had his revolver, at that moment he would have gladly shot the bastard.
"I do not enjoy killing, Mycroft," Watson informed, his tone adamant.
Mycroft sipped his brandy, then remarked, "We are all talented at things we would not wish to be. The fact you eschew lethality makes you no less dangerous. As a matter of fact the deadliest weapons in the animal kingdom belong to creatures that use them for defence only."
"He is not an animal, Mycroft," Lestrade blurted; "he is a decent man."
Mycroft's expression was quixotic. "A decent man, but not entirely safe, if he were, he would not have survived Maiwand."
"I am death, the mighty destroyer of the world..." Doctor Watson stated with a weary sigh. "I have devoted my existence to prolong life, taken an oath to do so, and here I am once again called upon to end one. A bitter pill my days have become. What do you propose, Mycroft?"
Mycroft and Watson locked eyes. Lestrade felt there was no one else in the room at that moment. These two men were operating on a plateau far above his, he cursed that he had ever brought the decoy idea to light.
"He will be expecting us to attempt to substitute you and James. If he believes he is stalking James, then he will be watching your companions for the threat, which may give you the chance to kill him first, however, if he knows it is you, then he will be watching for you to move, and will be able to counter," Mycroft explained. "So, not only do we make you and James look alike, but you, and your brother, need to learn to look like you are imitating yourself."
Watson smiled. "Clever," he acknowledged.
Lestrade was gaping. "I beg your pardon."
"It's all just Legerdemain, try to keep up, Inspector," James called.
Lestrade's knuckles went white gripping the arms of the chair, he nearly launched himself across the room at James, but Watson placed a hand on his shoulder to prevent it. "Charon is expecting us to attempt to switch places, Lestrade, so Mycroft is proposing we do just that, but act as if we are not, so he will come after me thinking I am James attempting to be me," he explained shooting his brother an annoyed look.
"Then why not say that?" Lestrade retorted, causing Watson to chuckle.
James stubbed out his cigarette on the windowsill showing complete disdain for Mycroft's standards of cleanliness. "It will never work, John could never hope to imitate me, especially not me trying to be him," he commented airily.
Lestrade remembered how effortlessly Doctor Watson had slipped into his brother's accent when they reached the Argentine earlier. "Show him, John."
Doctor Watson stood, he strolled over to the humidor, his posture insouciant and impertinent, he pulled a cigar out, sniffed it with disdain. "Honduran? How positively déclassé," he drawled with a precise burr accented voice as he clipped the tip. He turned to his brother. "Of course seeing as I am a selfish, self centred, ungrateful parasite, I shall partake regardless, all the while letting you know how inferior it is just the same." He lit a match with a flourish held it to the cigar, and then shook the match out dropping it to the carpet, stubbing it with his toe causing Mycroft to wince.
"I stand corrected," James remarked.
-
The next half hour had been instructive as Mycroft summoned a tall graying Belgian gentleman that pranced in with such a feminine air that Lestrade immediately separated from the man in his discomfort. "Gentlemen, I wish to introduce you to the secret behind the Diogenes Club's success in undercover assignments, Enzo Savalier
Mycroft informed him of his task. He looked at the two brothers. "Please tell me you want the pretty one to look like this pale, night dweller here," He lisped. "Have you seen the sunlight, sir? You know that great glowing ball in the sky?" he inquired of Watson with a plucked eyebrow contemptuously cocked.
Watson shrugged. "This is London, no one has in years."
The Belgian smirked, "Point, to you."
He criticized Watson's barbering, his grooming, his complexion and pallor, and the state of his skin as he styled and primped and applied a collection of strange looking and smelling liquids.
"I think I have done all I can do, Renoir himself could not paint on such a canvas," Enzo complained stepping away.
Lestrade and Mycroft exchanged a telling glance when they saw him.
James gave his brother a once over. "All that work and I am still better looking," he remarked to Enzo.
Enzo glanced at James then back at John, before commenting to James, "I am hoping your talents lie in realms that do not require observation, yes?"
As James scoffed, the newly trimmed and fit looking Watson gave the fussy Belgian a wink before the man closed his case and flounced out.
The next hour, spent working on James' portrayal of John Watson trying to look like him. The man turned out to be a talented actor, which was no surprise, but his physical movements took some polishing. Mycroft gave some pertinent suggestions; soon they determined that all was as good as it was going to be.
Watson and Mycroft had a private discussion before they left with their respective groups, planning to rendezvous at the bridge to Battersea Fun-Fair; the consensus was if Charon attacked it would somewhere with a lot of fog, the traverse over the Thames was nearly obscured, a prime opportunity to be sure.
Doctor Watson had practiced with James' Derringer rig, until he was satisfied of his rate of fire, but the accuracy was still problematic at best, causing Lestrade alarm.
"You will take care, Doctor, Clea will skin me and tan my hide if I let you come to harm," Lestrade muttered, his nerves showing, as the men shook hands before they parted.
Watson flashed him that lopsided grin. "Why Lestrade, if I were not better informed, I would think you actually feel sentimental towards my person."
Lestrade waved him off. "I do not wish to go back to St. Cloud being my only recourse, nothing more."
Watson's grin softened. "I will be as careful as it is possible to be, Lestrade, but I fear if I look to my self-preservation, I will more likely end up on a slab in the basement of Scotland Yard. Clea will have to be understanding."
Lestrade almost choked on the words, "I will be most persuasive when I explain it to her. À bientôt, Docteur."
Watson smiled at the French, knowing how Lestrade detested using it. "Adieu ami."
-
Watson watched through the spyglass as Doctor Watson made his way across the overpass affecting his brother's casual slink perfectly. Lestrade knew that in addition to the two agents at his side, there were two other Diogenes representatives in disguise nearby, that made him no less frightened for his friend.
There was a metallic click in close proximity that made him startle a moment before he realized it was James flipping his stolen lighter closed, after lighting one of Mycroft's Hondurans he had somehow secreted . "I really hope this chap strikes soon," he remarked in a bored tone, "this weather is not fit for beast." When Lestrade glared at him he added, "Of course you and your ilk probably find it most comfortable."
"Your brother is risking his life on your behalf, and you feel nothing?"
James let out a laugh, and then he got an incredulous look on his face, "Oh dear, you honestly believe that deep down I really care. I thought Inspectors were supposed to be perceptive."
"Your brother may have shared a womb with you but he is by far the better man!" Lestrade informed the insufferable arse in an angry growl, as he turned back to check the Doctor's progress.
"Of course he is," James agreed around the cigar, "I would have to be a fool not to know this. My dear brother is nearly a saint. Altruistic, honourable, courageous, all he needs is to pull off some dramatic miracle and he will be a shoo in, I have no doubt."
Lestrade heard the bitterness in the man's voice, and decided to remark upon it. "You resent him for being a good man? Is that why you insist on inflicting the fruits of your irresponsibility upon him?"
James blew out a stream of smoke adding to the haze. "A man has to have his hobbies, otherwise life would become indeterminably boring, would it not?"
Lestrade would have said something scathing and nasty at that point, but the fog suddenly thickened, His nose for trouble told him whatever was going to happen was occurring now. He immediately broke into a run in that direction. His escorts from the Diogenes kept pace, he did not bother to see if James followed, because he had the man handcuffed to one of the officers as soon as he was sure the trap was sufficiently baited.
He heard the pops of the Derringer and he increased his stride. He was getting up there in years but Lestrade had always been a thin man, which helped him to stay in reasonable shape, nonetheless the longer legged companions out stripped him.
He arrived at the bridge to find that plain-clothes officers from the Yard already cordoned it off, they saw him coming and they let him through. Whatever had occurred, whomever the Charon character was, he was not going to escape.
Lestrade's sense of dread increased with every step until he was gasping, with little black spots in the corner of his vision. He passed a prone body, obscured by the gathering mist not pausing to see who it was because the Doctor's two associates were bending over him; Lestrade literally shoved them to the side.
Doctor Watson was leaning against the bridge rail, he had blood on his side, and he was pale with pain. "Sorry Lestrade, the bastard got a shot in. He was fast, I'll give him that."
"Never mind that, are you well?" Lestrade implored.
Doctor Watson winced as he held the hand to his side. "It will require stitches and I think I'll have a new scar for the collection but it could have been much worse."
Lestrade glanced down at the other body, it turned out to be the old man Watson and his men had passed earlier. A cane was in his hand, but protruding from it was a nasty eight-inch spike tipped with Watson's blood.
"I heard the tenor of the cane change as he clicked it against the cobblestones, I turned just in time, shot him in the chest, got a lung, even with a bullet in him, he still went for the kill," Watson explained. (4)
Lestrade saw that beneath the thick beard the man was sporting, there was another bullet wound under the shelf of the chin, this one angled to go into his brain.
"Luckily the Derringer was a two shot," Watson stated with a pain-filled chuckle.
Lestrade turned back to the white faced Doctor. "What do we do from here? The fog will clear shortly. We need to have a strategy in place by then."
Doctor Watson's already furrowed brow became even more so as he considered their options.
"My brother needs to die. I have a wound in my side, how about we show it to be fatal, my brother still looks like me, and he can declare me dead. We will push the paper work through the normal channels."
Lestrade looked at the man, barely able to stand, his face pinched with pain. "Can you play dead in that much pain Doctor, you need immediate medical attention. Your brother is not worth this."
Doctor Watson shook his head, adamant. "We need that information, those behind this monster need to be destroyed. I am not doing this for my brother!"
Lestrade sighed. "Damn your stubborn streak! What do we do with the assassin?"
Watson nodded to the railing. "Send him over the side, retrieve him later, transport him to the Diogenes Club, as long as they think he succeeded and escaped, they will not follow up."
One of the Diogenes agents nodded. "We have someone who can salvage it, and transport it in secret."
Watson nodded to Lestrade. "Go...get my brother...call for the constables to make it official, I need to play dead."
"At least stop the bleeding, you stubborn arse," Lestrade pleaded.
Watson shook his head grimly. "It will look better for the picture if I appear to have a pool of blood under me, however the sooner we get this accomplished the better."
Lestrade spun on his heel, all the way down to give the instructions he dredged up all the vile invectives he could think of, aimed at the toughest bastard he had ever met.
Behind him, there was a small splash as they sent the killer's body over the side.
-
After the body was loaded, and the ambulance was on its way, Watson opened his eyes.
"Ah, my dear brother returns from the grave, sainthood is assured." James stated, without affection , yet another cigar lit, leaned back against the side of the carriage.
Lestrade never wanted to kill someone with his bare hands before.
"Can we at least do first aid, Doctor?" Lestrade inquired staring daggers at the pompous prat blowing smoke rings.
"On a dead body, what would be the point?" replied Watson wincing as the ambulance hit a particularly deep rut. "We have to maintain the illusion, Lestrade, the wound will keep until we get back to the club."
Lestrade rested a supportive hand on his friends shoulder trying to steady the man a bit. Feeling helpless as the carriage nonchalantly picked its way along the shrouded streets.
-
They were in the Club infirmary. Lestrade had to wince as he watched Doctor Watson hand stitch his own side shut. A grisly task he took upon himself because of the need for anonymity. Covered in sweat from his endeavour, his face drawn, he had a bloody towel over his shoulder.
"I think I wrenched my back, those carriages need better suspension," James declared stretching in the corner.
"I weep for your discomfort." Watson replied. (4)
Two large agents from Diogenes entered the room, carrying a canvas-covered body. They sat it on a bier off to the left. Mycroft entered after them. He walked over to Watson.
"How is your side, Doctor?"
Watson winced as he pulled a stitch tight. "He cut a furrow, but it's just tissue damage, I am going to be sore for some time, and infection is almost assured, guessing that he did not disinfect his killing implement after every murder."
Mycroft nodded, he had a cane in his hand. "I thought you would find this interesting."
He lifted the cane and pointed it away from them, and then he depressed a stud near the handle, the malevolent spike slid out soundlessly. "This is the most ingeniously vile piece of work I have ever seen." Mycroft stated. He pushed the cane against the floor point first holding in the little stud and the spike retracted instantly with the motion of the cane. "There was a bag found with the body, it had disguises and a rig to conceal
this cane in a pinafore."
The two agents cut the canvas away from the body. Mycroft waved them over. Watson cut the thread with scissors and followed.
James even strolled over his curiosity getting the best of him.
"This gave me pause when I saw it," explained Mycroft. He reached down to the corpse and removed the beard and gray wig. They all let out an intake of breath.
The body was of a boy nearly sixteen years old.
"I have always believed that Charon was an inherited title; there have been references to a killer with this modus going back to 1842. This young man would be the fourth generation."
Lestrade felt ill. "I saw this lad in the alleyway as I hailed the cab at The Argentine. I looked right at him."
Watson nodded, eyes serious. "The Baker Street Irregulars are so effective because no one pays close attention to children and youths, they are like scenery until they say something or cause you to notice...deucedly clever."
Mycroft agreed. "This lad has the build of a trained gymnast, he could have climbed any obstacle, outrun nearly any pursuer, and I am betting he was a master of martial arts. Born into killing and well versed. He obviously was well versed at disguise and subterfuge as well. You would not expect an elderly man to be fast, a woman to be strong, or a youth to be a cold-hearted killer. He could have walked up upon any target, killed them in seconds and walked away in the line of sight of any constable."
Watson touched his newly stitched side. "If he had not been surprised by my training and reflexes, I would be dead now. I have never seen anyone move so fast and decisively. That one moment of hesitation, when I surprised him by turning and shooting him in the chest, was what saved me."
Mycroft looked thoughtful. "I believe there is an empty plot in Northumberland in need of a body. Enzo can do his magic on our mystery man here; I doubt he will stand up to intense scrutiny. So we will keep it to a minimum. Enzo will also do some work on your brother as well."
Mycroft turned to James. "I have some papers for you to sign, your ship to The Colony will be leaving its berth day after tomorrow, as agreed."
James smiled. "It is a pleasure to do business with a gentleman."
Mycroft shook his hand."I wish I could say the same."
--
Two days later...
James feigned distress at his brother's attitude. "Now is that any way to treat your long lost brother?"
Watson's fist shot out and caught James on the chin. Two members of the Diogenes Club who were attending him caught him as he fell. James looked stunned.
"The only brother I have ever known died three years ago. If he should choose to return from the grave, him I would welcome," Watson spat.
He leaned close to his bewildered brother. "Lest you think I am being petty. There was a little girl you insulted to get my attention two days ago, her name was Polly, that blow was for her."
He nodded to the two men; they led a dazed James off.
Lestrade was upset. "You've been preventing me from taking such an action for the last three days. That was hypocritical," he jibed.
Watson shrugged. "If it will soothe your anger, I believe I popped a stitch."
"I feel somewhat mollified," Lestrade remarked. "I do however feel cheated on your behalf that your brother is getting away with no punishment, yet again."
Watson gave Lestrade that lopsided grin. "Tell him Mycroft."
Mycroft Holmes stepped out of the shadows. "The Colony, is not a resort, as you suppose," he remarked candidly, 'it is a penal colony run by the Diogenes Club, who own the island. It has no extradition or human rights restrictions."
Lestrade gaped at the two men, who were smiling like Cheshire cats.
"You two have some explaining to do."
Story Notes:
First the Promise is made:
Then here comes the Turn:
Soak up the Prestige!
Taaa Daaaa!
What! Did you think that I was going to let James live happily ever after? LOL! Sometimes I LOVE being the author! By the way did you notice when Rollins was talking to Lestrade and James in disquise I never called him Doctor? Of course you did, you guys are geniuses after all! Or you would be over reading Twilight stories...don't hurt me.
(4) Yet another manip for you to enjoy. Man! I spoil you lot!
Bart