Disclaimer: I don't own "Sherlock Holmes" or any of its characters. That all belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Guy Ritchie, etc.
Inspired by: "The Secret's in the Telling" by Dashboard Confessional.
March 1st, 1894: 8:17 PM
Sherlock huffed as he briskly walked through the cold March night. Great puffs of vapor rose from his mouth, misting against the wintery sky. Relishing the walk over the carriage he'd jumped off of, his body drooped with exhaustion. Against his better judgment he'd taken on two contrasting cases again, and only now had he gathered enough evidence for analyzation at home. Hunching his shoulders, he frowned, thinking of how this caseload may prove to be a good distraction. His mind now shifting towards his homelife, he began to piece together the mystery of his wife's illness.
For a whole month, Madeline was sick, and poor Sherlock was ever the clueless husband (though of course he would never admit it). For the first few weeks, she seemed to be on the mend, and then the strangeness started to set in. He'd quickly discovered her pills were placebos; she had tried gallantly to hide them, but of course it had been no use. He had to concede that under the bath was a particularly good place to shelter the medication. Even so, the sugar pills were a clever ruse.
Which led him to his next bit of evidence: Watson had knowingly prescribed the medication, and willfully switched her to the fakes. Why would he do so? There was something John wasn't telling him, and more to the point, Madeline was trying to hide the truth. He did not, for one second, believe she could be fooled in such a way. Therefore, they were conspiring…but to what end?
Violent vomiting bouts in the morning, coupled with a hard craving for peaches (strange indeed, for Madeline had absolutely detested the fruit beforehand) in the middle of February, no less! She claimed the sickness made her body sensitive to touch, so their lovemaking had slowed to ease her pain. In fact, he theorized that was the reason behind his increasing workload; he had to work off the repressed tension of being unable to be with his own wife. It was very suspicious, and even with carrying two cases, he couldn't think as to why he didn't look more closely at the situation before.
Pivoting on his heel, he doubled back, flailing hard to catch the attention of the next oncoming cabbie. He was Sherlock Holmes; who knew better than he that if one wanted answers, why not go to one of the direct sources of information?
xXxXxXx
The pounding on the door at Cavendish alerted Victoria to two sudden truths: Mr. Holmes was here, and was incredibly anxious about something. He was the only man who would come at uncertain hours of the day, pounding at the door as if he was on fire and requiring assistance. The doctor, sadly enough, did not have many visitors, and his patients went instead to the office he had begun to rent out down the street, so it could only be the great detective at that moment. Unfortunately for her, the doctor was out attending one of his dying patients at the moment. Well, dying or chronically ill; she should've paid closer attention when he was drilling off his list to her that morning…
Her chief concern was that of little Willy. She had just got the boy into bed, rocking him to sleep gently, and all that work would be for nothing if he woke. As a nanny, she had found that as a rule one had to care deeply for their wards, or else be cast into madness, and so she did for William. But she treasured the moments when he dozed just as much!
Slowly she clambered down the hall, wondering why on Earth the housekeeper was not up and answering the door. Nonetheless, she smoothed down the skirt of her black dress, before turning the knob and adopting an authoritative stance.
"Good evening, Mr. Holmes," she spouted automatically, before really taking a good look at him. When she focused, her eyebrows shot up at the sight of the man. The purple shadows under his were deepening with each passing moment, his eyes darting about rapidly. His hair was mussed as usual, but a heavy yellow paste was flaking off his head. Clothing much patched and frayed hung on his frame, the disorder incredible. "Long night, sir?"
"Indeed, Miss Bayard," he murmured, straightening his backbone and attempting to maneuver into the house. A hand sharply held out preempted him from going any further, though. "May I come in, miss?"
"I am afraid the doctor is out, sir, attending patients as usual," Victoria announced, eyes flicking past him to the street beyond. She sincerely hoped the doctor would come home soon; the detective in his many disguises reminded her too much of the past, too much of what she'd given up…
"Do you know when he'll return? I must speak with him on a matter of utmost importance."
"About your wife, sir?" Inwardly she grimaced at her forwardness. After several years, she should've known better than invite intimacy with her employer…or his friends. She was just curious about this Madeline character. Having only met her the one time during her interview, she wondered about this singular woman who snared the world's most unattainable sleuth. Watson spoke minimally about her condition, what with his confidentiality with patients, but she had inferred something was wrong.
Luckily for her, Mr. Holmes was a man who did not care about such a silly thing as servant/master rules. Still, he made no real answer except to incline his head and furrow his brow. Since they were of a height, they spent a few minutes staring each other down before Victoria glanced away.
"I apologize, Mr. Holmes. I do not know when he'll be home, or even if he will be home at all before sunrise," she said, shrugging her shoulders. "In any case, shall I tell him you called?"
His dark eyes narrowed in annoyance, and he returned the gesture.
"Yes, you may. And please inform him that the matter is one that greatly affects me and mine."
She nodded, and thinking back on the little she heard Watson mutter under his breath, she managed to halt him on the third step down to the sidewalk.
"The doctor knows the malady is one she caught from you, Mr. Holmes, if that is any consolation."
Wide-eyed, he turned his blank face back in her direction for a long time, before he muttered something incoherent under his breath and lumbered off into the darkness. Blinking once, twice, three times, Victoria withdrew quietly into the house. A crazy idea was hatching in her brain, and with no sense of how or why she found herself stripping herself of her dress and digging deep into the secret lining of her trunk to don the trousers and shirt hidden inside. Calling out to Mrs. Roberts about stepping out for an hour or two, she flew away unseen and hailed a cab to take her 221B Baker Street.
Ten minutes later, she was deposited in front of the building, but she knew better than to go through the front door. Instead, she pressed herself into the alleyway and silently let herself in through the back. Treading the stairs in the low lamplight, she snuck into what she could only guess were the doctor's old rooms. The partition separating it from the Holmes side was drawn across, giving her the chance to find a hiding spot. A heavy wardrobe was situated next to the window, and as she closed herself in, the sleuth tramped heavily into the rooms and threw open the door.
"Madam, we must speak," he demanded, his voice carrying a sharp edge. Victoria breathed shallowly, not wanting to miss a word of this.
"Yes, Sherlock, we have much to talk about tonight," a feminine voice responded, a degree of nervousness bleeding through. This was a woman who had trouble hiding her feelings; the young nanny was grateful she had a higher capacity for duplicity.
A loud sigh bounced off the walls. "No mock compliance, wife, I am being entirely serious."
"As am I, husband." The female was becoming agitated. A long pause followed, before she spoke again. "I have been ill-"
"I've noticed. That is exactly what I need to ask you about." He became hard, unforgiving in that instant. A consummate detective, ready to drill his suspect for answers. "For a month you and the doctor have been tiptoeing around the truth. I know those medicine is false, and that you indeed are not getting any better. And through an anonymous source I find that Watson has claimed I am the one who gave you this disease!"
Victoria cringed at the fury shooting out of lady's voice. "Anonymous source? Are you spying on me now? We are married! You need not spy, only ask!"
"Would I have gotten the truth if I had?" Holmes snarled back. Another deadly silence went by. "I thought not. Pray tell, what disease did I spread to you?"
"It is no disease! It is something that every woman who is with a man will eventually catch!"
"What?" The detective seemed to be struck dumb in that instant. He had obviously figured it out with the words remaining unspoken, but his wife would not be deterred.
"I'm having a baby. We're having a baby, Sherlock."
In her dark cupboard, Victoria felt her heart swell with happiness for the couple, but given what she knew about the detective's prickly, unfatherly nature, what would his reaction be? And so she waited once more, cramped and uncomfortable for the answer.
Nothing.
Nothing.
No-
A whisper, hardly intelligible. "That's wonderful."
The lady herself had a sharp intake of breath. "What did you say?"
"Well, it's certainly a surprise, and one that frankly I should've expected. As I am still wading through the unfamiliar territory of female methodology, I am not wholly shocked to not see the reality in you previously. Now that I know, it is incredibly obvious," he remarked, excusing himself from his first speech. Three heavy footsteps indicated somebody crossing—her or him?—and Madeline cut in.
"You said, 'That's wonderful'. I know you did."
"Perhaps, in the moment-" he tried to deflect.
Victoria could almost see the wagging finger in Holmes face. "No, no, I know what you said. So…this is not an entirely unpleasant thing for you to know, dearest?"
Another sigh. "I was more concerned that something far worse was happening to you."
She was almost giddy now. "Because you love me?"
"Mrs. Holmes…"
Now it was all too quiet, except for sounds of rustling clothing and the gasps of the lady in question.
'Time to go,' Victoria thought, crawling out of the wardrobe and across the floor. She was too old to find the situation blush-worthy, but she had no wish to overhear that sort of private moment. A creaking step betrayed her presence though, and cursing under her breath, the sleuth heard her movements.
"Who is out there?"
A heavy groan. "Oh, for God's sake, ignore it for once, Sherlock!"
"Madeline!"
Looping her leg over the side, the nanny slid smoothly down the banister, going out the back once more, her curiosity sated. Once she knew that she was absolutely free and three blocks away, she hailed a hansom and rode home, chewing over her food for thought.
John was standing on the doorstep when her carriage pulled up. As she descended, his sky-blue eyes went wide in shock. The look of confusion on her employer's face was completely hilarious, but she kept her giggles down.
"Miss Bayard, what in the world…how…what have you been up to?" he gasped, his gaze scanning her manly attire and broad smile.
"I wager you'll find out tomorrow, Dr. Watson," she responded cryptically, dropping a curtsy with her nonexistent skirt. "Good night, sir."
"Good night."
Watching her sashay towards her room, the doctor found his demeanor softening and his lips stretching into a smile to match hers.
"Miss Bayard…what am I going to do with you?"
Author's note: I decided to make Madeline pregnant. So soon enough, little Holmes feet are going to be pattering across the floorboards of 221B…and Holmes may be tearing out his own hair over keeping an eye on his progeny. Hahaha…
Alright, here's the dealio- I may not be able to update for two and a half weeks. I have tech weekend coming up for the show I'm in, plus actual performance weekends as well. For sure, the next chapter will be late, I'm just not sure how late. Sorry!
I hope you liked this update, please review, and I'll try to get back as soon as possible!