Chapter 5

Mrs. Hudson was dusting around the staircase when Andrew and I arrived back at Baker Street.

Our arms linked, we walked through the door, Andrew patiently listening to me rant about injustices and conflicts of interest and the contemptible government having no respect for the people.

I received a sharp but gentle elbow in the side as Andrew looked up and saw the landlady. "I do thoroughly appreciate your stopping by to chat," he said, turning to face me and clasping both my hands in his. "But I really must be heading back. I'll see you tomorrow, I trust? I'll meet you where we agreed." He gave me a piercing look that betrayed that he meant we would meet at the institute again the following morning to resume our auditory surveillance of the inquest.

Then, without any warning whatsoever, he did something I had only dreamed of but never expected.

He leaned in. And he kissed me. It wasn't a long, sensuous kiss, only a peck on the lips that lasted a second or two, but it felt like an eternity. A magical, electrifying eternity that was over far too soon.

By the time I processed it, by the time it was over, Andrew was bowing to Mrs. Hudson and I and slipping out the door with all the grace of a light breeze.

My entire body was abuzz and tingling with the surprise of it, and I was caught up in a whirlwind of doubts of what was reality, until Mrs. Hudson brought me back to the present with a swift exhale and her soft, motherly words of advice.

"Don't let that one go, my dear." And then, "Are you wearing my clothes?"

"Yes," I heard myself say faintly, still half turned towards the door, frozen in place as one about to thaw with the first rays of spring sunshine. "I was worried that I would dirty mine."

I heard her gather up her duster and rags as she came up and laid a hand on my shoulder. "It really isn't often a worthy young girl finds a love like that on her first try. I mean it, don't let him go." She shuffled away down the hall towards the closet.

"I won't," I promised, a good thirty seconds too late.

Despite the romantic events that made my heart a fountain threatening to overflow, I could scarcely make eye contact with my flatmates when they returned home close to dinner time.

"Emily, I have discussed with Watson what you said to me last night," Holmes said suddenly, setting down his fork as we finished dinner.

I sat up straight with a jolt, looking at Holmes, then to my brother, then back. There was really only one matter I had confessed to Holmes last night.

John was eerily silent, even following the mention of his name. I slowly turned my head in his direction, Holmes' gaze following mine. His expression was once again vacant as he held his glass of brandy in an iron tight, white-knuckled vise.

"Watson?" Holmes prompted authoritatively, unable to keep a hint of concern out of his voice.

My brother started, seeming to be brought forth from the realms of his mind by his partner's voice. "Oh, yes," he said, furrowing his brow in confusion as he struggled to recall what exactly Holmes had said.

"Our discussion? About Emily?" Holmes prodded again, the worry for his friend bleeding into his steely eyes.

"Of course," John replied, his expression relaxing as he turned to me. "Given that I myself am from the family, I should never have assumed you would be any wiser. Watsons are never ones to leave matters alone. And I really must come to terms with the fact that you are not a child. Most well-to-do daughters are being married off at your age. It's senseless to think that I can shield the sister I never knew I had, especially with all you've been forcibly exposed to." He drew out the sentences, choosing his words carefully and clearly wishing himself into a world where circumstances more easily allowed him to take back his admittance.

Finally, the both of them were seeing some sense. It wasn't as though there was much that could shock and disturb me anymore. Except for this murder. But that was singular, everyone was attesting to the fact. I was sure I'd be over it soon enough.

"I thank you both for discussing this and each coming to this conclusion. For the past year that I have been here, I have wanted nothing more than to be able to explain to you what I want. I have been wronged. I have seen the injustice in the world and, young or female or whatever else, I am no different than you in that I want to correct it."

"You have, of course, shown excellent determination and resourcefulness," Holmes said, nodding, "taking matters into your own hands when you had no other choice. On separate occasions you have done so rashly, but that is only for lack of experience. We'll soon remedy that."

I looked around the table at my companions, trying to keep my dreams and feet on the ground as it sunk in what was happening. "So, no more staying confined to the rooms with Mrs. Hudson while you're off solving crime throughout Britain?" I hardly dared to believe it.

"Not as long as you don't continue to recklessly endanger yourself," John warned, wagging a finger sternly in my direction.

"But you can't have true justice without reckless endangerment, right?" I blurted. "That's why our government and law enforcement are so corrupt."

John opened his mouth as if to argue, but simply gaped and blinked, unable to come up with a contradiction. Holmes, seeing my brother's defeated expression and the smirk on my face, broke out into a loud laugh - one which I had not heard in months.

"Outwitted again, my good man," he chuckled, clapping John on the shoulder. The wrong one, evidently, for I saw him wince.

"Now that I'm fully initiated, if I may say so, where do we start? Might I be informed as to what happened at the inquest today?"

I, of course, already knew, but they didn't know that, and this was no time to tell them. There was also the matter of Baxter's questionable hush-up job, to which I wanted to gauge their reactions.

So John went to his desk and fetched a notebook, with which he must have been keeping track of the inquest, and read out loud the events. I could tell very well that he was fighting his instincts to stop reading every step of the way, but his expression did not change and his voice did not waver.

"Do we know anything else about the killer?" I asked instantly after John flipped the journal closed. "Other than that he was likely left-handed?"

"Left-handed. As if," snorted Holmes, shaking his head in disgust.

"Holmes, don't start, I already had to silence you from making an objection during Llewellyn's statement today."

I held up a hand against my brother, leaning forward in my chair with interest. "No, I'd like to know. Why do you presume this to be wrong?"

"I don't presume, I know," Holmes clarified, pushing back his chair and striding over in front of the mantel. "Watson, come play my victim for a moment."

My brother uttered a long suffering sigh before throwing down his napkin and complying.

His shoulders slumped, he stood directly in front of Holmes, his expression blank, as though he'd already been coerced into doing this several times.

"Llewellyn's post mortem indicated that the wounds were inflicted from left to right, and I concur. That much is obvious, even more so with a closer examination of the damaged tissue."

"The direction in which the blade pulled," I chimed in. "Of course, it's simple physics."

"Absolutely correct. Now the murderer could not have stood face to face with his victim during the incident without soiling himself to the extreme. Observe. Watson, turn," he hissed.

Now face to face with his demonstration, he took a hand and mimed cutting the throat. My brother stood still.

"Watson, what a terrible victim you are, at least try."

"Holmes, I am not falling on the floor again today!"

"Very well, now you know from the report that both the jugular veins and carotid arteries were completely severed. As the doctor will confirm, blood would have spattered everywhere - most of all on the perpetrator himself. Given the other mutilations in this case, we know that the killer isn't afraid to get his hands dirty. But given that he took the enormous risk of committing this crime in the street, it would have been too much for him to walk away soaked head to toe in his victim's blood. Thus it is clear that he stood behind her when he slit her throat. Are you following?"

"Certainly," I replied, nodding vigorously. "Go on."

John turned again, his back to Holmes once again, looking as though he could not wait until this was over.

"Now to the improbability of the man in question being left-handed - or the opposite thereof. If I am slitting Watson's throat, so deeply, assuredly, and violently, this would happen."

He made the same motion across my brother's throat, but his left hand was bent at an alarming angle to allow it, and I saw immediately how this proposition was doubtful at best.

"As you see, it is preposterous for such a vicious wound to have been inflicted at such an angle, even if it was indeed the culprit's dominant hand. Thus we know that it must have occurred as follows."

With his right hand now, he deftly swiped from left to right, and it all made perfect sense.

"Why have they not listened to your logic then?" I asked as John gratefully scurried back to his seat.

Holmes scoffed. "Naturally because Lestrade was the only reason I was privileged enough to examine the scene. The general opinion is that my name carries far more weight than it actually does. Llewellyn rather despises me ever since I had the presence of mind to point out a few months ago that he truly should stop drinking the preservatives that line his mortuary shelves. And the constables, especially in H division? They are of the opinion that I am a glorified intellectual and aristocrat."

"Well do we know anything else? Other than that the murderer was very much right-handed?" I prodded, sensing the growing heat in Holmes' temper.

"We know how incredibly low class he is," muttered John, with a hint of sarcasm in his voice that I'd never heard before.

Holmes snorted. "Yes, of course! How dare I leave out that detail."

"Excuse me?" I inquired, raising an eyebrow and feigning ignorance.

"Coroner Baxter is inanely convinced that our society would crumble if it was widely known that the only logical conclusion is that our killer has a great deal of breeding."

"Holmes, you know it's not inane!" my brother protested. "The anarchy of a lower class district against the middle and upper classes because of a crime like this is plausible, and even more so, likely. It's a legitimate risk."

"But not one that's worth replacing the truth with fraudulent information and feeding it to the press and public. It's upper class corruption at its finest!"

"So Baxter doesn't think the public should be informed of even the vaguest description of the killer because it might cause riots and clashing between classes?" I asked, wonder and disgust creeping into my voice with ease.

"He'd rather sacrifice whatever parts of London's worst that he must in order to save the more worthy from harm."

"Corruption's an old song," I said softly, rising from the table and pacing the length of the room, stopping in front of the window. "From the streets of ancient Rome to our own industrial London, so much has changed, and yet so little. The atmosphere is different, but the people...the people are the same, I fear."