The Circular Room - Chapter Seven

xXx

*Holmes POV*

Many times before I have witnessed this scene but rarely as a hidden observer, watching from a safe distance as a photographer leaned in to bear witness to the scene laid out before him on the cold ground.

*flash*

The dark rivulets that flowed down Lestrade's face were half-suspended off of his chin, already drying. His hat had fallen off, his hair was matted with more crimson evidence and the photographer took another picture, just to be sure he'd missed nothing.

*flash*

I could rest assured this news would be disseminated that night. The death of an Inspector of Scotland Yard was perhaps the news of the decade; the fact that his murderer would never be caught will likely be the news of the century.

I had weighed my options, pro and con. I had gone over each and every scenario in the most excruciating detail. I had even prayed, without much faith in the result. In the end ...

This was the only logical choice.

xXx

*Watson's POV*

For an entire restless night, I paced my prison, my thoughts turning in circles like the walls that entrapped me. More than once I wondered if I'd go insane in there, waiting ... wondering if Holmes would perform another mercenary act on the whim of Moriarty, with some hope of extracting me from this hellhole alive.

Vain hope, for my denial of the professor's offer surely sealed my fate. Moriarty must have known this in his heart, if such a thing existed, there would be nothing that could ever change my mind. He had no reason to keep me alive, other than to taunt Holmes and how long could the amusement in that last?

Especially since he already suspected we had gained some, admittedly slight, advantage.

I tried to sit, found it impossible to keep still, so I rose and returned to pacing, my fingers skittering over my scalp with nervous strokes. Not knowing the day, the time ... it was maddening and I nearly jumped out of my skin when the breakfast tray arrived, its deliverer smirking at me from the far side of the room before exiting.

It was the usual tray, two inverted white plates with a tea cup and small pot and ...

A folded newspaper sitting on top.

My heart pounded wildly in my chest at the sight. Shaking, I edged toward the table and the newspaper, not wanting to look and knowing I had to. It fell open at the lightest touch and I saw the headline.

"Scotland Yard Inspector Murdered! Killer Still On the Loose!"

My God. It was Lestrade. A photograph of Lestrade's corpse covered the front page and the world around me went white. The paper dropped from my hand and I slid to the floor, trying to catch my faltering breath.

Did Moriarty truly inspire Holmes to indulge in such murderous depravity? Not only killing a man, but a compatriot ... a friend in cold blood for all the world to see? Could Holmes really do such a thing? Was it possible?

The answer came to me immediately.

No. I didn't believe it. I would not believe it.

Pushing my deep horror aside, I picked the paper up and examined the photograph as dispassionately as I could. It was certainly Lestrade, the man was unique in his looks and while the gore was quite impressive - supposedly it was a blow to the head that did him in - there was something not quite right about how it was splayed over his skin. It was thicker than blood should have been as well as shiny and not gritty, as it would be after exposure to air.

His eyes were squinted shut and another red flag raised itself in my mind. His mouth was also completely closed and I must say I'd never seen a corpse that had a mouth that wasn't just the slightest bit open. In fact, Lestrade's lips were pressed in a relaxed line and this more than anything told me that things were not quite what they seemed.

To an untrained eye, he looked dead enough. To man used to dealing with bodies, I felt confident this was a hoax. I don't think I ever spent as much time thanking God as I did in those wonderful moments of relief, knowing that Holmes hadn't sunk to a level from which there was no return.

But what of Moriarty? Would he be fooled? Perhaps, at first, but not for very long as the man had spies everywhere and one of them would surely alert him to the fact that the Inspector was alive and well. And once that had happened ...

It was at that moment I decided to try and make my escape, come hell or death. I couldn't stay another night there and if Holmes hadn't found me by now, then it was probable he wouldn't be able to do so in time. If I failed, at least Holmes would be free, which was comfort enough.

Determined, I placed a chair in the middle of the room and waited for the breakfast tray to be retrieved, as it usually was an hour or so after delivery. I focused my concentration all the indignities Holmes and I had suffered over the past many days, on how evil my captors were and how much I despised them.

By the time the two minions had entered the room, they was completely unprepared for my attack. One was taken out with the chair and on the other I used the only weapon I had available ... my pencil, which I plunged into his neck without hesitation, piercing his windpipe and so both were disabled.

It was a fortuitous start, but in vain, as they had not been alone in their entrance. Moriarty had come in from another door - no doubt to taunt me with Holmes fall - and I was quickly subdued by his other men, who looked shocked at my sudden rebellion.

Moriarty didn't look quite as surprised. Slowly, he bent over his stricken henchman and without so much as a blink, pulled the pencil from the writhing man's throat. He stared at it, his eyes filled with rage. "So. Tell me, Doctor Watson. Where is the notebook that goes with this instrument?"

"Where do you think it is?" I laughed, just a bit hysterically. "Don't you know the saying, Professor? About a certain item being mightier than the sword?"

The pencil snapped between his fingers. His face relaxed into an unreadable mask and I knew I was not long for this world. "It's a shame. You could have been a great man, you know. Instead, you are destined to be nothing more than a mere shadow that once crawled beneath the bright light of Sherlock Holmes."

I drew myself up proudly. "I can only hope that is the case. It is my honor and pleasure to be so, no matter what you've tried to turn him into," I replied, shaking off the grip of my captors. "Now, prove yourself a man and end this."

A lazy smile curved Moriarty's mouth. "As you wish. Good-bye, Doctor Watson. I've learned about as much from you as I can."

I could have replied that I'd learned as much about him as he was worth. Moriarty was nothing more than a cruel monster who, in spite of everything, had still been foiled by Holmes and myself, working together. Perhaps it was a Pyrrhic victory, but for me at that moment, it was enough and I merely turned my back toward him, happy to never see his awful face again.

Once they'd left the room for what I felt confidently was the last time, I lay down on the bed and waited patiently for whatever ending he had devised for me, likely since the day I'd been brought there.

I closed my eyes and thought about the home I'd never see again, about Mrs. Hudson and Gladstone ... about Holmes. He will survive this, I told myself, somewhat unconvincingly. He is stronger than anyone else and I wondered vaguely if he'd read my last messages to him, tucked into the back of my final written work.

Through the high vents, tiny wisps of foul air - the unmistakable scent of a fire - started to seep into the room. I sniffed at the bitter smell, wondering for a moment if I were to die of smoke inhalation or being burnt alive. Either way, this was to be over soon enough. Resigned, I pushed all unhappy thoughts from my mind.

Instead, I thought about Holmes and smiled in spite of it all.

xXx

*Holmes POV*

"Have you found it yet?"

"Patience, my friend." I replied, skimming over my map of London. "We are down to two choices."

"You could have told me what was going on before it came to this," Lestrade grumbled, wiping smudged red streaks from his face. An ingenious concoction of my own, so close to blood in color and texture it was nearly indistinguishable, at least until tasted. "What the devil is in this stuff anyway? It's horribly sticky."

"Sweet syrup and red coloring. You can lick it off if you're hungry," I informed him, ignoring his grimace of distaste. "And you were not told because there was nothing you could have done except amuse Moriarty more than he already is and put Watson in greater danger, if that were possible."

"And now?" Lestrade gave up scrubbing at his cheeks and stared at me intently. "Do you think we'll be able find him? And if you don't mind me bringing up another little matter, how are we going to break the news that I'm not dead after all?"

"One, yes, we will be able to find him and secondly, I can't imagine that your clever return from the dead in pursuit of a master criminal will do anything but enhance your admittedly meagre reputation."

Lestrade frowned deeply. "Dr. Watson's lucky I like him."

"Indeed," I murmured, not really listening. Something was catching my attention; a large, recently abandoned building nestled in a less congested area of lower London. Close to a trade school that employed a book seller, one that turned out excellent building craftsmen, a mere half-league from one of Her Majesty's largest contractors ....

My breath caught. I jammed my finger to a point on the map. "Here. It's here."

Peering at the street name, Lestrade looked skeptical. "I hope you're right. Once we arrive, the jig is up. If we're wrong Moriarty will find out and ..." Wincing, he didn't finish the sentence.

"Moriarty will be running for his life in exactly ten minutes," I predicted briskly, grabbing Gladstone's lead from its customary spot on the wall. "Come here, boy," I commanded the bulldog, who immediately obeyed. "How would you like to help me find Watson?"

He barked and wagged his stump of a tail.

"Off we go then," I said, hooking the lead to his collar and motioning for Lestrade to follow. In front of the house were lined up over two dozen officers, an army of faces rigid with determination.

It seemed I wasn't the only one fond of Watson.

They followed me wordlessly, piling into the standing vehicles, waiting for my order. Pulling Gladstone in after me, I instructed the driver where to go and we took off, hurtling toward Watson's place of concealment, like an arrow from a bow.

An arrow, that hopefully, might also find its way burrowed into a certain professor's heart.

xXx

continued on Chapter Eight

Hee. I was a bad girl, yes. Glad you enjoyed the twist and kudos for guessing what Holmes would do. Thanks so much for your fabulous reviews, I love reading them, so feel free to drop me another. :D