Disclaimer: I do not own Holmes (would like to but don't) Doyle was an amazing writer!

Finally another edit! Thank you to my beta JA Lowell. She is a saint.

Please review.

X


Poison, Sisters and Closed Doors

The woman smiled slowly, watching the small glass phial glint in the light as she idly upended it. The contents tipped slowly, crimson gently graduating into alizarin. It enchanted her, this deadly liquid she held between her fingers. Enough to kill twenty men. More than enough to kill one woman.

"Mariah? Is that you?" A young, tousle-haired man pushed his way past the curtain behind the counter. The woman cast a long glance about the somewhat dubious chemists shop before turning to face the young man. He whistled appreciatively.

"You certainly scrubbed up nice." He smiled and settled himself down on a stool against the wall. "So m'lady," he said mockingly, "To what do I owe this honour?" The woman fixed him with a chilling stare before setting the phial down on the counter, the sharp clink of glass-on-glass the only indication that her emotions ran deeper than the icy exterior she presented.

"I have a problem Miller, and I do not like it," she whispered each word softly, emphasizing them to a point beyond comfort. Miller, however, seemed unmoved and snagged the vial from the counter, casually tossing it from hand to hand. Her eyes narrowed, and he stopped.

"You sure 'bout this Mariah?" he asked, glaring at the small glass through one eye, the other scrunched up, "Pretty powerful stuff."

"But untraceable," the woman smiled, "If I remember correctly."

Miller frowned. "Nothing is untraceable anymore, times move on." He sighed and attempted to flatten his hair, "It'll have to be mixed with something. Nothing clear though."

"Which is," the woman allowed a thin smirk to grace her lips, "Where you come in, my old friend." Miller raised an eyebrow.

"Well," he commented warily, "That's another matter altogether, you see. Did it never occur to you that I might find this sort of thing a bit, well, inconvenient? Or, rather, the consequences? Because, you see, I'm a reputable businessman these days and I can't just --"

A fistful of banknotes settled the issue.

"I'll see to it tomorrow afternoon then. Many thanks for your esteemed patronage." He slipped the phial into his pocket, humming contentedly beneath his breath as he surveyed the small pile of notes.

The woman smirked and turned to leave, careful not to knock the displays of medicines, tinctures, unguents, and powders that perched precariously upon narrow glass shelves along the small shop's walls. She smiled at the second, more useful line of products: acids, bases, minerals, and toxins that occupied less conspicuous positions. London was like that, she mused. You just had to know where to look.

She placed a dainty, gloved hand upon the doorknob, then paused, and turned back. "Miller," she called back over her shoulder. The shopkeeper looked up from his ledger book, perplexity writ across his features. She answered his unspoken question: "You are not to call me Mariah. Is that clear?"

"Crystal, marm," he said, tipping an imaginary hat at her.

"Don't spend it all at once." The tinkling bell above the door masked the authoritative clicking of her heels as she swept out of the shop.


Silence had fallen over the room in which Anna sat, her fingers still pressed against her lips, and a faint tinge in her cheeks as she recollected what had just happened. They had been so close, just for a second. Anna found herself smiling at the thought and quickly shook her head, groaning. Holmes had left her so abruptly, she had not even had chance to apologise.

He had not left the house. She was quite certain of it; there had been no slam of the door, no hurried footsteps down the stair. Anna stood, gingerly, and pulled her fingers from her lips, which thereafter became pursed with determination.

It had took Anna some time to cross the drawing room and emerge onto the landing, her legs protesting the entire distance. She paused where the corridor split, glancing at Mr Holmes' door. No noise came from in, no agitated violin sounding out. She leaned heavily against the wall, and contemplated the forbidding oak panels.


He had wanted to kiss her. Holmes tried to push the thought to the back of his mind, feeling a mounting pressure building inside of his head. He felt…confusion. Emotions and facts were twisting before him and fusing. Holmes sank his head into his hands and drew in a wracking breath. Collapsing onto his bed, he opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. That should not have happened. He was Sherlock Holmes, thinking machine, cold, calculating. Sherlock Holmes did not give in to base human instinct. It came at too high a price. Rolling over, he glanced at the door, realising he had made a clearly false excuse and not even continued the pretence by leaving. He groaned and loosened his tie with a pull at the knot.

His head hurt, two murders, he needed a drink.

Whiskey would be wonderful, a gold digging widow perhaps, the whiskey was all gone.

A pipe then, but what of the sister, no matches.

It called to him from the top drawer of the desk in the corner. That little bottle. It would clear his mind, let him breathe.

It seemed that the thought had no more than passed his mind, yet he held the bottle within his hand. He looked down at it, caressed it like a lover might, his index tracing the peeling label. He hated this need, this reliance. Reaching into the drawer with his other hand, he found a syringe and needle. Slowly, he punctured the seal and drew in the contents of the bottle, watching the glass syringe fill with liquid. He pulled the tie free from his neck and bound his arm with it. If this was his crutch, long may he stand upon it.

After a long moment, he tilted his head forwards from the wall and frowned. The slight movement made his head spin, and as his vision resolved, he felt a soothing calmness seeping through his limbs. The nerves at the tips of his fingers began to tingle, and the faint texture provided by the weave of the fabric beneath his palms was in sudden, sharp relief. The room seemed too bright, and he let his eyelids droop. He knew this effect, this augmentation of the senses. It was as if he had been blind, as if the world were less vibrant in the absence of the drug. He took a deep breath, savouring the acute awareness of his diaphragm contracting. He could smell the soap on the bed linen, the oil in the lamps and the faint trace of a lady's perfume. She was close.

"Anna." He murmured.

She couldn't have heard him, but she responded nonetheless, "Good night, Mr Holmes." He could hear her stiff movements as she passed down the opposite corridor to her own room. He fancied he could hear the taffeta of her dress rustling gently as it brushed through the doorway. The door clicked shut and all was quiet.


The following morning was something of an artic storm when Watson awoke to breakfast. Holmes sat smoking his pipe, a thunder cloud settled upon his brow and a pile of tobacco on the table before him. His face was pale and drawn, signifying a night filled with drug injections. His eyes were fixed on Anna, while she avoided his gaze by pretending an interest in the society pages of the previous day's papers. Neither noticed Watson's appearance. He coughed. No response. He cleared his throat loudly.

"Anna?" Nothing. Obviously, it was time to try something new. He sat down, and, with a nonchalant smile, offered a more interesting greeting. "Anna, your sister called yesterday for you, but as you were out, I offered my apologies, and suggested that you would return her visit today," He reached for the jam. The sound of the Times falling to the floor confirmed that he had Anna's attention at least. Twisting in his chair, slice of toast in hand, he smiled indulgently, "Is that agreeable to you?"

"My sister?" she asked in disbelief, "I have not seen Alice in over ten years!" Holmes stood at this and made his way over to the table where he poured a cup of tea. Placing a teaspoon with sugar on the saucer, he walked over to Anna and gently handed her the cup.

"She is most eager to see you," he said quietly, drawing away. Anna met his eyes and opened her mouth to speak but seemed to decide against it. Watson observed this exchange with mild curiosity and took a bite of his toast, chewing thoughtfully.

There was a knock at the door and the company all turned to look.

"Come," called Holmes returning to his pipe and paper. The door opened to reveal Mrs Hudson bearing a tray. Setting it on the table next to Watson, she handed him the post and returned his smile.

"Telegram for you Holmes, and a letter from your brother I believe," Watson said, flicking through the pile. He looked up, and noticed that the housekeeper had lingered. "Is there something the matter, Mrs Hudson?"

She took a step forward. "A young man called this morning to see Miss Latimer but I sent him away," she admitted calmly. Watson raised an eyebrow, and Mrs Hudson responded with just the slightest touch of prim venom: "It was only seven o'clock you see, sir."

Anna blushed scarlet. Holmes frowned and buried himself deeper in his paper. Mrs Hudson pulled from her pocket a small slip of paper. "He left a note." Anna took it and tucked it into the folds of her dress. The housekeeper pursed her lips and left, passing Watson with a shake of her head.

"Who is he?" the doctor asked politely of his house guest.

"Edward Croft, he was a friend of my brother's," Anna muttered quickly. The pause grew awkward, and Watson recalled that he'd not received an answer to his inquiry. "What about your sister?" Watson asked, laying down his own letter.

Anna looked hesitantly at him as she stood. "I will visit her this morning," she said after a moment, before leaving the room.

Holmes also stood to leave. "Telegram from Lestrade, he wants to see me," he said arching his back, satisfied only when he had heard the bones click.

Watson eyed him with suspicion. "Be sure to be back for lunch." Holmes ignored him and swept out of the door.


The man was leaning against the filing cabinet when Holmes arrived, cigarette in one hand, the other causally resting upon his right leg. He was tall, even more so than Holmes, with a sleek mane of dark hair that curled slightly around his ears. This man was handsome in all respects and it was with an air of calm superiority that he turned towards Holmes.

Holmes met his stare with a bemused smile before switching his gaze to a flustered Lestrade who stood nervously at the edge of the room.

"Mr Sherlock Holmes, may I present Lord Highcroft, Commissioner of the Scotland Yard and Director of the metropolitan police force," Lestrade indicated the man on the filing cabinet, "Your Lordship, Mr Sherlock Holmes."

Holmes inclined his head at Highcroft who nodded briskly in return. "I presume then that it was you, my lord who sent for me from Baker Street?" Holmes enquired politely, folding his hands behind his back. Highcroft exhaled a cloud of smoke, extinguishing the cigarette into an ash tray on top of the filing cabinet.

"Yes it was I. Please accept my most sincere apologies for insisting upon the early hour." Highcroft, who seemed anything but sincere, yawned lazily before sitting down on Lestrade's desk, crossing his ankles to prop himself up. "I'll be brief, as I was with your friend Doctor Watson. You are currently being employed by Miss Annalese Latimer. It will be in all our interests if your investigations into the matter in which you have been directed ceased to continue." Lord Highcroft sighed and rubbed the back of his neck, "Information you have unearthed will, as is expected of you, be bestowed upon us. Do you have any questions?"

Holmes smiled, smirking slightly more than he intended, as he inclined his head again. "Oh no, my Lord, I assure you, your instructions are quite clear. Though," he continued, "As to information, I'm afraid there was little to uncover. It would appear her claims are unfounded."

Highcroft shrugged. "Indeed. Well, as she is still wanted in connection to a murder, ensure that she does not leave London in the near future." He stood, and plucked his hat from the desk. Settling it firmly on his head, he shook Holmes' hand and acknowledged Lestrade, "Inspector, it was a pleasure, as always."

Upon the Commissioner's exit, Holmes gave the Inspector a glance that spoke more clearly than words.

Lestrade sank tiredly into his chair and let out an exasperated groan. "Oh don't look at me like that Holmes, you are self employed."


"Thank you for meeting with me again today. It was most kind of you," Edward Croft said playfully, his bright blue eyes twinkling merrily.

Anna brushed aside his teasing comment briskly. "Nonsense, you are the one doing me the kindness. My sister is a dragon, at least, she used to be," Anna murmured the last part, carefully keeping a slight distance between them.

Edward glanced down on her before looking ahead. "At what house did you say she was staying?" he asked as a distraction. Anna frowned and glanced down at the piece of paper in her hand where a large 61 was written, then at the street, before returning to the paper.

Edward covered a smile, and reached across the gap to turn the paper the right way up. "The houses in this street only go up to twenty," he commented wryly, looking ahead once more. Anna moaned, burying her face in her hands.

Edward laid a comforting hand on her shoulder. "You know," he remarked, "I have a brother, we look very similar. Same build, same hair, even same eyes." His own blue orbs twinkled brightly, "He works for someone in the government, something of a spy." Edward's face barely changed through this tale and Anna watched him intently as they continued on their way. "We do not always agree on things. I on his job -- I do not like his employer -- and he on the choices I make with my life."

He paused, and Anna quirked an eyebrow, silently imploring him to continue. After a moment, he did so. "We quarrelled and took different paths. Either way, we had gone a year or so without seeing each other when there he was standing in front of me, at the party where I met you. So we talked. And it helped."

Edward shrugged then laughed. "There! Take my pearls of wisdom and talk to your sister. Who knows when you'll next have the chance?"

Anna slid her arm through his, and smiled at him. "Thank you," she said quietly.

"Oh, any time," he replied dryly.


Holmes paid the cabby who brought him from Scotland Yard to Whitechapel, barely noticing the incorrect change, his attention focussed on the alley to his right. A street urchin winked at him, before turning tail, and dashing off down between the narrow walls, hurtling past two old women carrying their washing.

Holmes nodded to the two women, who cackled in delight at such a fine a gentleman and called after him as he followed the alley along. It was a different face of London that presented itself here: women, if of a comely face, displayed their "wares", if not, kept to shadows, and small children in tattered rags chased each other through the grime and the filth.

This he ignored, turning abruptly left where the alley spilt, and coming face to face with a formidable looking door. It barred the way past a large stone wall, but Holmes raised a fist and banged upon it heartily, the sound resonating against the walls. There was silence for a few moments before the door began to creak open.

"Do you 'ave to knock so bloody loud?" a female voice grumbled as the door was pulled open, barely wide enough for a man to step through. Holmes rolled his eyes and slid past the door. Waiting for him on the other side was a girl no more than eighteen, matted curls pulled into a knot at the back of her head, eyes dark from lack of sleep and displeasure at the sight of Holmes written across her face.

"This had better be good, Holmes," she muttered, yawning as she turned down the side alley that was barred to the rest of Whitechapel.

"As if it would be anything but, Hattie, my dear," Holmes called after her retreating form. She whipped round suddenly, arm outstretched with hand raised to place upon Holmes' lips.

"Shut it," she whispered fiercely, her Irish lilt catching on the words, "Do you want to wake the whole house?" Holmes smiled against her fingers, and took her hand gently in his own. Hattie Shenaid gripped his hand tightly for a minute before retracting hers. "Come on," she muttered hurriedly. Holmes followed her silently as she opened a door and pulled him inside. They had entered a kitchen, where a pot bubbled in the fire. At the table sat the urchin who had winked at Holmes, his mouth stuffed full with bread. Hattie walked up to him and pushed him off his stool.

"Get home Joe, ye Mam will be wanting the rest of that loaf," The boy nodded and took off out the door. Hattie smiled as the door closed, and then turned back to Holmes.

"Joe fetched me," she answered Holmes' questioning glance, "Now, Mr Holmes, this is a surprise." A grin graced her face as she poured herself a drink. Holmes assessed the young girl before him; her tall form seemed more angular than normal.

"You have not been eating," he pointed out.

She made a sound of annoyance, "Neither 'ave you," she retorted. "What do you want?"

"Help," Holmes replied throwing a large brown envelope on the table between them. Hattie glanced at it, before sitting down wearily at the end of the bench.

"I need to know who killed that man," he said calmly as she pulled the grainy prints from the envelope. She pulled a face at the pictures of Mr Talbot's corpse.

"Why'd you bother getting these developed?," she questioned, peering at the wound in the back of the corpse's head, "You should have just sent for me."

Holmes waved this aside. "His name was Arthur Talbot, a lawyer,"

Hattie looked up in surprise. "Posh bloke from New street?"

Holmes nodded.

"Now who'd want him dead?" Sitting back in her chair, Hattie bit one of her nails absently and yawned. "Well it weren't any of us, if that's what you are thinking" she said confidently, daring him to challenge her.

Holmes scowled, knowing she what she wanted, and sat down dejectedly at the table. "How do you know?" he asked reluctantly.

Hattie gave a slight, satisfied laugh. "Course I know the ins and outs of Whitechapel and all those who work for me and the boss, and none of em would do a job like that without permission," she leaned forward, "We aint just some frenzied organisation who kills on whim. These things are planned, with detail."

Holmes jumped up and began pacing the floor. His brow was furrowed in concentration and he kept snapping his fingers, trying to solve the problem. "Then who? If not Whitechapel, then who would?" he asked himself.

"Any heavy in London who aint loyal to his area would do it for a few bob, they're a penny a dozen," she stood slowly and placed a hand on the pacing man's arm. "If it's any help I'll check with Hackney, Townsend might know something." Hattie sighed and removed her hand, "You know Holmes, it probably aint even worth the bother."

"But you will check?" asked Holmes, gripping her hand. She nodded. He released her, and walked over to the door.

"It was nice to see you again," he said quietly, opening the door, surrounding himself in light.

Hattie waved him away. "Get out. I want to go back to bed."

He gave her a rare grin and stepped into the alley, carefully closing the door behind him.


"Please wait here, Miss," the butler said as he glided across the polished floor towards a door on their right. Anna was keenly aware of how alone she was, but took heart in the knowledge that Edward was waiting outside the door, no doubt smoking against a lamppost. She could run back to him whenever her courage failed her.

It had been many years since the two sisters had last met; Alice had been much older than Anna. She took a nervous step into what was most likely termed the hall, but was by far the largest she had ever seen. Clutching at her hat, she turned in a circle to take it all in. The shining door handles, the polished stair rails. Its grandeur was almost intimidating, yet somehow reassuring.

"Hallo Anna."

Anna spun round to face the stairs. her sister stood at the height of the stair, the very picture of casual elegance, one hand on her hip, the other carrying a thick, leather bound book.

Anna curtsied slowly, "Your Grace," she said, taking a hurried step back as the Duchess floated down the stairs.

"Anna, dear, Anna. We are still sisters, are we not?" The Duchess smiled and descended the last step, the blue silk of her dress rustling slightly as she did so.

"Please do follow me." she insisted, leading the way across the hall, to a pair of double doors. A footman appeared from the shadows and bowed, pulling open the doors.

"Thank you Peter," the Duchess swept into the room. Anna followed her timidly, her petite figure seeming even smaller in comparison to her surroundings.

The drawing room was modestly furnished: a small writing desk stood in one corner, and facing a pair of French windows were two settees, elegantly decorated with pale pink stripes. The Duchess made her way to one of these and sat down, her dress fanning out around her. Anna sat opposite her, removing her hat and gloves.

A bell was rung and tea sent for. All the while, the Duchess appraised her sister, her eyes taking in the pale face and thin body.

"You are not scared of me, are you?" she asked reassuringly, "I know I did not make the best of efforts when we were young but I would very much like to try now." She smiled at Anna, who returned it briefly. Alice tilted her head slightly to one side, "Something vexes you?"

Anna opened her mouth, and then closed it again.

"It's been ten years," she managed finally, avoiding her sister's eyes.

"I know. I have been in India," the Duchess's smile faltered, "My husband died a few weeks ago, so I brought the children home to England." Anna glanced at her sister who sat, not in mourning, but in fondest memory.

"I am sorry," Anna said softly. Alice looked up.

"Do not be. We had a wonderful life, you would have liked him very much," she paused, and looked off into the distance, as if viewing the past. After a moment, she refocused upon Anna, "But it is in the past now."

They spoke of many things. Who's, what's and where's. Of memories long forgotten and relationships never forged. It was with this they moved on to talk of their brother and father.

"He did not kill himself, Alice," Anna confided, "He would not."

Alice looked perplexed. "I wish I could be so sure, Anna dear, but I had not seen Thomas for quite some time. I do not believe I could say that I knew anything of his state of mind."

"Nonetheless, I am still having the circumstances investigated," Anna said, her voice calm and determined.

Her sister smiled. "Ah yes, Mr Holmes. He is a quite a character," Alice smiled.

Anna blushed, which did not go unnoticed by the elder woman. "A very handsome detective, is not he? And good at his job I hear!"

"Yes, he and Doctor Watson have been most helpful during the last few weeks," Anna admitted.

"But we can not have you living with them forever," Alice stated, "You will have to come with me." Anna's mouth fell open in surprise.

"Come live with you, in Scotland?" she asked in disbelief.

Alice smiled at her expression. "In Fief yes, we have a castle," she laughed, "By way of apologising, for not being here for you. It would mean so much to me, and you could meet your niece and nephew."

Anna tried to speak, but found she could not find the words to describe how she felt. Elation at the prospect of rediscovering her family and dismay at the very thought of leaving London, her friends and Watson. Her brother's death was still unsolved. There was so much.

"Alice," she whispered, "I cannot. I simply – I cannot leave."


Thank you to all reviewers.