Dr. John Watson since meeting Sherlock Holmes had lost count how often he had been taken aback by an event, whether it be in shock or fright or fight or, at times, flight. This, however, this left him perturbed and quite undone emotionally. If it weren't for his desperate grasp on the rational side of his mind calming him to the fact there had to be more than he was seeing, he would have been of the mind to leave Holmes' company for good.
He was trudging up the stairs now, as if weighted down by sacks of mud tied to his calves, having left the body of Elizabeth Lestrade1 under sheet in her room after a cursory examination. His findings left him with a new understanding to why his mercurial friend indulged in shooting holes in the wall- indeed, he feared could do with a bit of shooting something himself. Indignity blossomed within his veins upon reaching the door of the sitting room, and he swept up a vase set on a table just between doors, tossing the flowers out.
Holmes found his –as Watson felt like defining it then- sulking crashing down around him in a wet slap of water upon his face. When realizing he would have to speak, the good doctor had to contend with being too angry to blurt out more than what he did; at least the intelligible part for admittedly some of it was sheer noise.
"Pregnant! God damn you, you insufferable man, she was with child!" the vase flailing along helplessly with every grandiose gesture of his hand.
It was a pleasure to watch true horror overtake Holmes' face, just as it was painful to not physically accost the man when he whispered, "I swear to you, Watson, I did not know."
He started to pace. "By God, Holmes, I have never had reason to call you foolish, but this, this..."
Regaining some of his colouring, Sherlock wiped the water off his face, and snapped off in a venomous voice barely above the last. "I never touched her."
"Bollocks," came the deadpanned reply, "you, you," good Lord, he was stuttering. Watson paused to inhale deeply. "You played that woman like your damnable violin. I could see it, Mrs. Hudson could see it; even clients could see it! This will get you nowhere with me!"
"Damn it, Watson, I thought you had more faith in me than that!" Droplets of water hitting the floor, chair, and both men's shoes as the man stood.
An arctic chill seemed to resonate from John's eyes just then, in a narrow beam locking with eyes that might've better suited wolves. "What of her faith in you?" So close, he was so close to throwing all ingrained measures of decorum to the proverbial wind, but in the back of his mind he feared too greatly what more it would cost.
A sharp breath reached his ears, and for the first time in their seemingly solid roles, John Watson could see the lines of Holmes' mask cracking. He watched him blink once, then twice, before him the wilderness that had been in the detective's stony gaze vanished, and an alarming softness replaced it.
"It's all wrong, John, this is all wrong."
"The devil is the matter with you?"
Watson's countenance was awash with worry, and alarm. Holmes pursed his lips once, and gazed balefully at his companion.
"Regretfully, I cannot be counted as myself just now; I do not know, nor do I understand the happenings about us."
The doctor did two things then; he set the vase down, and fetched the brandy. "Regretfully, I think you have lost your mind," he said with a flop onto the couch and a fast downing of three fingers. "I believe I have lost my desire to speak."
Holmes sat beside him with his own glass in hand, startling Watson far more than his words did. Seeing the expression, Sherlock grimaced what under fairer circumstances might've been a passable flash of smile. "Indulge me this once and I shall attempt to tell you what I can."
Watson blinked. "Fine."
A pregnant pause hung in the air while Sherlock took a sip and sighed. "I regretfully assure you I am quite sane."
"The devil," John started quick as Sherlock's thin hand silenced him. "I beg of you, Watson."
Sherlock gave a grimacing quirk of his lips, hovering over his glass before pulling it away. "Haunted, Watson, we are being haunted and hunted by a devil."
"And I suppose this devil accounts for Miss Lestrade's condition?" Watson's voice catching with heated heartache.
"No. I cannot begin to guess how she came by that… fact. Do not speak on it! By God, you must believe me. It is imperative."
A wholly uncharacteristic laugh escaped from the doctor's mouth as he stood. "I will not. I refuse," he said, turning to face the man who with those words had gone sickly with pallor.
"It cannot be helped then. Will you listen still?" He said to the pitiful shaking of John's dusty brown head.
"To what gain?" He asked wearily.
"My mother's wedding ring was not the only one Miss Lestrade came upon. There are three rings. Two of which are engagement rings, exactly the same. Of which, the latter two belonged to a woman who died in childbirth."
A frown deepened the worried creases of Watson's brow. "I fail to see how this relates."
Holmes ran his hands over his face, eyes reflecting thoughts of a thousand avenues. "A man is behind it all. I've seen him, albeit in a less than coherent state, which I believe to be a method of his torment. I believe he poisoned Elizabeth Lestrade, and I believe he means to end us as well."
"And how do you suppose all that from rings? Clearly the man is a grave robber, and I know of nothing on earth that can account for Miss Lestrade's passing."
"My mother's grave remains untouched. And 'nothing on earth' is precisely the point."
"No. No, Holmes. Men are devils enough, you've said so yourself countless times. Speaking in circles will not change that, nor will imagining devils where there are none save you."
For the first time in their long association, John Watson was treated to the passing sight of an unknown expression on the face of Sherlock Holmes: true hurt.
"The way she arrived here was not a fabrication, Watson," he said softly, watching the man don his hat and overcoat.
"I feel I must tell you that I intend to go to your brother, as I have not the power to do what needs to be done."
Not even the shrinking shadow of John behind the closing door reached Sherlock's eyes, for they had gone dark.
EXTRA: I originally wrote this as a character description, so you can see the possible beginning for whatever is haunting Holmes & Lestrade.
The Antagonist. Somewhere between the light of the night and the dark of the day. He sits in a plush high back chair, smoking a nondescript cigarette, a look of such though upon his face you might be led to believe he hold the answers to the universe in his unasked questions. He doesn't though. He doesn't roll his own smokes, and he isn't ethereal. He believes in God, but he's more likely to say "even demons do" than to quote scripture. It's such a thrill to touch people in the way he does, he won't to all, he isn't evil, but like any self admitted sociopath he has his favourites. His name? "I go by Graham," is his usual reply, if that much at all.