Chapter Ten
Somewhere in the nameless back alleys of London's East End four bodies lay in various unnatural positions. A fifth was curled in upon himself weeping and begging even as a demon towered over him. It looked human. It even spoke like a human. But the man begging for mercy and pleading for his life knew better. The demon stared down at this pathetic creature with as much compassion as a human would give an ant. He could feel the burning hatred behind those glittering gray eyes as they bored into his soul.
"If you do not begin telling me what I want to know, I will show you that there are far worse things than death in this world," the voice behind that pale countenance spoke coldly.
"Please! Please! I'm telling you! It was Mikey!" the man sobbed helplessly as the creature wearing human features pulled him to his feet by the neck.
"You will tell me exactly what took place, and who was involved, and where I can find them. Now."
The inhumanly too-calm voice edged in razor shards of ice made him shudder. The man did not even have to glance at the bodies sprawled up and down this little section of alley to find the motivation to do exactly that. His own bruises from the recent fight forgotten, Holmes listened to every detail this wretched excuse for a man poured out in between pleas for mercy. The idea of trying to escape never crossed the man's mind as the hand on his throat left him only enough air to breathe and speak.
He told Holmes the story of how a well-dressed man had made the mistake of walking into the wrong section of town a little too late for his own good. And the gang that confronted him for this transgression had learned the hard way that he was not as easy of a target as he had seemed with his limp. After beating the man to death and leaving the stripped-down body in the alley they had taken their loot back to a decrepit old house they called home. There they had learned the identity of the dead man they had left behind and knew it wouldn't be long before his partner would come after them for revenge. The loot was too easily marked and traced back if they tried to sell it; so they had to dump it somewhere. Mikey even had the idea they should retrieve the body and dump it too. Maybe that way the Thames would swallow up the whole mess and Mr. Holmes would never know they had done it.
Holmes did not even realize his grip around the man's neck was tightening until the sickening gurgle led to the man's collapse. Even as he brought his attention back from the horrible images this story evoked, the body went limp in his grip and he slung it away from him to join the rest of the trash littering the alley. Now walking upright and straightening the beggar's costume he'd worn to gain access to the alley, Holmes took one last glance at the rest of the filth in the alley before calmly fading back into the darkness beyond.
~o~o~o~
For a mind as cunning and swift as Holmes', it was a matter of an hour to assess the situation and come up with a plan of attack. He ignored the chilly rain pouring down in sheets, but was thankful beyond words it continued as the hours rolled past. There were too many for him to take on alone, and he had no intention of getting the Yard involved in this little interrogation. Before midnight Holmes had acquired the necessary items and brought them back to the alley just beside the dilapidated old house. Shortly before two in the morning he was fairly certain that all members had retreated to the relatively dry haven within the house.
He waited another hour just to be sure.
Only minutes after three o'clock the house was littered with bodies. Every room on every floor right down to the basement had been infiltrated by a silent predator. Dressed in black, Holmes made his way through the house unhindered. An hour later he sat silently watching the first stirrings of nearly twenty ragged men as they began to regain consciousness. He smiled grimly as they began to struggle feebly against their bonds. As Mikey himself woke to find his ankles tied to his wrists up behind his back, he gave a roar of outrage. Taking that as his cue, Holmes emerged from the darkness of the shadows in which he'd been concealing himself.
Holmes smiled wickedly as several of them began thrashing in panic at the sight of a shadow taking solid form. That rictus on such an inhumanly pale face did nothing to dispel their terror.
"Good morning, gentlemen," Holmes spoke in a tightly controlled voice.
"It's him!" one voice called out in panic.
To this Holmes nodded. "As some of you may have recognized me, I shall introduce myself formally. I am Sherlock Holmes."
"We didn't know!"
"Shut up!" Mikey roared.
The room fell to absolute silence. Holmes fancied he could hear the pounding of their hearts along with the ragged breathing all around him.
"Thank you."
"We didn't do anything," Mikey shot back defiantly.
"Gentleman, I would like to bring your attention to the smell that I have no doubt is as potent to all of you as it is to my own more delicate senses."
Mikey's brow furrowed for a moment in confusion. Given the stench of unwashed bodies all around them, it was not really that surprising it took a moment to identify anything else. But as faces once more contorted into masks of terror, Holmes could not hold back yet another sadistic grin.
"Yes, I have very thoroughly drenched the entire house from basement to attic in lamp oil while you were napping. Now that I have your attention, there are a few questions I would like to have answered."
"We didn't know it was him! I swear! He was just some toff wondering around!" one of the voices cried in panic, struggling vainly against his bonds.
Seeing Mikey clamp his mouth shut and let the others hang themselves, Holmes slowly drew out a box of matches. "I am well aware of the circumstances regarding the disappearance of Doctor Watson. What I want to know is where is he now?"
"The ghouls-"
"Gone-"
"We didn't-"
"I wasn't—"
"I didn't—"
"-know!"
Holmes' mind easily filtered out the relevant cries and information from the multitude that had started babbling in the hopes of saving their own lives.
"Enough!"
The whiplash sound of Holmes' voice effectively silenced everyone in the room instantly. "So, it is my understanding that you accosted him in the alley. He fired a shot, winging one of you in the arm. In retaliation you beat him to death? That was three nights ago. And not a one of you knows where he is, or what became of him?"
"What's it matter? He's dead!" Mikey finally found the courage to speak again. "Go call the peelers."
Holmes frowned darkly as he pretended to consider this as a possibility. Every eye was on him, as he well knew, as he glanced down once more at the matches still held in his hand. His gray eyes lighting up with unholy glee he smiled once more. Blood began to flow as the numerous bodies thrashed wildly against their bonds.
"No, I don't believe I will. You have, afterall, committed numerous crimes as a whole. And, as you said, Doctor Watson is dead. For that you will answer, now."
Holmes very carefully and slowly removed a match from the box.
"I hope you gentlemen will understand that I cannot stay to enjoy the fruits of my labor. Thank you for your hospitality. Good morning to you."
With that, Holmes lit a match on the door frame as he closed the door. He knew he would remember those screams fondly for the rest of his life.
~o~o~o~
As the first light of day broke the horizon, Holmes staggered to the settee in the sitting room. Still reeking of chemicals, he could not find the energy to change out of his filthy clothes. He all but collapsed as the cravings and exhaustion hit him almost simultaneously. Hearing Mrs. Hudson's moving around only moments after closing the front door behind him, he knew he didn't have much time before she would be bringing up coffee and breakfast. Cursing his weakness, he grabbed his Moroccan case and disappeared into his bedroom.
Holmes emerged several minutes later to open the sitting room door for Mrs. Hudson with much steadier hands. She said nothing, but Holmes could see the countless lines of care about her face and noted the slightest tremor to her hands as she laid out the table for breakfast. Not for the first time since he'd moved into these rooms here on Baker Street was Holmes struck by how much she reminded him of his mother. Her quiet dignity and often overlooked grace in even the most absurd situations made him again wonder about all the things he didn't know about this dear woman.
"I will find him, Mrs. Hudson."
She hesitated only a moment in placing the last plate upon the table as she smiled softly to herself. Turning soft brown eyes on her tenant, she said, "I've never doubted it. But you will at least eat and get some rest before you do."
This time Holmes' smile was genuinely fond. "Of course."
Before Mrs. Hudson could say anything else, the ringing of the front door bell caught their attention. Holmes' chuckle elicited only a curiously raised eyebrow from the woman.
"That will be Lestrade. If you would be so kind as to fetch another cup, I will get the door."
The frantic ringing swiftly turned into furious pounding. Holmes only barely managed to refrain from smiling mockingly as he greeted the inspector.
"Good morning, Lestrade. Would you care for some breakfast? I imagine you were a little too busy for such this morning."
"You know full well-"
Holmes cut him off with a hand gesture as he turned toward the stairs and sitting room. "Please, calm yourself, Inspector. Let us have coffee and breakfast while we discuss matters."
Flopping almost bonelessly into the chair opposite Holmes at the little table, Lestrade buried his face in his hands propping his elbows on the table. Holmes caught enough of what the man muttered into his hands to raise an amused eyebrow. He would have to remember some of those for later. Otherwise pretending nothing out of the ordinary had occurred, he placed a cup of coffee before the inspector. He kept his peace until the man had taken at least one sip and steadied his shaking hands.
"As you have not brought any constables, I'm given to understand you are not here to arrest me for assault. So, what seems to be the trouble, inspector?"
Lestrade nearly choked on his coffee. Briefly he entertained the idea of his hands around Holmes' throat. "Those 'gifts' as you so termed them in your note, all came in quite happily seeking protection from you!"
Holmes could not help the same wickedly sadistic smile that crossed his face at hearing a distant echo of those screams as he walked away. "And, I take it all of the men in the alley were able to clearly identify me as well?"
Lestrade snorted. "Not all. Some of them were a little addled after those lumps you left on their heads. But it didn't take long to figure out the demon the man was screaming about matched your description. Once we could get him to talk at all."
Holmes chuckled openly at that memory.
Lestrade dry scrubbed his face as if to wipe away some of the exhaustion. "I find myself once again thanking Providence you are on our side. At this rate, you could clean up all of London in a year and put me out of a job!"
Holmes' bark of laughter did nothing to soothe the ruffled man.
"So what now?"
Holmes considered this question for a moment sipping his coffee contentedly. "Now, you call of your search of the Thames and morgues. I will need any available men searching the hospitals, clinics, and doctors' offices capable of tending a severely beaten man."
Lestrade eyed the detective coldly once more. "What makes you so sure he's alive?"
Pushing aside the thought that he could almost feel his coffee cooling under that challenging, but icy, glare, Holmes said, "He has to be."
Lestrade continued glaring. "If he was beaten half as badly as they say, he was in no condition to move himself. They say he was dead when they left him."
"No," Holmes said flatly. "We are not discussing trained medical men. They could have been mistaken. I refuse to believe otherwise until I have proof. What I know is that he was likely beaten too badly to have moved himself, so someone must have helped him."
Growling in disgust, Lestrade pushed away from the table and paced toward the fireplace. Holmes waited patiently for the man to sort out his thoughts as he poured them both more coffee, breakfast forgotten. Finally Lestrade turned back to face him, every inch stiff with reluctance to voice the obvious.
"I don't want to believe it anymore than you do, Mr. Holmes. But what could possibly make you so certain that someone—in that area of all places!—would do more than strip him down to his skin and leave him there?"
Obviously Lestrade didn't know. Watson hadn't told him. He wondered how much he could tell the inspector before he was overstepping his rights even as a former friend to the man in question. He already felt damned in more ways than he could count in all of this. What was one more transgression? Heaving a sigh, Holmes gestured to the chair.
"Sit down, Lestrade."
Sensing something in Holmes' demeanor, Lestrade complied and reached for his cup of coffee while he waited for Holmes to gather his thoughts.
"When Watson took up rooms here at Baker Street he had approximately seven months left before his first review. After nearly eighteen months of recovering from the fragmented Jezail bullet injury to his shoulder, he was deemed incapable of returning to his career as a surgeon. He had lost a great deal of the dexterity needed in his left arm, though his hand had lost nothing. Initially he despaired of his career as a doctor. I introduced him to the Irregulars."
A sad smile flashed across Holmes face for only a moment, but it was enough Lestrade caught it. "And he immediately fell into tending their injuries."
Holmes nodded. "And then he tended to what family members were in need, and then their friends. In less time than it took me to build my clientele, he had made a name for himself amongst some of the poorest inhabitants of this city. Whenever there was illness or injury involving someone either too afraid or too poor to even consider a doctor, Watson's name was whispered.
"So, you see, there are many who walk the shadows of the East End that owe their lives or the lives of loved ones to Dr. Watson. It is quite possible that someone saw what happened that night. They were too afraid to stop Mikey and his little group of thugs, but removed him from the alley."
"They might even have taken him to their home," Lestrade added, understanding dawning across his features. "He might even be unconscious in one of those hovels..."
"Exactly," Holmes nodded. "So, it would benefit all the way around if the official forces were to make the more public inquiries while I tend to others."
Agreeing to this plan of action, Lestrade finished his coffee and quickly left. Holmes, knowing he desperately needed rest, refused to waste the daylight hours when he was most likely to find the kind souls that had helped his friend. Dressing the part, he quickly departed Baker Street back to the alleys of the East End.
A/N: I'm happily blaming Peaceful Defender for making my muses giggle evilly at the idea of Holmes giving Lestrade something. See what I mean by "scary thought"? You just never know with Holmes mischievous streak. lol