Mr. Holmes, Chapter Nine

Author's Note: FINALLY, I managed to pluck my thoughts from all of my textbooks and papers and put together another chapter! I sincerely apologize for the long wait—again, I hope you all don't kill me—and hope you enjoy this chapter!

My revere was cut short as the three of us left the destroyed dock behind us by the swarm of policemen that swept us off the scene…and placed us in a prison yard.

I tried to not panic as we were escorted through the doors, though I had John on my left and Holmes on my right. I had never been in a prison yard before—thankfully—and I couldn't say I was at ease walking through one now.

John and Holmes together discovered a small patch on a bench just big enough for the three of us, and we hurried towards it, sitting down before anyone else could lumber that direction. We sat down, John to my left and Holmes to my right.

I rediscovered my handkerchief, trying to not tie it around my hand as I looked around. "What are we going to do?" I wondered aloud. John didn't say anything, he was too engrossed in a notebook.

Holmes, however, after a moment of looking about our surroundings, gave a satisfied huff. "We should be quite all right here, Miss Watson," he said gently. "No sort of murderers here, I assure you."

It was just what I needed to hear, it seems, for my hands stopped shaking. "What about…what are all these people doing here, then?"

"Probably just your typical thieves and swindlers, nothing more." After a moment, Holmes gave me a small grin. "Trousers."

I blinked, slightly confused. "What about them?"

"Missus Hudson is a wonderful seamstress. If you catch her in the right mood and give her material, she could probably produce an excellent pair for you." I watched his quick eyes flicker between me and my brother, who was still reading. "Belt or suspenders. My treat once we get out of here."

I cut my own eyes between John and Holmes. "Suspenders."

"Excellent." His brown eyes went from mischievous to concerned as I used my handkerchief to cover up a yawn. "Tired?" he inquired.

"A little," I nodded, looking down at my tattered skirt and feeling the bits of dirt I had acquired falling down my torn stockings. "Its been…quite a day."

He nodded. "Indeed." He dusted off his shoulder, patting it invitingly. "Get some rest, Jane. Watson and I will keep a watchful eye."

"Thank you, Holmes," I mumbled, trying to hide my pink cheeks as I settled my head on his shoulder, closing my eyes. I vaguely registered him shifting slightly so we could both be comfortable, his familiar scent of tobacco and rosin filing my senses and lulling to sleep.

"One dead, Miss Watson. Only two to go. Then I shall find my falcon."

A sudden, soft breeze caused my eyes to open.

I slowly began to realize that it was morning, we were still in the prison yard, and somehow Holmes's head was resting on my shoulder, and he was dozing contently.

So much for your watchful eye, Holmes. I smiled to myself at the sight of his mussed hair, running my fingers through it in an attempt to make it somewhat neat again.

As I worked on a particularly stubborn knot, I heard a small sigh from the man. "Ah, Jane…"

I hesitated, glancing down to see that his eyes were still closed. "Yes, Holmes?" I asked, my fingers still in his hair.

"How you manage to remember everything…simply brilliant." I shook my head, continuing with my task. "And you've got…to play the flute….for me again."

"Of course."

"Because it…was…brilliant…just like you, Jane. You're brilliant…"

Finished with my task, I pulled out my handkerchief again, trying to cool off my red cheeks as, with a snort, Holmes awoke, rolling his head off of my shoulder to sit up.

Finally, for the first time in hours, John spoke. "I haven't slept all right. Not a wink." He stopped as Holmes stretched, his voice getting more and more cynical as he went on. "Why I ever believe that I would…get to have tea, with Mary's parents is beyond me, having been talked into going with you."

Holmes looked past me, watching my brother with mild concern. "We were set upon man, it was self defense."

"I've been reviewing my notes, of our exploits over the last seven months. Would you like to know my conclusion?" Without waiting for a reply, John answered. "I am psychologically disturbed."

I wrinkled my brow as Holmes cocked his head to the side. "How so?"

John snorted. "Why else would I be continually led into situations where you deliberately withhold your plans from me? Why else?"

"You never complained about my methods before."

"I'm not complaining."

"You're not? What do you call this?"

I sighed, leaning back as far as I could, letting John get full sight of the other man it was no use to try to calm them down when they started like this. "How…How am I complaining? I never complain. When do I ever complain about you practicing the violin at three in the morning? Or your mess, your general lack of hygiene? Or the fact that you, steal all my clothes?"

Holmes crinkled his nose. "We have a barter system," he stated with certainty.

John pushed on. "When do I complain about you setting fire to my room?"

"Our rooms."

"The rooms. When do I ever complain that you experiment on my dog?"

"Our dog!"

"On the…the dog!"

"It's our dog!"

The doctor locked eyes with the detective, his eyes like ice. "But when I do take issue, is when you put my sister in danger, and your campaign to sabotage my relationship with Mary."

I snapped my gaze at my brother. "I can handle myself, thank you, John. If something's too dangerous for me—"

"Look where we are, Jane! You shouldn't have ever gotten mixed up in this mess."

It was my turn to harden my eyes. "I was 'mixed up in this mess' when Blackwood laid eyes on me. It wasn't my choice."

Holmes's gaze wandered between the two of us as we huffed and looked away from each other before speaking again. "I understand."

"Do you?" John snapped.

"I do."

"I don't think you do." For a moment, I held my breath. What if Holmes really did—

"You're overly tired."

I bit my lip to hold back a sigh as John's shoulders sagged in defeat. "Yes."

"You're feeling a bit sensitive."

"I'm not sensitive."

"What you need is to rest." Holmes looked in the distance, towards the gate. "My brother, Mycroft, has a small estate near Chichester. Beautiful grounds. There's a falling. We could throw a lamb on the spit…"

John gawked at him for a moment. "We? Holmes, if I were to go to the country it would be with my future wife."

Holmes shrugged. "Well certainly, if we must—"

"No not you, Mary and I. You are not—"

"What? Invited?" Holmes looked shocked as my brother's frustration continued to build. "Why would I be not invited to my own brothers country home, Watson? Now you're not making any sense!"

"You're not human!" John snapped. I opened my mouth to silence the two, finally having enough, but another voice interrupted me.

"John Watson?"

John turned, looking at the guard. "Yes."

He swung the first gate wide. "Your bail has been posted." Looking past the gate, I saw a familiar figure clothed in all black, her red hair gleaming.

Mary.

Holmes helped me to my feet so we could follow my brother…only to find the gate slammed in our faces. "Just Mr. Watson," the guard explained, turning away as John took Mary's hand, vanishing from view.

A voice from behind us made Holmes and I look over our shoulders. "I hope you get bail by breakfast, because the boys are getting hungry."

Unable to stop myself, I piped up. "Holmes, who's the greatest chicken-killer in Shakespeare?"

The detective looked at me, puzzled as the large man who had threatened us listened in. "Who, Miss Watson?"

I tried to smile to settle my nerves. "Macbeth. Because he did a murder most foul."

Holmes cracked a smile as the other man roared with laughter, catching the attention of a few around him. "She's a clever one!" he howled, pointing at me. "Got anything for that, Mister…"

"Holmes. Sherlock Holmes. This is Miss Jane Watson." He took my hand and settled it into the crook of his arm, guiding me towards the growing knot of people. "Miss Watson, why should the number two hundred and eighty-eight never be mentioned in company?"

I shrugged. "I don't know."

He raised his voice for the general audience. "Because its two gross!"

More laughter filled the air as the majority of the members of the prison yard surrounded us and the bench we sat by, the larger man on the other side of me, Holmes still holding my arm. He reached out to shake our hands. "Big Joe, sir, madam. Please, continue!"

Holmes nodded, looking towards me. "My dear, doesn't it make you dizzy to waltz?"

I smirked, looking at our audience. "Yes, but one must get used to it, you know. Its the way of the whirled." More laughter filled our ears as I glanced back at the man beside me. "Why is a dog like a tree?"

Holmes grinned. "I don't know, my dear Miss Watson. Why?"

"Because they both lose their bark once they're dead!"

In the midst of the laughter and cheers, Holmes launched into another joke, one I didn't recognize at first. I strained, seeing a man beginning to push and shove from the back of the knot of people. Who could that be? I wondered.

As he broke through, Holmes turned to me. "To which the barman says—"

Ah! This one! "'May I push in your stool?'"

More laughter met us as the man—who I now recognized as Lestrade—pointed to the two of us. "Right. You two, you're out."

Holmes rose to his feet, helping me up before reaching to shake a hand. "Until next time, Big Joe."

Joe nodded, his hand firm. "Always a pleasure, Mr. Holmes. And your lady friend." He tipped his hat to me, which I answered with a small nod of my head.

As we began to walk away, the detective spoke in a low voice to the inspector. "Thank heaven you're here, Lestrade. I'd almost ran out of jokes."

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "You know, In another life, you'd have made an excellent criminal."

"Yes, sir, and you an excellent policemen." Holmes pointed to the guard that was seeing us out. "Tomsky! Thank you."

As we walked out, Lestrade turned to Holmes. "Now, please tell me you have answers."

The detective waved his hand dismissively. "All in good time, Lestrade."

"All in good time?" The inspector spat. "What is this, some parlour game where we have to guess what you're thinking?! I've got a public in frenzy out there, and if you don't fill me in, I'll have you in there playing Victoria and Albert quicker than a bookies' runner." After saying his piece, he handed Holmes a handkerchief. "Now, both of you, clean up and make yourself presentable."

"For whom?" Holmes and I asked, myself trying to rub sleep out of my eyes and the dirt off my face acquired from a night in the prison yard.

Lestrade took a deep breath. "Friends in high places. They're the ones who bailed you out."

I gave the detective beside me a questioning look, but he said nothing as we approached a black carriage, a footman in all black holding the door open for us. Holmes blew his nose into Lestrade's handkerchief, offering it back to him. When the inspector glared and walked away, Holmes turned to me, helping me into the carriage before following me in.

As the footman shut the door behind us, we met a butler sitting across from us. He had two things in his hands, and spoke gently. "I'm terribly sorry to inconvenience you, sir, madam, But I'm going to have to put this on you." Before I could ask what he meant, I saw a black hood was thrown over my head, plunging the already dim carriage into complete darkness I wasn't quite prepared for. I sucked in a breath, grabbing two fistfuls of my skirt as the carriage began to move.

I felt a searching hand touch one of my own. "Are you all right, Miss Watson?" Holmes asked softly.

I nodded, feeling the carriage turn, but I wasn't sure which direction. "This is so strange," I wondered aloud, swathed in a palpable darkness.

The hand that had found mine patted it gently, fingers gently curling around it and rubbing my knuckles in a soothing rhythm. "Just don't stray far, Jane. We'll be fine."

The next thing I knew, I felt the carriage slow to a stop, and heard the door open.

"This way," a gruff voice demanded as Holmes and I slowly stepped out of the carriage, still blinded.

Fingers fumbled as the hand that had taken mine laced our fingers together. "Lead the way, sir," Holmes stated, his tone even and confident. He kept his strides even, making sure I wasn't getting left behind.

After hearing a few doors open and close, I felt myself being placed into a chair, Holmes' hand leaving mine. With a quick jerk, the blindfolds were removed; I had to blink a few times to adjust to the lighting.

The room was well-decorated, but seemed a bit narrow, like an office. Judging by the desk covered with papers in the center of the room, I was correct in at least that. A man was sitting at the desk, with white hair and dark, deep eyes that struck me as familiar.

His voice was deep and rumbling as he spoke. "Mr. Holmes, Miss Watson, apologies for summoning you like this. I'm sure it's quite a mystery as to where you are and who I am?"

Holmes took a deep breath, launching into some statement. "As to where I am…I was admittedly lost for a moment, between Charing Cross and Holborn, but I was saved by the bread shop on Southford Hill." He glanced at me as if we were having a typical tea conversation. "The only baker to use the certain French glaze on their loaves, a Brittany sage." I nodded with a smile, letting him continue. "After that, the carriage fork left and right until a tell-tale bump at the Fleet conduit.

"And as to who you are? That took every ounce of my not inconsiderable experience. The letters on your desk were addressed to a Sir Thomas Rotheram, Lord Chief Justice—that would be the official title." Holmes leaned forward, studying the man closely as his voice lowered as the other man began to pale. "Who you really are is, of course, another matter entirely. Judging by the sacred ox on your ring, you're the secret head of the Temple of the Four Orders in who's headquarters we now sit. Located, Northwest corner of St. James square, I think. That's the mystery; the only mystery is to why you bothered to blindfold me and my companion at all." The corners of his lips had turned into a wry smile, his warm eyes flicking to me for a moment, then to a very baffled Rotheram, who was grappling for words.

"Yes... Well, standard procedure, I suppose," was all he could manage, his recent confidence shattered.

I turned as I heard a door opening; two men filed in, the first speaking with an American accent. "I dare say we have the right man, gentlemen."

Holmes rose along with Rotheram while I stayed seated, frozen at the sight of the second gentleman. I gathered that the American's name is Standish, but that was all I heard.

"May I have this dance, Miss?"

Lord Coward.

He stopped right by my chair, placing a hand on it as he spoke to Holmes. "I suppose you already have some notion as to the practices of our order."

The detective turned, walking towards the back of the room. "Yes. They are practically interesting." He stopped by the cold fireplace, studying it.

Please don't go far.

Rotheram's deep voice distracted me from Coward being so close. "Be as skeptical as you like, but our secret system have steered the world for the greater good for centuries. The danger is they can also be used for more…nefarious purposes."

"What some call the Dark Arts, or practical magic," Coward added.

Standish's drawl almost made me jump as I watched Rotheram's face, trying to place his eyes. "We know you don't believe in magic, Mr. Holmes. We don't expect you to share our faith, merely our fears."

Where have I seen those eyes before?

"Fear is the more infectious condition," Holmes answered.

Wait.

"In this instance…"

His black eyes were piercing, almost snakelike in his angled face, making it hard to look away.

"Fear of your own child," I gasped, looking at Rotheram, looking just as surprised as the other two men. "Blackwood is your son. He…He has your eyes."

Holmes's footsteps came nearer as he stopped behind my chair, gently touching my shoulders as he explained. "My companion has a remarkable memory. It's the same irises, a rare dark green, the diamond shaped hazel flex, together with identical outer ears, or pinner, which are only past down through direct blood line, which makes by necessity either brothers or in this case, more likely, father and son."

Rotheram's voice trembled as he tried to sound authoritative. "Very few people are privy to that information. And we'd want to keep it that way." He fixed his gaze on Holmes, which the detective returned until Rotheram began to walk around his chair, explaining his son. "He was conceived during one of our rituals. His mother wasn't my wife. But she shared our beliefs. She was a powerful practitioner, though not enough to survive giving birth to him." Holmes stepped away from my chair and walked to the window as Rotheram stepped away from his, going to a cabinet as he continued. "Death followed him wherever he went. Those five girls were not the first to be butchered."

"Those lives were a necessity. Sacrifice."

"He killed many more using them to enhance his powers. No one could prove anything of course, but we all knew. The boy was a curse. We've done our best to stop him ourselves, but its not enough." With that, Rotheram handed Holmes an old book with an ornate cover and yellow pages.

Coward's voice made me jump. "His power grows daily, his resurrection is evidence of that. But what he does next will be far more dangerous."

"His secret lies in the Book of Spells," Rotheram explained as Holmes thumbed through the book. "This is the source of his power. He's going to raise a force that will alter the very course of the world. I want you to find him and stop him before he does."

"We'll give you any assistance that we can. As Home Secretary, I have…considerable influence over the police," Coward offered.

"I know the Yard very well."

"Oh, yes," Holmes answered, engrossed in the book more than anything.

"So…name your price?"

Holmes sighed, glancing at Coward. "Well, of great benefit to being a consulting detective is that I can pick and choose my clients. Consider it done, I'll stop him." His gaze turned to me for a moment before returning to Rotheram, snapping the book shut. "But not for you. And certainly not for a price." Returning the book to his owner, he held out his hand to me. "Jane?" he asked, gently.

I took his hand without hesitation, bowing my head quickly at the other three men before settling my hand in Holmes's arm, letting him lead the way out. "I do have a parting query, Sir Thomas," the detective began, not looking back and not slowing down.

"What is that?" Rotheram inquired.

"If the rest of his family's dead…how long do you expect to survive?" Holmes glanced behind us for a moment before making his final comment. "Food for thought."