A/N: This took so long because of school work. (here in the Philippines, school starts at June and ends in March) I got a bit drained with the stress, since 3rd year college students get a lot of subjects dumped on them, and my imagination a bit drained as well. Chapter 11 may be shorter than what I'm used to write, but then again every chapter has important details in it, so I hope you just read along and enjoy. Chapter 12 is already half-way in progress, I will upload it next week. I promise. :)
The Lady Insists
The doctor was R. A. Turnstone, a wealthy middle aged widower with no children who smoked German cigars, visited opium dens regularly and wears thick spectacles because of his very impaired vision.
So far that was all he could gather about the man through the items he had found in the snow. But what else he gathered from the items were more interesting details.
There were three receipts for various ointments that the doctor must have purchased for a patient. The receipts will eventually come to good use; he stashed them into a new dossier made especially for this case. But the letters were the ones that caught his special attention.
Holmes ordered them by how recently they were written. They were apparently handed from the sender to the doctor by associates since there were no dates and postage and coarse, thick typing paper was used, but by the distinct crumple and frayed edges of each he could tell which one had been with the doctor for the longest.
All were written in brief statements.
The first one read in a man's sprawling hand writing:
In need of your help.
Infected lesion, flesh rotting off.
Your field of expertise. Considerable wage.
We have relocated south.
Intriguing. Very intriguing he thought.
There was no signature, no watermarks and no clear directions that pointed to the sender's location; the last line did not provide much help. By the certain words used, the writer appears to be an educated man. By the lack of personal urgency, he concluded the patient to be a third person and judging by the short and direct letter, the sender knew the doctor very well, who most likely knew the place referred to or was accompanied there.
He placed the epistle close to his nose and took a long whiff. It had been kept in the man's portmanteau for very long, more than six months he figured by the age of the paper.
The second letter looked considerably younger than the first one:
We sacked the nurse. She's an idiot at dressing the wound and has been taken care of.
The hot weather does him no good, it has swollen in the heat; he wants you to look over it.
Come quick. Do not worry; generous recompense.
They killed the nurse. So the patient is a man, and the second letter was sent on the onset of heat which puts it in early summer and by the raggedness of the first, it would have been sent weeks before. Holmes wanted to figure out just how much these people meant by generous recompense and who the unfortunate woman was.
The third letter:
Heat becoming unbearable, old man becoming dreadful by the minute.
He wants to walk he said. Get him crutches.
He has arranged for you to stay here.
Do not object.
There was fear in the part of the writer. The writing, unlike the previous two, was shaky and the pen was pressed hard against the paper. The patient has a leg injury judging by the crutches. The 'dreadful' he understood to mean this must be a hot tempered or simply malevolent person.
The idea of the Londoner doctor opting to go home after every visit rather than lodge with his apparently wealthy patient paints a picture to Holmes. Turnstone obviously did not want to have anything to do with his patient whoever it was and stayed away in the safety of the city as much as possible. This sole correspondent knew Turnstone well enough yet had not the freedom the other had; the sender was tied to the patient's bedside. The warning in the last line meant that even if he objected there will be action to hunt him out.
Turnstone must be a very expert surgeon above his peers for someone so wealthy to pick him out of the many and to offer him huge wages and keep him in residence; Holmes was yet to hear of him. He was the weak link in this chain of correspondence, the weaker chain was the sender which the patient has probably figured out that's why he keeps the other close. If Holmes could locate Turnstone, he could weed out this weaker man.
It appeared so deceivingly easy.
He was right and he groaned inwardly for thinking ahead of the clues, for the fourth letter twisted everything into another scenario. This time, the letter was written on a thin white parchment that sold by a crown apiece.
The letter was written by a woman.
The little traitor is dead. He wanted to be noble for you and sent you away, and he died by gunshot.
I do hope this would not change our arrangement though, you are essential for his survival.
Do not run for we will find you. Stay where you are offered protection and are well taken care of.
You know where we are now.
Come back, or he would have died in vain and so will you.
The taunting demeanor of the words sent chills down Holmes' spine. The two men were more than just correspondents, by the way the other was told to have saved the doctor they were apparently brothers. This was the second death mentioned in four letters, if more was to come in the last three, Holmes expected it.
The second Turnstone was killed in midsummer, and with that a clearer path of investigation presented itself, Holmes now had an idea who the second Turnstone was. If he was correct then most likely Dr. Turnstone's patient was in town now. The very first letter had mentioned them relocating south, and the woman's letter suggested that they had moved again. If they had a target, they would have gone south again and if by south they mean this very town, then Holmes also now had an idea who the nurse was.
By now Sherlock Holmes is very convinced that all deaths are related to each other, all he had to find was the reason why and the strings that pulled them together.
And then who was this woman? For all that he knew, this was not Irene's writing, not that it saved her from being suspect…
A cock crowed outside on the Holmes' stables alerting the detective that he had once again forgotten about sleep. He cleared the evidence, separated the already examined letters and objects from the ones that he had not and set the dossier aside. He would continue letter reading tonight, but for today he had other plans.
It was the 7th of January and as much as he denied it, the Watson's two-week Christmas vacation had been over two days ago extended only by Barrington's fortunately timed invitation, and although the pull of the current case would make John Watson want to stay, there was still the issue of his wife and child wanting to resume their city lives.
He needed more time, and he needed Watson with him, and as much as he would scorn it, he need Mary too, there is always an advantage to have a housewife on your side.
Mary Watson woke up before sunrise to prepare herself and by the time she was done with her toilet, morning light would be sufficient for her to work in the kitchen to fix breakfast. Cook had the liberty of sleeping in a little later because Mary begged to handle the household during her stay.
As she entered the kitchen, an apparition startled her that she screamed and fell into a heap on the floor. When her head cleared she found Sherlock Holmes standing over her with a glass of cold water in his hand and a devil-may-care look on his face.
"Mr. Holmes? Wh-what are you doing here?" he pulled her up, gave her the water to drink and resumed what he had been doing that scared the life out of her;
Flipping pancakes on a skillet.
"I don't know Mrs. Watson, what does it look like I'm doing?" he said blandly and flipped the last pancake of a batch onto an already stacked plate. He sliced a pat of butter and placed an adequate square of it on the hot breakfast and served the plate in front of Mary on the counter.
"Bon Appétit, Madame." He said and with a flourish, poured syrup on the stack.
Mary stood there for a while with the food in front of her, lips parted and eyes wide looking very astounded.
"…I-I swear, whatever it is Mr. Holmes, I did not do it!" she said beseechingly with a hand to her chest, looking very worried this time.
Holmes, who had started on a second batch, looked at her over his shoulder for a moment.
Then he burst out laughing.
He laughed so hard he shut his eyes to stop tears from falling and he clutched his sides and he laughed some more, pure genuine laughter that left Mary Watson bewildered and a bit scared. After a few moments that he did not stop laughing she decided to laugh along too, convinced that her anxiety over his kindness towards her was indeed a funny matter.
"Do calm yourself woman."
That shut her.
"Just because I present you with sustenance on a cold morning doesn't mean I accuse you of crime against me, where did you get that idea? Does it mean that when I prepare a luxuriant Boxing Day dinner for an entire household, they wronged me and I would eventually massacre them?" he said incredulously in between flips.
"Well you are capable of such…" she murmured to herself as she brought a forkful of breakfast to her mouth.
"Pardon?"
"These pancakes are wonderful! Mmm!"
They were, and as she ate, a rather comfortable silence passed between the two as Holmes joined her at the counter with his batch.
"Tell me Mary," he said.
She looked up at that, it was a rare occasion when the detective called her by her name without a trace of jest or malice, very rare for this was probably only the second time, times like these she had her guard up.
"Do you pine for the life of a governess much now that you are a mother?" he had a curious look on his face that told her he was serious about the question.
Mary Watson didn't know what to say, Sherlock Holmes always had trick questions up his sleeve and she was admittedly vulnerable to them.
"Well," she started clearing her empty plate, "I suppose it depends on what I miss about it. I do miss the teaching a lot, it was always wonderful to have students whom you can see grow beside you, but being a governess wasn't always about the teaching. It was also about child rearing, especially when the parents cannot do it by themselves. But since I already have my very own child, I could employ my teaching on her."
Holmes scoffed at that but hid it with a small cough.
"Elizabeth is quite younger than the children I've grown used to taking care of," she went on, "and younger children always require more work, then again if she grows older I wouldn't have to leave, would I?" she ended with a smile, then she cleared Holmes' plate and proceeded to wash.
"Yes, I see what you mean, but Lizzie is quite young for meticulous training. Although childrearing is a challenge don't you miss the delight in teaching adolescents the more complex academic systems, and what about manners? Etiquette?"
"Yes, they were quite enjoyable back in the day." She reminisced. "But that was then, I don't see myself tutoring other people's children now, or in the future whensoever's." She smiled as she washed the dishes.
"Hmmm, well that's too bad I guess, I'll just have to endure the friendship with a teenager who lacks propriety and manners. Imagine, riding out on horseback on a snowy day, without a chaperone mind you, with grown men! I rather doubt she even knows how to sew or embroider, preferring to play with farm animals than to read Shakespeare. Oh what has the young generation of ladies come to? I do wholly doubt that she has a governess looking after her"
While, he recited his gripe, Mary had turned to face him with a fixed expression on her face.
"May I know to whose daughter you are referring to?" she smiled stiffly.
"Oh, never mind, you've already stated your disinterest. Also, I wouldn't want your time with Lizzie to be cut short."
"Elizabeth wouldn't mind, she'll develop her independence without me; now tell me whose daughter you are talking about?"
"Really Mrs. Watson, I wouldn't want to be blamed if your child grows up detached-"
"I insist."
"The Barrington Triplets." He blurted.
The moment she heard the words, Mary's face fell ever so slightly. She turned away from him and started preparing breakfast for the rest of the house. "You mean the three young misses? Oh, that does seem quite unfortunate for them but I don't think I could…"
"You're thinking of not wanting to encounter Ms. Adler, aren't you?"
"What? Oh, no. Please don't bring that up. It's not that I don't like her; I just don't want her company. From all that I've heard-"
"Mary…"
"—I mean, never has a woman been so wild-"
"Mary—"
"—so thoughtless and—and promiscuous!"
"Mary!"
She slammed her hands on the counter. "Why are you yelling?"
"Because you're not listening!" Holmes had pushed himself up off his seat and leveled his face with hers. She looked somewhat ashamed for raising her voice; he calmed down and said in a softer voice, "Look, we're sorry."
"About what?"
"Your husband and I, we—we are sorry that we lied about Ms. Adler." He sat back down, if he were to talk a woman in unconsciously doing him a favor, it was no good to anger her. Mary didn't answer and resumed her cooking. "It was John's idea that we keep it from you to keep you safe. After all, you've never even met the woman and have only read of her in your husband's notes. I agreed with him and felt it was a charade we can keep up whenever she was around, but we didn't have to endure it long enough because of what had happened to her which we openly believed."
"You mean she did die?"
"Apparently not." It was hard trying to keep conversing with a person as dense as Mary Watson. "Now, she's back, and appears to be a changed woman. John agrees to that too."
"Then why didn't you tell me about it?"
"Because it was pointless and since Irene Adler is already 'dead' and Elizabeth Amour is alive." He stated, this conversation was getting too long even for him. "Not that we expected that to be unveiled at her engagement."
"Well, that does seem clear enough…"
"Then will you take the job?"
"I'm not really sure if I-"
"Will you apply for the spot of governess?"
He didn't have to wait too long.
"Yes."
"Mary? Mary dear?"
John Watson woke up without his wife beside him, she wasn't in Elizabeth's room, and she wasn't in the toilet, neither was she in the kitchen. It was odd, because normally she would be found there if not anywhere else in the house. Today was the day they would be going back to London; Mary had said so regardless of the case, and he had already packed their luggage.
"First she wouldn't talk to me, now she wouldn't show herself to me." He muttered under his breath and made his way to his colleague's study. "This is all Holmes' fault; if I didn't have to lie then Mary wouldn't be mad."
He came to Holmes' corridor and a few paces away from the door he bellowed in annoyance, hoping to wake him up if he was sleeping.
"Oy! Holmes! Have you—! "
The door opened and Mary came out smiling followed by Holmes, they were chatting animatedly.
"—seen my… wife." He stopped in front of them with an incredulous look on his face.
"Top of the morning to you, Watson!" Holmes greeted with a wide smile on his face.
"Good morning dear," Mary said still smiling, "I'm sorry I didn't wake you when I left, Mr. Holmes and I had business to discuss. Were you yelling?"
Watson answered neither of them but stared dumbly with mouth hanging open in confusion.
"Oh dear, you're dressed for travel, I completely forgot about today!"
"What do you mean you forgot?" Watson snapped. "I stayed up all night packing on your insistence, and now you tell me you forgot?"
Holmes said, waving a finger at him. "Watson, don't talk to your wife like that."
"Don't tell me how to talk to my wife! You…" he advanced towards Holmes, "this is all your doing! What did you tell her? What did you do to her?"
"Oh my, this happens when he doesn't get much sleep." She placed her hands on his shoulders, "John dear, calm down, Mr. Holmes has presented me with a wonderful prospect here in the country, he talked to me and convinced me about it and I have decided to postpone our return to London."
Watson's confused look got even more confused. "Until when? For how long? And what about Lizzie? What about London?"
"We'll know the outcome maybe later today, as for Lizzie; I believe her health won't be so weak if she grew up here even for just a year-"
"A year?"
"—but please! Let us talk about this later. I have to send the letter yet. I have already set food on the table and have eaten already; I'll go ahead, I must look for the stable boy and have this posted." She waved a freshly written letter in her hand, kissed him on the lips and sauntered off cheerily leaving Holmes with a confused Watson.
"What is all this about?" he touched his lips gingerly.
"I'm not so sure, I'll leave the talking to her, but now I must go back inside, work is calling me."
"No, you stay."
"Watson, I must."
"I insist."
"You and your wife talk strangely the same. Do you rehearse before sleep?" he tried to slip into the open door but Watson grabbed his collar.
"You know how the cold always gets to Gladstone's stomach?" He had a piercing look of satisfaction on his face. "Well I was going to take him to the menagerie today for medication but since I have seven large suitcases to unpack which would take up most of my morning I won't be able to do that."
"Oh, yes, I remember that. So unfortunate, now please release me, let me go-"
"But! Here you are, my dear, dear friend, who has nothing to do for the morning—"
"There is work waiting upstairs—"
"—and I am sure you would gladly take care of the situation for the meantime. Won't you?"
The doctor was considerably taller than Holmes even for a few inches, but by the way he looked down on the detective with wide and vengeful eyes.
It was hard to say no.
A/N: There it is. A considerably shorter chapter. Sorry guys, but I promise Chapter 12 will be longer- and better! I promiiise! Also, Irene will be there again. wehehehe. I changed my genre setting from Humor-Romance to Humor-Adventure since I realized that I won't really be writing a completely lovey dovey story. There is the case after all, but don't worry Sherlene fans, there will be those moments between them. After all, this fic is about the Hound chasing the Fox. Review please! 3 -Jacques Sparreaux
