A/N: Okay, so I've busted 100k on this thing and it is still going! But, I'm still piecing together the chapters and weaving everything into a coherent story after the NaNoWriMo writing frenzy. So, this will likely be slow going. If I'm lucky, and RL doesn't take me away from here too long. I should be able to continue putting out a chapter a week. Yes, they are longer, and I'm trying to be accurate with details.
Of course, any feedback is welcome. Thank you again for all your patience.
Thursday's Child
Part One
Holmes managed to catch up to the inspector only a few blocks away. The man was quickly heading back toward a main street where he was more likely to find a cab. Lestrade hesitated when he realized he was being followed, but said nothing as he hailed the first unoccupied cab he found. Holmes paused long enough to verify for himself that it wasn't Richardson before following the inspector into the cab. Neither said a word as they headed back toward Lestrade's neighborhood. Though Holmes was glad it had not been Watson in that basement, the less rational part of his mind was still greatly disturbed that Lestrade had had to find his own son-in-law, instead.
He knew the inspector would not appreciate the empty condolences. And both of them knew they would be empty, as Holmes was unspeakably grateful it had not been Watson's body in that basement. Given Lestrade's friendship of recent years with the doctor, it was very likely he felt similar. But the loss of his son-in-law in such a gruesome fashion would devastate his daughter. That secondhand suffering alone would torment the inspector whose focus for most of his life had been split between his family and his profession.
Such platitudes were not within the detective's normal behavior. Yet, he found himself wishing to say something anyway. As he continued to watch the inspector, the man in question continued to stare out into the darkness at the swiftly passing sidewalks. He had only acknowledged Holmes' presence with a single, brief nod before making his desire for privacy with his thoughts known. Meanwhile, the greater portion of his thoughts was centered around the question of where his friend and partner could possibly be now. He had not been seen since early in the morning and Richardson had moved swiftly through his plans. No mention had been made of Watson beyond the fact that he was still missing.
Watson could still be Richardson's next target.
Holmes had yet to determine how the man was selecting his targets beyond the fact that they were close to the men on which he desired revenge. He knew all too well, it would seem, how to wound them where it mattered. Holmes could not help wondering how long the man would draw this out. What clues he had been given today had been entirely deliberate. He was playing a game; most especially with Holmes. He could not help cursing himself silently for not having paid more attention. But, for now, he knew he likely would not be able to focus until he knew what had become of Watson. Until then, all his attention would be drawn in that direction.
A part of his rational brain still cursed him for ever having allowed the ties of friendship to interfere. While, at the same time, the greater part of his consciousness knew he would not have survived without his dear friend. He vowed to himself that if Watson came to harm for Richardson's revenge, there was nothing in this city that would stop him from having Richardson pay the debt in blood.
As they finally neared Lestrade's neighborhood, the inspector called the cab to a halt. Saying nothing to Holmes, he stepped down and waited. Though Richardson had already claimed his victim for the day, and possibly more, he did not feel it a good idea that the two of them be walking the streets. Even when taking into account the security measures he'd setup around Lestrade's home, he was glad he brought his revolver. At first, Lestrade walked in a cloak of silence, still wrapped in his own miserable thoughts; though none showed on his face or in his demeanor. Holmes, meanwhile, eyed every passing cab as he fingered the pistol in his pocket.
Suddenly Lestrade stopped and turned to face the detective. His face was a closed mask, as Holmes eyed him warily, not entirely certain what reaction he would receive at this time.
"I am assuming at that there is a reason you have followed me," Lestrade started with warning in his tone. "If it is urgent, I would like to address it before I get home."
To his surprise, Holmes accepted this. His expression, though a nearly unreadable mask to most, bore empathy that he had not expected. This was not the typical frustration the detective would share when faced with a failure. This appeared to be something closer and more personal. However, he quickly brushed it aside to confront the inspector as requested.
"You knew Richardson, but you did not know the killer," Holmes started, somewhat hesitantly. "Have you any theories on how he is choosing his victims beyond the obvious?"
"You wish to prevent more by predicting his movements?" Lestrade nearly laughed.
The bitterness in the Yarder's tone was not missed. "Of course, I do," Holmes snapped. "If we can—"
"There is no 'we'," Lestrade cut him off coldly. "This is not my investigation. Not anymore."
Holmes was taken aback by this revelation. However, it had taken him all of a second to realize the answer to his unspoken question. "Superintendent Patterson."
"Yes."
For a moment Holmes turned this over in his mind. He had never gotten along with this particular figure of authority. He did not like the idea of having to work with or around the man. But, as he eyed Lestrade critically, he could not find it within himself that he demand the inspector take his attention of his own family to defy his superiors. Though, he had no doubts the man would do so without hesitation if it meant protecting them or any of his fellow Yarders.
"Very well, then. As I was saying, there has to be a pattern Richardson is using to choose his victims."
"Gregory was not born on a Wednesday," Lestrade answered before Holmes could continue. "Nor was he 'full of woe'. He was a rather blessed, boy, if anything. A charmed life, if I've ever seen one. And charming enough for Cee and myself to allow him to have married Julia."
Holmes did not need to ask about Lestrade's eldest daughter. She had been a giving child whose volunteer work through churches had led to her illness and death. Lestrade had never quite gotten over her loss, though he concealed the fact admirably. Only those closest to the inspector had ever known he'd had a daughter before Abigail. And, fewer still, knew of his maintained relationship with the man his eldest daughter had married. They were friendly, and met on occasion for a drink. But Gregory had taken another wife a few years ago and also had a family of his own. Both the detective and the inspector had never even considered him a possible target to warn him before it was too late.
He turned all of this over in his mind as he once more considered how it was that Richardson was choosing his victims. It did not seem logical that the man would use such a simple thing as a nursery rhyme to taunt them, and not have some method for chosing his victims. He still held some hope that he could determine where Watson would fall into all of this. Thus far, his only real connection had been with Catherine. However, both of them knew Watson could easily be one victim that would affect both of them deeply.
These and many other factors continued to race through his mind while Lestrade eyed him with ever-decreasing patience. The man was more than ready to return home. Heaving a sigh, Holmes finally nodded. He would need to focus. He would need to go back. He needed to speak with Toby, and Mrs. Hudson, and return to the basement where Gregory had been found. There were too many things he needed to do if he had any hope of finding Watson before it was too late. Richardson's changing times and dates had left Holmes uneasy in the assumptions he would normally make. His deductive abilities nearly failed him completely when pitted against the raging conflict of one very damaged mind possessing at least two incompatible personalities.
Knowing it was time to tell the others surrounding the Lestrades' home it was time to move on, he continued to follow the inspector silently. There was a tension in the air almost the moment they neared Lestrade's block. The night was nearly silent. Even to Holmes the darkness seemed oppressive. Something felt horribly out of place here. Again he fingered the gun in his pocket and was not displeased to see Lestrade's steps continue purposefully as he did the same. Both were on the alert as they rounded the corner and the inspector's house came within view. For a moment, both paused to take in their surroundings and the sight of the quiet, peaceful neighborhood.
Holmes relaxed visibly as they resumed their walk toward the house, as did Lestrade. It had taken them both a few seconds to penetrate the darkness to spot nearly a dozen constables attempting to conceal themselves in various bushes and corners around the block. The unnatural presence they had sensed was nothing more than the silent tension of so many constables on high alert protecting one of their own. As a visual deterrent, they likely would have sufficed. However, Holmes had no doubts that his measures would have likely worked far better in trapping Richardson than scaring him off. He very nearly growled aloud as one constable nodded to them openly when they passed.
Lestrade had briefly reached out to take his arm and pull him along when it appeared the detective would stop to give the poor constable a piece of his mind upon the matter. Knowing Lestrade was likely in no mood, Holmes scowled darkly and remained silent. Lestrade let himself in quietly, hoping not to disturb Cee or Abby and the grandkids. Given the late hour, they would all be in bed. However, he froze just inside the door way tensing as the sound of voices drifted from the sitting room.
Holmes felt his heart stutter for a moment upon recognizing one of the two voices. It was an effort to restrain himself from shoving Lestrade aside to see for himself. He exercised just enough patience to allow Lestrade to lead them down the hall and around the corner into the sitting room.
"Father?"
"Abby? What are you...John! Is Cee alright?"
Watson, appearing thoroughly confused by the mixed expressions of relief and concern between the inspector and the detective knew instantly he had missed something. But, obviously, so had they. Holding up his hand, he silenced both of them. Giving Holmes the opportunity to deduce where he'd been all day, he answered Lestrade's questions first.
"I know you were called away early this morning, Giles. I was already out and had come by to check on Cee. She had fallen this morning and Abby wanted me to look her over. She's quite alright," Watson was quick to assure. "The constables arrived shortly after and I was instructed to wait for you here."
"Instructed?" Holmes asked, having already ascertained the doctor's whereabouts through most of the day that had not yet been mentioned.
Watson nodded grimly, obviously still displeased. "You were missing. They did not want to risk Richardson using me as a means of luring Lestrade," he told them wryly, though the anger at being trapped here instead of out looking for Holmes was quite obvious in his tone.
He did not miss the look of confusion that passed between Lestrade and Holmes. Though Holmes had relaxed considerably, there was much going on beneath the surface in Lestrade's deliberately closed-off features. Obviously Richardson had struck again, despite his lack of target within the Lestrade household.
"Hopkins?" Watson finally asked, almost fearing the answer.
Lestrade's expression softened somewhat as he realized just how much the doctor was unaware of in this situation. Having worked so closely with Holmes made him sharper than most, as did his more personal relationship with Lestrade and his family that they had developed over the years. He was quick to assure him, though, with a shake of his head.
"No, he was...found," Lestrade said, hesitantly.
His shoulders had slumped as he rubbed his eyes wearily. After a moment, he seemed to recover himself. Once again wearing the stoic mask of a Scotland Yard inspector, he turned his attention to his friend.
"If you don't mind, John, I will leave explanations to Holmes."
Watson's frown softened into something more understanding. There was no doubt Richardson had claimed another victim; and likely one that had greatly affected Lestrade. The man rarely donned the demeanor of an inspector within his own home. Here, he was allowed to be the husband and father treasured by his family. It did not take a genius leap of deduction to guess at the cause. Though Watson could not imagine yet who the most recent victim had been, he flickered his eyes toward Abby before receiving a confirming nod from Lestrade. Nodding, as if to himself, he turned to retrieve his belongings.
"I take it we will not be barred from returning to Baker Street?" Watson asked over his shoulder.
"No," Lestrade confirmed.
"We will see ourselves out."
Watson paused as he passed by to lay a comforting hand on the inspector's shoulder and gain his attention. As he had suspected, much lay behind those dark, hard eyes. Above all, Watson could see the guilt. The inspector nodded with a sad frown as he very deliberately turned his attention toward his daughter, standing patiently across the room.
"Good night, gentlemen."
Watson followed Holmes out the door and back out into the night with his bag in one hand and walking stick in the other. The somber feeling of the house he had just exited clung to him as he very deliberately ignored the constables they passed. The fact that Holmes had remained silent throughout the exchange in Lestrade's home had not been lost on the doctor. Nor had the fact that Holmes' steps were slowed as he delved into his own thoughts. To pass the time and curb his rising impatience, Watson took in Holmes' somewhat disheveled appearance and lack of usual accessories as they walked. Only when they had left that area of the neighborhood and approached some of the larger streets did Holmes seemed to return to the present.
"Thank you," Holmes finally said, signaling an end to the silence as well as thanking his companion for the understanding.
"Hopkins?" Watson asked, unable to mask his impatience.
Holmes sighed heavily, though he kept walking. As a cab approached, he noticed Holmes' hand reaching for his pocket bulging obviously with the pistol he very rarely carried. However, after giving the driver a few seconds of close scrutiny, Holmes finally hailed the cab. Stifling his impatience once more, Watson followed. It was quite obvious that the events of the day he had thus far not been privy to had worn out his friend. Holmes seemed as exhausted physically as he was mentally. Therefore, he was somewhat surprised when Holmes began to explain what had occurred during his absence while they were still in the cab. Holmes' voice was distant, but the dread and guilt were plain to one who knew him so well. Watson eyed him closely as they returned to Baker Street.
The detective did not get very far, however, before his words were cut off for a moment. The muttered curses that followed had Watson turning his attention back toward their destination a moment later. Spying the constables milling about outside their door, Holmes called to the driver to stop. The exhaustion of a moment ago disappeared completely from Holmes' features as he launched himself from the cab demanding to speak with Inspector Gregson.
"My apologies, sir," the older constable started, "Inspector Gregson has been reassigned."
"Who is in charge of...this?" Holmes queried angrily, waving his hand toward the door.
Despite the cold gray eyes and scowl on Holmes' face, the constable seemed more amused than intimidated. "Superintendent Patterson, sir," he answered respectfully. "We were instructed to wait for your return."
"Then your duty is fulfilled, Constable. Please inform the others," Holmes said clearly dismissing them.
In truth, Holmes had been somewhat surprised by this. After Lestrade's bit of foolishness, he had expected more opposition. It would appear the superintendent did not have designs in the direction preventing Holmes' investigation. Or, perhaps, he intended to bring his authority to bear on other related matters. Having Lestrade removed from the case had not been a courtesy. He knew as well as anyone within the Yard that Lestrade would not stand by idly when someone threatened a person he considered under his protection.
Holmes scowl only darkened further upon watching this unnamed constable turn away to open the door to their rooms. As three more were called out of the house, he only barely managed not to betray his rising concern that they had discovered his earlier means of escape. Having half of Scotland Yard learn of their secret arrangements to keep Emily concealed in the adjoining house did not not sit well with him. Moments after he closed the door behind the constables, he motioned Watson so silence as he took the two flights of stairs at top speed. Watson followed close behind in concern, not sure what had his friend so worried.
When Holmes paused outside his bedroom door to inspect the lock, he was filled with cold dread. As his thoughts caught up to the detective's, he remained silent knowing those keen eyes would learn more in a few seconds than his own investigation of the door and room would in hours. Not for the first time, he was glad that he had sent Emily away. Obviously the door had not been broken into with force. But, whatever the detective had found had satisfied him. Watson watched as those thin shoulders sagged with combined relief and exhaustion once more.
"They did not enter," Watson stated the obvious, as if to convince himself.
"No," Holmes said, shaking his head. "It would seem Gregson did not feel the need to pursue me after I had escaped."
"Escaped?"
Again Holmes was reminded how little his friend was aware of regarding the day. He chuckled slightly at the possible ideas his statement had given the doctor. Turning back toward the stairs, he allowed Watson to lead them as he began to explain his escape. He had no need to check the concealed door on the landing beside the sitting room door. That was covered well enough to be entirely invisible to anyone not knowing it was there.
He resumed his previously interrupted description of events as they made their way back down to the foyer. When Holmes lead them into the kitchen, he had to pause to explain Mrs. Hudson's absence. This had very nearly had Watson turning around to head back out the door to locate Dr. Cummings. Even assuring the doctor she was safely in a hospital for the night did little to settle the man. However, seeing the exhaustion painted across Holmes' features so visibly left the doctor torn between seeing to Mrs. Hudson and Inspector Hopkins, and ensuring Holmes had food and rest. He knew Holmes was unlikely to allow him to leave alone again anytime soon. What little he had heard, thus far, had disturbed him for a number of reasons. The idea that it was he Holmes had thought was missing most of the day made him feel quite guilty.
For all of this, however, he still wanted to know who it was Richardson had murdered. He had no doubts Richardson had chosen his target carefully for the greatest effect. He also knew he would be needed at Scotland Yard to see to the body. For a number of reasons, he did not feel he should be sitting here safely ensconced within his second home when there was so much else. But, Holmes looked near to collapsing from exhaustion. He needed to keep his attention focused here for now, and not dragging the man back out into the night with him.
The doctor in him rose to the fore as he pushed Holmes into a seat at the kitchen table. Despite the late hour, he could wish the maid was present. Though, he could quite understand after today if she never returned. As he turned to start a pot of tea, his mention of these thoughts had Holmes scowling angrily in disappointment.
"Ms. Nessa is now Mrs. Lassell," Holmes informed him.
Watson's eyebrows shot up, already knowing what this meant for them, and caring little. However, his recollection of the man she had chosen for a husband was not a pleasant one. This would not affect them beyond the need for a new maid to go along with the need for a new governess for Emily. But, quite obviously, Holmes did not approve of her choice of husband any more than Watson. Disappointed though they were, the headstrong girl had taken a liking to the pretty face and had obviously been blinded to the man's true nature. Watson could only hope for the best as he returned his attention to more important matters.
He motioned impatiently for Holmes to continue his tale while he invaded the areas of Mrs. Hudson's kitchen he had previously not dared. Forays into Mrs. Hudson's domain were forbidden, and punishable most harshly in various forms of inedible meals and undrinkable beverages. Though she had been kind to the doctor over the years, there were some trespasses she would not tolerate. And, until now, Holmes had been the only one brave enough to violate that absolute law at risk to himself. More often than not, the detective would escape relatively unscathed. However, Watson did not doubt their forgiving landlady had more to do with that than any reconciliation on Holmes' part.
Nonetheless, he set about preparing a meal out of what he could find that he had learned to cook over the years. As a former army surgeon, he had not had much need of such skills. As a widower, however, he had learned some basics that would keep him from starving without the presence of a woman. Briefly his mind once again flitted to those now warm memories of the days when he had joined Mary in the kitchen more out of a desire to spend some time with his wife than to learn anything useful. Having been a former governess, even her skills had been limited to some simple things she had learned growing up under her mother's tutelage. Some of their experiments and learning in the areas of cooking had been shared. Of course, these were followed shortly by dinner at a local restaurant as they both discovered it was best to stick with only those items that were familiar to them.
Though the meal was simple, Watson was not about to let Holmes leave until he had consumed all of what was placed in front of him. When Holmes had finally come around to the events of the evening, he was again torn between the need to see to another and care for his friend here. Holmes, for his part, relayed the facts in a cool, detached voice. Watson knew better, though, than to question the detective's real feelings upon the matter. He did not doubt for one moment Holmes had thought he had been Richardson's most recent victim. The fact that he had been unable to leave the Lestrades' home had frustrated him. The fact that the constables had not passed this information to Holmes in time to prevent his friend from fearing the worst angered him. He would be having a conversation with a few select individuals at the Yard in the morning.
In the meantime, there was little else to do. Holmes needed rest, and the man would not do so knowing Watson was attending to other duties. That was if he could convince the detective to let him out of his sight. Given Holmes' current state of exhaustion and raging thoughts chasing themselves around that over-active mind of his, the man was likely not to release his sense of guilt or fear any time soon. If anything the guilt of failure would only drive him further. In recent weeks, Holmes had gone from surprisingly healthy—for him—to gaunt and pale. The fact that the man did nothing to hide his exhaustion, concerned Watson more than all the things Holmes was not saying at this point.
After clearing away the remains of their simple meal and brewing more tea, Watson shooed Holmes out of the kitchen. This brought a quirk of the lips in an approximation of a smile at the doctor's display of domestic skills. However, it took little urging for him to retreat to the peace of the sitting room where he could seek the comfort of his pipe. While Holmes was busy doing this, Watson retrieved a powder out of his bag to add to their newest pot of tea. He was relieved to see Holmes curled into his chair beside the empty fireplace deep in thought. Holmes would sip his tea distractedly, likely never noticing the slightly guilty looks as Watson would be watching closely.
Watson was even more pleasantly surprised to realize that Holmes was so deeply occupied with his own thoughts that he failed to notice Watson had bypassed the tea in favor of a brandy. Late into the night, almost early morning, Watson retrieved Holmes' pipe from fingers gone numb. For a moment he took in the man's features. The strain became all the more obvious when Holmes relaxed into sleep. His face contorted briefly with whatever demons chased themselves around his dreams, making guilt stir in Watson's mind briefly. With the mixture he had given Holmes, the man would not wake any time soon; in essence, he would be trapped in those nightmares. Pushing away his guilt firmly, he retrieved a comforter from Holmes' bed and covered him before turning to lie down on the settee.
Tossing and turning, Watson wondered how much longer this would go on before the strain and tension would be too much. Between the detective and the inspector, he had learned much of the case that had brought them together. There were so many more things he knew he would never learn of what had taken place in those early days. What he had seen of Holmes in recent days showed him how far the detective had come in recent years. In his attempts to set a good example for Emily, he had showed signs of health that Watson had never seen before. However, the constant tension, strain, and pushing himself to the breaking point in the hopes of catching Richardson had worn Holmes down to something far too similar to their early days as flatmates. Lestrade had looked older and more exhausted upon arriving home tonight than Watson could ever previously recall.
Wishing there was more that he could do for both of his friends, Watson finally found a comfortable position on the settee wishing he dared take a cup of tea for himself at this point. It was going to be a long night alone with these thoughts. Silently he wished Emily a good night, in her own bed far away from all of this. Offering up a prayer for her continued safety, Watson allowed his thoughts to take him into his plans for the morrow. His last thought was of Lestrade and his family before darkness rose up to claim him.
