Holmes is on the warpath. He, Watson, Mycroft, Lestrade and Gregson are inventions of SCD. Other characters are mine.

The Chase

Holmes did not like to be kept waiting. As the days passed Watson could see him getting more and more intolerant of anything that caused him to detract from the case in hand. Each day the copy of the Gazette was purchased, each day it was thrown aside in the absence of any return communication.

Watson was in fact getting extremely worried for his friend. Holmes had started not to eat (again) and he guessed he might be heading towards another instance of taking cocaine. The suicide of Cromwell had hit him hard; and despite Watson's efforts to reassure him that there was nothing that could have been done on the basis of the facts to hand at the time, Holmes seemed to have taken his perceived failure very badly. "If only …" he murmured again and again.

Watson knew the only thing that would shake Holmes from his growing depression would be progress. And yet it refused to come.

Until three days had passed. An advertisement at last appeared in the London Gazette on the Wednesday morning. Holmes was elated.

"'Cromwell, 51A Fenchurch Street. Midnight Wednesday.' Ha!" he exclaimed. "I knew it! So, they wish to meet. But not at the Hall. Interesting. An address in Fenchurch Street, near Billingsgate and the river. I feel as though I should know something about that. But the fog is thick, I'm afraid my dear fellow."

"Sorry, Holmes, but on this occasion you only have yourself to blame. You will find no pity from me."

Holmes smiled. "My Doctor does worry himself. Very well, Watson, with your blessing or without. But progress at last." He paused. "We need to get ready," he continued.

"Of course," replied Watson. "Do you want me to get Gregson?"

"Not at present, I think," Holmes said. "Let's see what happens. The hunt is on, Watson. Time is ebbing away. We need everything to be in place for midnight tonight."

"Very well."

"We are likely to need your trusty friend as well."

"My revolver is always ready to help!"

Holmes sat down in his chair by the window. "And, Watson, could you ask Mrs. Hudson for a hearty breakfast, please? I appear to have forgotten to eat for some time."

"Indeed you have," laughed Watson. "It shall be done."

As Watson's footsteps receded down the passage, Holmes picked up Cromwell's journal again and flicked quickly through the entries of the last few days of his life. With a heavy sigh he rose and wrote out the wording for a telegram, and made his way downstairs and out of the house whilst Watson was in conversation with their landlady.

-o0o—

Holmes and Watson started the evening with a good solid meal courtesy of Mrs' Hudson's finest recipe for roast duck, which she had prepared (so she said) as a celebration of 'Mr Holmes being in his right mind again'.

"You must tell me one thing," said Watson, sitting back in contentment at the end of the repast.

"I am yours for the moment," replied Holmes.

"What do you think we will face tonight?"

Holmes paused. "I believe that tonight may mark the start of a course of events that will have a bearing on Gregson's work - and that of his estimable colleagues - in the metropolis for a good few years to come."

"How so?"

"You cannot see it, then? No, of course, you would not. Let us just say that the people involved, if not stopped, will move onto considerably greater things than mere extortion."

"So what needs to be done?"

"I still have a score to settle regarding Mr. Cromwell. That is who they will be expecting tonight, Watson. So when we turn up, I trust that they will see reason. I have a proposal for them. And if they do not, we will make a tactical withdrawal and let Gregson deal with them; for by then we will know who we are dealing with."

"You have no idea at present?"

"I have my suspicions, but I will not share them yet. But I am nervous, and that's why we need to bring this to a swift conclusion. I fear for John Cummings. He and I go back some way together - he has risen from where he started life from; as one of my unofficial assistants, running errands and being an extra pair of eyes and ears."

"Your 'Baker Street Irregulars'?"

"Indeed, the same."

"Don't tell Gregson or Lestrade. 'A motley crew of pick pockets and small time thieves, Mr. Holmes, and I don't mind telling you to your face' was how Gregson left it last time."

"Perhaps," replied Holmes. "But they have played an important role in helping me in the past. I cannot be everywhere, and my face has become well known in some quarters. They may be the cause of some grief to Gregson, but be assured that were it not for their involvement, they would have known greater."

"So why are you nervous?"

"I don't want him involved. Were Mr. Cromwell's antagonists to go to the house, Cummings is exactly the sort of person they would inevitably contact. And I don't know how either he nor they would react."

"In what way?"

"He is from the streets. It might escalate matters and very quickly get out of control." He paused. "I want justice for Cromwell, Watson, and to do that we have to play along for a while with what they want, and on our terms."

"So that's the reason for no outside help?"

"Most certainly," he replied. "I don't want Gregson within a mile of us tonight."

"So what is the plan?"

"We attend 51A Fenchurch Street as requested. I have sent word to Mycroft about my intentions. If we are not back here by 2am then he has instructions."

"Let us make ready then."

"Thank you, Watson. Ever my trusty companion."

-o0o-

They left Baker Street at twenty minutes to midnight. The rumble of the hansom died out in the quiet of the late evening, punctuated only by a dog barking and an owl calling. Thick fog lay over the capital.

Ten minutes later, Gregson was hammering at the door. After a few minutes more, Mrs. Hudson opened the door, a poker in her hand.

"Why Mr. Gregson!" she exclaimed, "What is the matter? Why all the noise?"

"Where are they?"

"Out. They went off about ten minutes ago. Mr. Holmes was very secretive."

Gregson let out a low curse under his breath. He showed Mrs. Hudson the paper he was holding; a telegram from his colleagues in Surrey.

CROMWELL HALL STOP CUMMINGS DEAD STOP SEE NOTE STOP

There was a second piece of paper. As Mrs. Hudson took it from Gregson's trembling hand, she saw with horror the blood on it.

"It was pinned to his body evidently," he told her simply.

HOLMES. WE KNOW. HE TOLD US EVERYTHING.