John skipped towards of 221 Ash Street with a grin on his face. He stopped just at the base of the steps and looked up into the night sky. The stars were as bright as he'd ever seen them. They cut a swath across the heavens like a twinkling seam of diamonds. He inhaled the crisp night air and chuckled. What a night. What a glorious night!
Mary Morstan. Her name echoed through his mind again.
He had walked her home from the dance to the side entrance off Reichenbach's Butcher Shop that led to her flat. There, he had kissed her briefly, not wanting to seem too ardent. Then she had leaned into the kiss and slipped her arms around his neck. He had almost lost himself in that moment. Mary was everything he had ever hoped to find in a woman; intelligent, compassionate, principled, opinionated and beautiful, so beautiful. In that moment, he knew he would ask her to marry him. She was the one. She was his soul mate.
With a spring in his step, he bounded up the treads and opened the front door of his home. The first thing he saw was Mrs. Hudson pace by him in the front foyer with her hand to her face. Then, he heard voices - loud, upset voices. One, a deep baritone and the other, a rather peeved higher, female's intonation.
John stepped into the house and shut the door. "Mrs. Hudson? What is the commotion about?"
The older woman stopped in her tracks. Her lip trembled as she looked his way.
"Oh, John, thank the Lord. I don't know what's happened. There was this Godawful thump which shook the whole house. I thought the wardrobe in Mr. Holmes' room fell over but then, they just started shouting at each other. Oh, I imagine he's been his usual self and said the wrong thing," she clucked her tongue. "What a shame. They were getting along so well."
John turned his head to better understand what he was hearing. Both voices filtered down from the upper floor. They were together, in Sherlock's room.
He blinked rapidly. "Sherlock and Molly . . . how long had they been alone, up there, before the, erm, argument?"
Mrs. Hudson pressed her lips together and raised her brows. "Some time, Dr. Watson. I heard them come in at nine-thirty but I –ah- well, I thought it was best if I kept to my rooms and gave them their privacy."
John coughed and cleared his throat. "Th-They needed privacy?"
She went red in the face. "They are married after all."
He shakily doffed his hat and hung it up. He heard the slam of a door crashing open and hitting a wall.
"Out! Get out of here right this instant!" Molly shouted.
John's eyes widened as he looked at Mrs. Hudson. "I better go up there."
He took the steps two at a time until he found himself taking in the sight of a half-naked Sherlock collecting clothes as they flew from his room.
"You cannot order me about in my own house!" He returned gruffly.
"It's my home as well, isn't it?" Molly declared. "Whether I like it or not!"
Sherlock dodged his belt as it flew by his head. "B-B-But these are my chambers. Where am I to sleep?"
Finally, Molly appeared in the doorway wrapped in one of Sherlock's dressing gowns. Its hem puddled on the floor at her feet, her hair was in disarray and she was flushed. She pointed her finger emphatically down the hall as she spoke.
"Over that way, there is a perfectly serviceable spare bedroom," she stated. "It's quite comfortable."
"Then why don't you sleep there since you are so offended by me?" Sherlock asked angrily.
Molly placed her hands on her hips and glowered at her husband. "I am the one who has been wronged. I am not going to cede ground and scuttle off like one of those cat-like, bandit creatures one sees rooting around the rubbish bins."
"Raccoons, you mean?" He huffed.
She scrunched her nose up. "Yes, like a raccoon. I am your wife, in every legal definition of the word, Mr. Holmes. Since you are so keen to remain married, you are going to learn exactly what it means to keep me. To start, I have decided that this is going to be where I sleep and that you are not welcome."
John looked to Sherlock. He had an incredulous expression on his face. He squared his shoulders and began donning his shirt.
"You cannot keep me from here. I-I could physically remove you!" He said as he fumbled with his buttons.
Molly's eyes narrowed. She folded her arms over her chest. Her eyes slid sideways and met John's gaze. He flicked his fingers up in a gesture of greeting and nodded awkwardly.
"You are welcome to try but I would advise against it. I've become fast friends with one of the constable's wives. If the spare room is not to your liking, perhaps you would prefer alternate accommodations at the local detachment or even the Pen? I've heard marvelous things about the federal prison. You know quite a few fellows down there, do you not? You are responsible for supplying that facility with half its population, or so I have been told."
Sherlock opened his mouth to speak again but John reached forward and grasped his arm.
"Best not speak anymore, Sherlock," he recommended.
"John, this is none of your business," he spat.
John raised his brows and gave him a hard stare. "It will be if you put your hands on Molly."
Sherlock's head snapped up and he frowned. He looked to Molly and returned his gaze to John. He stumbled back and shook his head. His face went very pale.
"I would never do that," he said with a strain in his voice. "Molly, I would never hurt you. Forgive me, it was an empty threat."
Molly swallowed. John watched her eyes appear to glisten. She looked on the verge of tears.
"Come, Sherlock," John urged. "Come away."
Sherlock shook him off. "Molly! Molly, I would never hurt you. You have to believe me-"
A tear slipped down her cheek. "You already have."
It was as if someone punched his friend in the gut. His face contorted in a in a mask of pain. His eyes went soft around the edges. John collected Sherlock's socks and belt and tugged him away. Sherlock's head pivoted limply, transfixed by his wife until John pulled him down the first few treads of the stairway. He came to life halfway to the foyer when the door to his room slammed shut with a bang and wrenched away. He snatched his remaining articles of clothing from John's hands.
"What time is it?" He muttered.
John sighed and peaked at his pocket watch. "Eleven-thirty."
"Perfect," he replied bitterly.
"Wh-Why?"
"I am going down to Cumberland Saloon. Things should just be getting interesting."
Sherlock plunked himself on the oak hall tree and jerked on his socks. He reached for his boots.
John cursed. "Really, tonight? Christ! Do you think that is a good idea in your present frame of mind?"
Brunette curls bounced as Sherlock's head came up. He had a deep furrow in his brow. His eyes were constricted angrily. He yanked the laces tight on his boot.
"Do you have a better suggestion? I feel the need to expend some energy. In my present frame of mind, that will involve either guns or fists."
Mrs. Hudson made a sound from the parlor. "Ooh, best take him to the pub, John."
John threw his hands up.
"I have to babysit him, do I?" He called. "Why do I always have to babysit him?"
Sherlock stood up with a snort and whirled into his jacket. "I am not the one you should be concerned about."
"No, I understand that. You broke three of John Stapleton's ribs last time. I'm worried about anyone who steps into the ring with you."
Sherlock cracked his knuckles. "As you should be."
"Whiskey, please."
John glanced back as he heard another roar from the back of the Cumberland Saloon. Sherlock was on his second fight and winning, as usual. However, the man knew how to work the crowd. Although Sherlock could easily win most fights, he always let his opponent land a few hits to make it appear as if they weren't hopelessly outmatched. The tavern was very crowded that evening, which made sense considering it was the end of the May Day festivities and there was close to a thousand extra people in town.
"Sorry, Dr. Watson, we're all outta whiskey," came the rejoinder from the burly barkeep. "Would bourbon be alright?"
John nodded. "Yeah, why not? It's pretty much the same thing, isn't it?"
The bar tender smirked. "Don't let any Americans hear you say that."
John flipped the keep and coin, grabbed the generous tumbler full of bourbon and headed back towards the ring at the rear of the saloon. He had to elbow his way through the raucous crowd to find his way to where Constable Lestrade leaned against a counter and watched the fight in progress.
"How's he doing?" John asked.
Lestrade twitched his brows. "How do you think? That poor bugger has no idea what he's up against."
The boxing ring at the back of Cumberland Saloon barely resembled one. It was but a small area separated from the rest of the space by a barrier of planks. It looked more like a stockade pen than an arena where men fought. Sherlock faced away from them, his upper half bare, having discarded his shirt. He wasn't as large as his opponent but something about the lean musculature of his back and the rippling of his flesh as he moved about made him appear lethal. Perhaps a cage designed for an animal suited Sherlock Holmes.
"I think he's weary of this fight," Lestarde shouted over the cacophony of jeers and whistles. "That big fella hasn't landed a clean hit yet."
John watched the large man lurch forward, his heavy footfall could be felt through the groaning floorboards even as the bar patrons moved around them. Sherlock's lateral back muscles flexed as he tensed, ready to deliver his blow, and then he unleashed. In a rapid-fire succession, Sherlock rounded with his right fist and caught the behemoth just at the base of his ribs. He followed that up with a left uppercut to his jaw and finally, slammed his right into the man's face when he doubled over, splitting open his cheek. For a moment, Sherlock's opponent teetered and a hush fell over the crowd. Then, like the falling of a tree, the man swayed forward and slammed down at Sherlock's feet. Before the dust kicked up from between the boards could settle, the crowd erupted.
Sherlock barely acknowledged their fervent response. He turned around and grabbed a towel slung over the side of the ring. His face still held a deep scowl. He wiped some sweat from his brow and leaned over the railing, heaving. John set his drink down.
"I will be right back, Constable," he murmured.
"Call me Greg, I'm not on duty. If I was, I'd have to haul half these people down to the station for drunk and disorderly behavior. Not to mention, illegal gambling."
John turned and twisted a quizzical brow. "Didn't you bet on this fight?"
Greg's lips pulled down at the corners. "Erm, no, of course not."
"Mm, hmm. Right."
John smiled and then hurried up to where Sherlock rested. "Are you quite done? It's nearly one am."
"One more," Sherlock rasped.
He didn't look up. His head hung with his hair spilling forward. His shoulders rose and fell with each deep inhalation. Behind him, a group of men removed the unconscious giant from the ring.
"You're exhausted," John chided. "You should quit while you're ahead."
Sherlock's head snapped up. "I am fine. One more match. You are not required to stay."
John exhaled a loud breath. "Damn, Sherlock, you're going to get yourself hurt."
Something changed in the atmosphere of the saloon then. A murmur went through the crowd. Then a man near their age hopped the barrier. He was of a similar build and height to Sherlock, but his black hair was closely cropped to his head. He smiled slickly and doffed his shirt. On closer inspection, John decided he was a slightly smaller stature than his friend.
"Seems you have another challenger," John muttered.
Sherlock raised a brow. "Indeed."
He studied his new opponent closely then stood up and stretched out his broad shoulders and back.
"Preening fool. I will dispense of him in short order. Did he not watch any of my other fights? I outweigh him by forty pounds and have a two inch advantage in my reach," he twitched his brows. "Also, I'm unbeaten in this ring."
John laughed. "And you're modest to boot."
The saloon owner, Robert McDunn, smacked his hand against one of the railings and called for attention. "Alright you lot, our challenger is James, just arrived in town today. He's going to be teaching up at Columbian College. Now he says he was a collegiate athlete back in Ontario-"
John laughed as a chorus of drunken boos erupted from the audience. There were still so many in New Westminster who disapproved of British Columbia joining Canada and being governed by the distant parliament out in Ontario. The challenger, James, only smiled wider and danced around the ring, practicing a few punches.
"Settle down, settle down!" Mr. McDunn roared. "Now, that's not how we greet people here in the royal city. Let's give him a warm welcome. He says he can fight."
A reluctant, half-assed round of cheers sounded throughout the room.
Mr. McDunn gestured a thumbs up. "That's better! So, now we're gonna give you all our odds. We favor Mr. Holmes, of course, our resident champion, but bet on James here and get three dollars for every dollar you wager. Mr. Holmes remains at a dollar and twenty-five cents."
Those wanting to bet were given a few minutes to make their wagers. Sherlock and his opponent circled each other in the ring. John felt a bit of a tremor in his hands. They shared a similar analytical manner of gazing upon one another. John knew in that moment that this fight would be different.
Sherlock attacked first with a quick jab that James dodged easily. It went like that for about a minute or two. Then, almost out of nowhere, James made a funny little move almost like a stuttered dance step and popped Sherlock on the chin. The larger man stepped back a bit stunned and shook his head. John recognized the tense set of his face and the bunching of his shoulders as he went into battle mode.
Again and again, Sherlock missed the mark and suffered shots to his abdomen and face in return. The spectators went wild. The shouting, jeering, and cheering became so loud, the whole building seemed to vibrate like a tuning fork. John could see Sherlock beginning to fatigue as blow after blow threw him off balance. James grinned the entire time, never removing his eyes from his mark as his fists stung time and again. One particularly well placed first hit Sherlock just above the eye causing a cut to open up. Blood ran down his temple and over his lid which began to swell.
"Good God, Sherlock," John whispered. "What have you got yourself into?"
"Oy, John," Greg shouted. "This ain't going his way, is it?"
Sherlock wavered on his feet and stumbled. James moved in, licking his lips as he revelled in his pending victory. John rubbed a hand over his face. He wanted to look away but couldn't. Fear made his stomach tighten. He was almost certain in that moment that Sherlock was not only going to lose the fight, but be grievously injured in the process.
However, he was a man of endless surprises and produced one of most unexpected happenings John had the privilege to witness. As James hovered over Sherlock's nearly folded form, Sherlock planted his foot, expanded upwards like wind catching a sheet on a clothesline and then drove his fist downwards across his challenger's face. His left fist came up, caught James square in the chin, and the fight was over. James' eyes lolled back in his head and his knees buckled. Then he slunk to the floor in a heap.
What followed was a vacuum of sound for a few brief seconds as the entire saloon stared in awe. Then like the in-rush of a tide, insanity flooded the room again and the howl of voices became a deafening thunder. People rattled their chairs and screamed in release.
Sherlock had won the fight.
"What was that, Sherlock?"
John gazed anxiously at his friend as he leaned over his mount. Sherlock groaned as Redbeard slipped over some loose gravel and jolted him in the saddle on the hill as they made their way towards Ash Street.
"What was what, John?" He wheezed.
"The fight. How did you do that? You were finished."
Sherlock frowned, then grimaced in pain as he looked at John. "I was not finished, I was losing. There is a difference. I had to change my tactics and sell my opponent a story of defeat. His fight analytics exceeded my own. He seemed to know every move I was going to make before I even knew myself. I do not believe he has only just arrived in New Westminster. There is more to him than meets the eye, definitely more. This man has watched me fight before and catalogued my moves."
John sucked in a breath. "But why?"
Sherlock closed his eyes as he rubbed his neck. "He wanted to defeat me, in public and in a big way. He was emotionally invested in that outcome. He . . . needed it. I don't know why. I have never encountered an individual like him."
John nodded. "He was definitely a strange man. James was his name? He's a teacher?"
"Not just a teacher, John. He's the new physics instructor at Columbian College, Professor James Moriarty."