Chapter 25: Always 1895
Warnings: references to murder and torture.
Sherlock Holmes, consulting spork, wakes to the reminder that John's hair is much like John. Short. Bristly. Honey-coloured in the afternoon light. At least partly straight. And, if its ticklish incursion into a certain consulting detective's nostrils is any indication, hell-bent on achieving physical union with Sherlock.
Woken by an indignant sneeze against the back of his neck, John yawns and wriggles backwards and wraps his boyfriend's right arm around himself more tightly. Sherlock thinks of an adrenalin junkie buckling himself onto a favourite rollercoaster.
"You still here?" John wants to know. "I thought I dreamed you."
Sherlock chews meditatively on the back of John's ear. It seems like the sort of gesture that should help him think. It does.
"Nightmares? Has your PTSD returned?"
"Ha. I like dreaming of you. You're not exactly Afghanistan."
"Really," drawls Sherlock. It seems an open question.
John rolls over onto his back and inspects his flatmate. Sherlock raises an eyebrow, inspecting him back, and John giggles.
He's devastating after an orgasm, Sherlock thinks, taking in the sight. Boneless. Stubbly. Expansive. Happy. I want to keep him like this forever.
Sherlock can't tell if this is train of thought is all fine or a bit not good. He's about to inquire when John interrupts him.
"Got you a present," he announces.
"You've already given me a present." Sherlock draws his partner closer and gives him a pointed shift of the hips.
"Pervy git."
"Is that your official diagnosis?"
"Yes. I got you a present anyway. A real one, not one consisting of my arse."
"Argh," groans Sherlock. "Valentine's Day. I should have … I meant to…"
"In your own daft way, you did. Stay here. It's my turn."
John wanders off to the attic bedroom and returns with a small, rectangular package. When he comes back, Sherlock is in an upright position on the sofa, muttering about the cold and the inconvenience of a certain army doctor absconding with all the heat. Technically, most of the heat was John's to begin with, but use of the third-person possessive with John seems unnecessarily restrictive. Sherlock continues to think of his flatmate and his belongings with the first-person possessive: mine.
John sets the gift on Sherlock's consulting lap. The detective has to focus hard on the gift to keep said lap from offering John his second consultation of the day.
Paper: the kind used on medical exam tables. Tape: applied between 40 and 48 hours ago. Ribbon: lacking. Folding technique...
John grins. "You noticed. Filched it from the surgery. Not the present; just the wrapping. Don't get your hopes up. It's not an eyeball."
"Eyeballs are boring," says Sherlock. "I'm onto gallbladders now. Well, well. Petty larceny. Given your predilections so far, I can't say I'm surprised. Are there any crimes you won't commit on my behalf? Flatmates should know the worst about each other."
The broad, Watsonian shoulders rise in a shrug. "No limits that I've noticed. Should there be?"
"No." Sherlock tilts his long neck back in invitation, and John, towering over him for once, leans down and kisses him.
The kiss finished, Sherlock opens his mouth to tell John that nobody's ever given him a Valentine's Day present before. He gets as far as "I never…" before John cuts him off.
"Stop," groans John. "Just stop. Do you have any idea how pronounced and … varied my virginity kink is? All your 'I nevers' go straight to my limbic system. Here you are, trying to show me how emotionally remedial you are, and I just want to throw myself on top of you and shag you blind. If we're ever going to get you off the sofa, you need to stop turning me on."
Sherlock blinks as the implications of this undiscovered interest hit him. Clearly not all of the variables that make up the equation that is John have been solved for. "I'll take that under consideration," he manages, throat dry.
"Do," says John. "Come on, open it."
Sherlock undoes the package. There, in the mid-February light, sits an ancient notebook with a crumbling, blood-red cover. It's the one he and John first saw months ago, among the rows of dark cabinets standing like sarcophagi at Julien's murderabilia auction. The name scrawled on the top edge of the book is Holmes.
Sherlock feels a buzzing in the vicinity of his larynx.
"Hang on, did you just squeak?"
"John…"
"In the average adult male, vocal folds are about 21 mm in length. Yours, if I had to guess, must be a metre and a half. It shouldn't be possible for you to squeak. Shall I put this new development in my blog, or is it going straight to the Lancet?"
Sherlock refuses to ruin what's turning out to be a magnificent day by giving John recommendations on where to put it. "Do you have any idea what this is?"
"Something you wanted."
"And beyond that?"
"Beyond that, so what? You saw it at the auction and you fell to your knees in front of it and started hyperventilating. It was … you were … beautiful."
"So you don't know. Surely you …"
"I wasn't looking at the book, idiot. I was looking at you. You were … not bored. Do you have any idea how breath-taking you are when you're not bored? You were excited. In your element. Possibly in love. To tell the truth, it was all I could do not to reach into your trousers and stroke you off onto the glass. I was jealous over it for, well, months, but when I thought of how much you liked the damn thing, I had to try and get it for you."
"John Watson, you're…"
"Amazing? Fantastic? Extraordinary?"
"Yes."
John plants a kiss on the top of Sherlock's curly head. "Well spotted," he says. "Your powers of observation are uncanny. Listen, why don't I make a few deductions about your present for you? I'll get everything wrong, you'll have your usual orgasm over how oblivious I am, and there'll be cheese and biscuits for afters."
"You're welcome to get me off again, but I hardly think you'll need to persuade me with biscuits. Go on, deduce for me. You're more able than you think."
John plunks himself down next to Sherlock on the sofa and takes back the notebook.
"It's old," he says. "Oh, quit smirking." John points to the top edge. "The name here is written in a fountain pen. It's blotchy where some of the ink spilled out."
"Good. What else?"
"It's old enough for pen technology to be iffy, but new enough that we're not dealing with a roll of papyrus. The cover is leather, whereas now it might be plastic. It looks mass-produced, so it's post-Industrial Revolution. The whole thing is sort of crumbly. Kinda old but kinda new equals … 19th-century?"
"Correct. And it is mass-produced. Check the back."
John flips the notebook over and reads the name imprinted at the bottom out loud. "J. W. Butler."
"An American paper company operating out of Chicago. The company was formed in the 1840s, but this type of binding didn't become popular until the 1880s. These factors both support and refine your guess."
"I never guess," John intones, flaring his nostrils. His eyes channel a sort of rakish lunacy.
"When you suck in your cheeks, is that meant to be an imitation of me? Because it looks preposterous."
"Not answering that, princess." John runs a finger over the name scrawled on the top edge. "Your colonial cousin?"
"I wish. Open it."
John opens the book. "Architectural drawings. Doodles, anyway. That's odd."
"What is?"
"A real architect … I may be wrong, but wouldn't a real architect use drafting paper? This guy seems like he's just brainstorming, and not competently. This isn't precise draftsmanship. It's sketchy. It's slapdash. He's an amateur."
"What makes you think the author is a man?"
"He'd have to be, wouldn't he? Look at the state of his writing."
"That doesn't prove the author is male. With that level of illegibility, we could just be dealing with a ..."
"You're insufferable, you know that? Do you think hospitals set aside time during grand rounds for field work in penmanship?"
"I think nothing of the kind."
"Fine, smart arse. Even if he is a doctor, he's still likely to be a man. Hardly any 19th-century medical schools took women."
"You're on fire. What else?"
"That's it."
"No, it isn't. Where's this door leading?"
"Nowhere. Brick wall. I told you he was an amateur."
"And this stairway?"
"Well, it's meant to go to the first floor, obviously." John flips a page. "Except he hasn't actually drawn where it comes out."
"Which means it goes…?"
"Nowhere, I guess."
Sherlock nods. "What's this mark?"
"Well, again, it doesn't make sense. He's drawn the symbol for door, but it's in the middle of a corridor. It's like he's put it in the floor. Who puts a … hang on." John bites his lip. "Oh, shit. That's what you're saying. It's a trap."
"Say someone falls through the trap door. Where do they end up?"
John rifles through the notebook. "Bank vault."
"Very strong, very secure, very heavy. At that time, people generally installed vaults in the basement, since that's where gravity wants heavy objects to be. This vault is not far from the master bedroom. In fact, it's smack in the middle of the second floor. Note that there's a gaspipe feeding directly into it. Where do you expect to find the handle on an old-fashioned bank vault door?"
"That bastard," mutters John. "The outside."
"I told you you were able."
"Yeah, but I thought you were talking about blowjobs."
"You're skilled in multiple disciplines," clarifies Sherlock. "What's this space here?"
"Well, it appears on the third floor, second…" John flips the pages. "First, ground floor. Basement. It's not very wide. Not wide enough to be a room, anyway. Why's he keep putting it in? It's almost like…" John claps a hand over his own mouth. "Fuck. Just … fuck. It's a chute. He's connected all the floors with a chute to the basement."
"Why would he do that?"
John looks Sherlock in the eye. "Because that's where he dumps the bodies."
Delightful. John is utterly delightful. Sherlock lets out a long, shaky breath. "If I were to kiss you on the mouth right now, would that be…"
"Messed up? Yeah. It really would."
"Ah." Sherlock leans back, hands fidgeting in his lap.
John grabs him by the shoulders and snogs the spit out of him.
"So you've never heard of Dr. H. H. Holmes, the Monster of 63rd Street?"
"Catchy title, but no."
"Before your time, I suppose. He was charismatic, elegant. A doctor. A ladies' man. A sociopath. He built a hotel the length of a city block in Chicago, complete with all the amenities: bank vaults that doubled as gas chambers. A basement stocked with vats of acid and quicklime. A crematorium disguised as a glass-maker's furnace. Torture implements of his own design, including a so-called 'elasticity determinator.' They say he was inspired by Poe, who was, after all, interested in methods of punishment. It's just as likely he was inspired by Procrustes."
John gives a low whistle. "This elasti-whatsit. The rack?"
"Exactly. There were acres of windowless rooms, each offering a slightly different environment in which to die. Holding it all together were trap doors, secret passages, stairs leading nowhere, and the chute into the pit. The neighbors called it the Castle. The prosecutor called it a labyrinth." Sherlock frowns. The castle-labyrinth combination reminds him of something, but he can't think what.
John's voice brings him back to earth. "How many casualties?"
How very like him, muses Sherlock. Even strangers who've been dead for over a hundred years are considered comrades-in-arms.
"Estimates vary. Some say twenty; others ten times that. No one knows for sure. He told the story differently every time he was asked, and his murder castle blew up under suspicious circumstances while he was awaiting trial in 1895. Even if it hadn't blown up, he didn't entomb the bodies on site. Instead, he stripped the skeletons with lime and sold them to fellow medical professionals. One of his coups was getting almost 200 dollars from Hahnemann Medical College for the skeleton of his pregnant mistress. He also set his best friend – his only friend – on fire for the insurance money. The man was alive at the time. Holmes later said the victim was closer to him than a brother."
John shakes his head. "Bit of a dick move, that."
"The prosecutor thought so. Interestingly, even Holmes had his limits. As far as we can tell, he never harmed his wives."
"His wives? How many did he have?"
"Three, I think, all living and still married to him at the time of trial. He never laid a hand on any of them. As the trial progressed, the only time he cried was during the testimony of wife number three." Sherlock shrugs. "Sentiment."
"I'm glad they caught the bugger."
"They almost didn't. The police had their share of Andersons even then. Holmes left fingerprints everywhere, but nobody was looking for them. The only reason he went to trial was that he bragged to someone about his plans for the insurance swindle. The man loved an audience."
"You're sure he's not a cousin?"
"Of course. 'Holmes' was a nom de guerre. His real name was more pedestrian." Sherlock wrinkles his nose. "Mudgett. I wouldn't have kept it either."
"Sherlock, I'm joking. He's nothing like you. On a bad day, you're obnoxious, but not like that."
"What makes you think I'm not?"
"Everything. You help people. You've helped me. Not with the milk, obviously, and some of your ideas need work, but you give me a reason to be glad that Afghani bullet didn't land a bit to the right. Name someone who's a better person than you are."
"You."
"Yes, well, you would say that. I don't count; I've completely addled your brain with sex. It has to be somebody who doesn't have you jacked up on dopamine and pheromones and oxytocin 24 hours a day. Donovan? Anderson? Your brother? We all have our issues. Even Mrs Hudson was pleased to have her husband sent to the electric chair."
"Yes, and I'm the one who put him there. Although I appreciate your optimism, I don't share it. Just before you met me, I was starting to get …" Sherlock stretches out his fingers and stares at the spaces between. "Bored again. Reckless. If I don't have a project to keep me busy, I'll invent one, even if all I have to work with are syringes and hand grenades. H. H. was the same way. I could very well be him."
"No." John's bottom lip juts out, and Sherlock is temporarily derailed by his resemblance to a bulldog. It's more charming than it has any right to be. "You're a better man than you realise."
"I admit I'm better than I have been, but that's largely due to your presence. It's not due to any merit in myself."
"Wrong."
"Why do you doubt it? It's a known phenomenon. The fact that you're in my life, that you're here to observe me, changes my behaviour. You know what they say about quantum mechanics."
"Do I look like I know what they say about quantum mechanics?"
Sherlock sighs. "You wouldn't think that merely observing parts of an atom would change the way they act, but evidence says that it does. An observed electron tends to behave like a particle. An unobserved electron is more likely to act like a wave. Similarly, an observed consulting detective …"
"Behaves like an arrogant tosser, yes. But you're my arrogant tosser, and you're sexy and amazing and jaw-droppingly brilliant. I wouldn't trade you for anything. Also, the point is irrelevant. I'm not going anywhere."
Sherlock looks down at the small, fierce man nestled against him on the couch and feels something interesting, something not far removed from the lightness and giddiness of love. It reminds him of the time he used the sharp end of a compass to poke a hole in one of Mycroft's mylar birthday balloons. He sucked out all the helium, then spent the next five minutes trying to prevent his chubby, toddler limbs from floating away.
"Lucky," says John, as if reading his mind. "Anyone with any taste in men would want to be right where I am, next to you. I'm lucky."
Ah. That's sorted. Sherlock pulls his flatmate closer and rests his chin on his blond head.
There's only one thing that doesn't make sense. The detective would just as soon not ask, but curiosity gets the better of him.
"John."
"Yeah."
"How did you get the notebook?"
A/N: The title of this chapter is taken from the poem "221B" by Vincent Starrett, which reads in part, "Here, though the world explode, these two survive / And it is always eighteen ninety-five."
This chapter goes out to snarryfool for her prowess in textual analysis. Madam, I salute you.
Thanks also to verityburns for taking time away from being the absolute master of the novel-length Sherlock fic to offer a much-needed Britpick.
All other thanks go to the valiant snoopydance4me, Ceanen, WhiteFang001, inconcvbl, Justine Lark, OnaTorre, dancinggnome, Roxy Blade, Nunewesen, sana-chan9, ChaozA, WitchRavenFox, it-all-implodes, murdoke, lc, the shine inside you, meredithriddle, Tamzette, Bookwoman17NerdyMom, Callophilia, strangegibbon, Lady Ginger, Zarra Rous, freakinpenguins, Atlin Merrick, Return of the Cookie, thedaringkurtsie, Wayoming, ongreenergrasses, The Liar of Truth, mattsloved1, helenecolin, Thorn Wild, Evenlodes Friend, Sweetest Possible Revenge, Ariane DeVere, 12635397, Illusionaryallure, Terror-of-the-Mind, Chasey-Fan, Dark knightress, thisisforyou, drjamband, MandaZ, Ryssa1457, BrownEyedDazzler, Dimwit Cynic, sarj2490, cantsaymylastname, sorryshards, Frankie and Avery, leew1, Vivi Marius, writing bird, Jodi2011, random-nexus, Anonymous Mystery Person, Artemis Fortune, tsukinoblossom, Nymphadora Andromeda Lupin (Dora), CalicoCrow, and on LJ, tialangela, elmathelas, natgel, anarion, carlie clarks, quirkies, and maggie conagher.