"Lying is done with words, but also with silence." - Adrienne Rich

Holmes

As we were marched through the manor, I could not help but get the feeling from the peeling wallpaper, the neglected floors, and the layers upon layers of dust that we were walking about a haunted house. Although I most certainly do not believe in ghosts, I would have rather face one hundred phantoms than meet Michael Sinclair face to face.

Glancing over to my dear friend and biographer, I could see that his face had gone quite pale. I did not blame him; with a gun and a dog possessing a very large, sharp set of fangs, the odds were surely stacked against us.

The servant, I refused to call him a gentleman, had obviously read some of Watson's stories, for he relieved the doctor of his pistol before we so much as took a step out of our ill-chosen hiding place. He did not take mine, however, and from this I deduced that he was not a frequent reader of our chronicles.

So much for escaping on my literary personality… On the other hand, this also meant that I had a concealed weapon on my person. This manservant may have been loyal enough to be included in such dealings, but for all his sharp clothing he apparently was not as smart as he appeared to be.

We finally came to a door that showed signs of very recent use. My heart also gave a dual sensation of dread and hope; I could see tracks made by a wheelchair in the thick dust leading into the room, but the only other set of prints matched the ones our captor was making at that very moment. I had seen no other signs, footprints or otherwise, that there was anyone else in the manor.

It made sense; we had only gotten this far because Sinclair had relied on the weak to do his dirty work, and in turn the weak betrayed him once another party applied pressure. He had learned his lesson, and now his trust was only in himself and his attendant. Luckily for Watson and me, his complete trust was in a man who had forgotten to pat down prisoners for weapons.

The hinge of the heavy door creaked as we were admitted, and a slight grinding indicated that it had been deprived of oil for quite some time. The room itself, on the other hand, was almost comfortable. A fire had been lit, filling the room not only with warmth but with a pleasant glow. What furniture had been left by the previous owners had been dusted, the decorations on the wall were rusted and yet rustic… Had we not been in such mortal danger, I almost would have felt welcome.

Sitting in the middle of this reasonable comfort, wheels resting within the fibres of a thick Persian rug, was Michael Sinclair, back straight against his wheelchair, an infuriatingly casual smile upon his level face.

"Not a very pleasant to be out, is it, gentlemen?" greeted the crippled man, clasping his hands together on his lap. "I am glad you stopped by; I was beginning to worry that you would go against your nature and allow Scotland Yard to handle things. I can assure you, however, had any officer gotten within a mile and a half of the grounds, Callaway and I would have been spirited away before they arrived."

Callaway, as he was apparently called, was attaching the chain that held the snarling beast to a metal ring that had been screwed into the wall presumably for that purpose. For all our sakes, I hoped it was screwed in tightly; that animal looked as if it would attack even its master merely to enjoy the taste of blood.

"Ah, admiring one of my prize dogs, are you? You must have good taste, Mr. Holmes." There was poison dripping from every word that passed from his mouth. "Over the years, I've rather perfected my training of them. Now, people think animals cannot truly hate, but they can, it merely takes more work than making a person hate. But their hate is so much purer… Imagine the wrath, Mr. Holmes, of one unloved from the moment they were born, beaten and starved for no reason other than one can do so, isolated from all sources of joy… Picture the anger building up within that creature, the hate it will come to feel for the very world that created it… The monster that this creates." He gave a smile that was nothing short of evil, and I despised him more than anything else that I had ever encountered. "As you can see from the little experiment I encouraged, the process works equally well with children. That girl may seem sweet now, but as she grows she will not soon forget all she has been through."

Watson gave a near growl. "Is that what she was to you? An experiment?"

"After those dolts Hyde and Jackyl scared her so badly she refused to eat, she hardly would have made a suitable plaything when she was older. If you start them young enough, the hate gets into their very blood. No, all my girls are obedient; couldn't have one stabbing me while I slept, could I?"

My friend threw himself forward, likely meaning to tackle the smug devil out of his chair and possibly through the window if he could get him that far, but Callaway grabbed him under the arms, pinching at the nerves there and forcing dear Watson to the ground with a sharp, clear cry of pain.

When I dropped to my knees to assist him, the manservant made a move to stop me, but Sinclair waved him away.

"No, no, Callaway, let him. You see, this highlights a very good point of my thesis; interdependence is no more than reciprocated dependence. It is no more noble, no more weak… I dare say Callaway might have put three bullets in your neck when you bent to help him, Mr. Holmes. The only reason you are in my company tonight is in defence of a little girl whom you barely know and who has no lasting impact on your life."

"I couldn't expect you to comprehend something like that," hissed the good doctor as I helped him struggle back up onto his feet. He refused to remain on his knees before this creature.

"I don't disagree with you, Dr. Watson! I simply don't see anything in that girl aside from the experiment that has been her life. I have no lasting affections. Perhaps this is the reason why you are at my mercy and I am in control… Care for others leads to negligence of oneself. Why, Mr. Holmes here would have died in your stead, and even Eve took abuse rather than sentence one of you to the bullet. Don't look so surprised, you think I can't get at Whitehall's reports? That little episode I did not anticipate; she should not have been so attached. But then, she is young and trusting. Her anger will grow with her."

"She was so attached because she finally learned that there was kindness in the world beyond her casket…" His voice was low and hoarse. "She was loved." He paused at this, face stiffening and jaw setting. "No. She is loved!"

"Hmm…" His tone was entirely condescending, thoroughly amused at what he considered to be antics. "Perhaps she will be yet, a loving family taking her in out of the goodness of their hearts. Punishing her for ungratefulness when she acts out. Rejecting her when she is grown and no longer adorably mischievous but merely a savage monster with no concept of emotions. I've seen it happen with dogs, and I've seen it happen with people. She will be no different."

Watson all but growled, his hate for the man evident in his very eyes. "Why are we here, Sinclair? Why tear that child back into such a horrible place?"

"I don't care a mite for the child; she served her purpose as soon as your received the message that she was missing. She does not know where the Ruby is, for she would have told you by now. Nor do I have any idea as to its whereabouts thanks to that devil Mason…" Wrath became near glee as a smile came onto his face. "But I am an optimist, gentlemen, and being such decided to make the best of a bad situation. Your fondness for little Eve made her wonderful bait. I strive to be the best I can be, and no villain has succeeded in killing Sherlock Holmes. A wonderful little goal, don't you think?"

"You…" Watson lunged again, his emotions overriding his common sense (how horrible, to be controlled so thoroughly by whims). I did not stop him, because it provided the distraction I had been waiting for.

One moment, Callaway had swooped down to grab Watson. He laid hands on him, and then fell to the ground with a chorus of painful yowls. I had managed to get a bullet in his arm, and now I put one in his upper leg. He would not be getting up to help his master any time soon.

"It's over, Sinclair," I spoke, quashing the swell of pride that was rising in my chest. He had hurt so many people, he had indirectly starved and beaten Eve like a little boy pulling the legs off a spider to see what would happen, and now he would face the courts.

The monster had the gall to chuckle. "Oh, Mr. Holmes, there is your trusting nature again…" Before I knew what had happened, he was on his feet and had snatched one of the pikes from the wall, and swung it with a swiftness I could barely follow, knocking the pistol clear across the room and leaving a shallow gash on my hand. "I've lied about so many things, Mr. Holmes, so why on earth did you assume I was truthful about being crippled…?"

Trevor

As Mr. Holmes cut through the aged stitching of the much-loved rabbit, I almost expected to see the red sheen of the Black Prince's Ruby nestled within the dingy stuffing.

My employer must have noticed my expression, for despite the tension that hung over the room he gave a rare, soft chuckle. "The actual Ruby will not be in the rabbit, Trevor. It's one hundred and seventy carats without the setting; we'd have noticed the weight before. Ah! Here we are…!"

He pulled from the incision a black mass no larger than his thumb, turning it about in his huge hands. "Oilskin sealed shut with tar. Entirely waterproof. Bright man, Mr. Mason…" Mr. Holmes took up the scissors again, and although the thick oil-treated cotton cloth made a tougher job for them than the worn fabric, he managed to slit enough so that he could pull out the thin leather within.

The co-ordinates had not been written but rather branded into the material, so even if water had managed to infiltrate the barrier of oilskin and tar it would not have ran. I imagined that the waterproofing was more to protect it from mould.

"This is it." I was surprised to hear Mr. Holmes's voice drop beneath its usual level. "This is where the Ruby is, that blasted stone that so many people were killed over…"

"The majority of people are killed over things even sillier," I offered, hating to see him looking so down-trodden although I could hardly blame him. He had stated off-handily before I went to fetch the scissors that his brother and the doctor should have been back by now, and Miss Eve still burned under her blankets. The triumph of discovering the location of the stone was a poor off-set to those events.

"Sir, should I go inform Scotland Yard that your brother and Dr. Watson have not yet returned?" I approached, knowing it was best not to question his concerns outright. Asking him to wear his emotions on his sleeve was the quickest way to anger Mycroft Holmes.

"No… Not yet, Trevor." He seemed very old at that moment; as worn as the stuffed rabbit lying open between us. "Not just yet. We'll give them a bit more time. Sherlock will be thorough about his search. He knows we cannot let him slip through the cracks again."

"Sir, perhaps a hot bath, a shower even, would do you good." The wariness remained in my tone, as I was well aware that I was his secretary, not his physician. Still, his well-being was at least partially in my hands, and it would do no one any good if he became exhausted and ill. "I can watch Eve, sir, while I sew Bunny back up."

The heavy man looked as if he were about to protest, but then he gave a thoroughly relenting sigh, rising to his feet. "I won't be long… Just… Keep her comfortable, and if she coughs you might need to lift her up, rub her back a bit to help the congestion…"

"I've presided over sick children before, sir," I assured him. I myself had been quite ill as a child, adding to my knowledge of quite a few medical techniques. While most secretaries did not need to know anything beyond basic first aid, when working for Mr. Mycroft Holmes it never hurt to know something.

"Yes… Yes, I know… I won't be long…" He made a move as if to touch Eve, but then stopped, perhaps being aware of the expression of affection in my presence, and then merely plodded off to the bathroom.

Despite all the horrible happenings, it was beyond me to restrain a smile. I had worked for Mr. Holmes for nearly four years, and in that time he gave no hints that he would gracefully tolerate a child, let alone allow his heart to be grasped so firmly by one.

At the same time, however, I knew that there was no use in denying the inevitable. Eve would return to the orphanage as soon as she was able (I ignored the part of my mind that chimed in "If she even lives."), and my employer would be himself once more. Not a bad situation, a comfortable situation, and yet that detoured brush had said more than he would have liked it to say; his concern for her overrode his icy shell.

Amusing, if nothing else.

Removing the small envelope of sewing equipment from my jacket pocket (one always had to be prepared, after all, and nothing annoyed me more than tears), I set to repairing Bunny's injury, taken bravely in the pursuit of justice. My stitch was much smaller and neater than Dr. Watson's surgical bindings, and I was quick with my hands when it came to such tasks, and therefore the toy was drying once more on a towel before long.

Repacking the envelope, my gaze shot sideways when I heard movement from the bed. Eve was stirring, her eyes open and following my movements.

I wrapped the rabbit more firmly in the towel, taking it over to her and letting her embrace it with weak arms. "Here you go, Miss Eve. I knew how much you would miss it."

The smile on her face shone through the flush of fever, and I knew that it would have been worth pneumonia to return the toy to her. "Mr. Holmes is just taking a bath, he'll be back soon. We found the location of the Ruby, Miss Eve! Isn't that wonderful?"

Dark eyes that had almost been half shut widened and her head tilted sideways in questioning.

I gave her bunny a tap on the head. "The co-ordinates were right with you the whole time, and none of us even knew it! It's going to be okay, Miss Eve. We're going to find the Ruby and bring Mr. Sinclair to justice."

The child nodded, although she did not seem so sure. When the bathroom door opened and my employer emerged, hair damp but looking far less highly-strung, I could literally see her bruised and gaunt face light up. With energy I did not know she had, she jumped out from under the covers, made it across the length of the bed before I could grab her and flung herself into Mr. Holmes's arms.

The huge man's expression was one of shock at first as he secured his grip around her, but then one of concern when her mouth opened in a silent cry of pain and tears welled in her eyes. "Of course that hurt, you daft creature," he spoke, his tones far kinder than his words. "You have a set of bruised ribs and your arm's been damaged again, and you're ill. You can't be fooling about like that."

She continued to cling to him as tightly as a burr as he carried her over to the bed, sitting on its edge. When she refused to be removed, he merely gathered some of the blankets and wrapped them tightly around her.

"You need liquids; dehydration is the last thing you need right now. Perhaps Mr. Trevor will go fetch some fresh tea? Oh, and get me some paper and a pen, won't you? I need to contact Inspector Lestrade; I've only just thought of something."

I gave a quick nod, heading out the door, sparing a glance at Mr. Holmes cradling the broken little child in his arms. The scene was not a natural one, and yet something about it seemed so sincere.