A/N: I have noticed something as I am writing this. Holmes's voice in my head is just not sane. I think that should be taken into account. As for Watson, he seems to have shut down emotionally and fallen into a deep depression. Gee, I wonder why? My updates are a bit slower as the voices are being decidedly silent at the moment. Still a few chapters ahead though.
No disclaimer: Public Domain!
And now, back to Holmes.
Ch. 5-The First Plan
23, July 1894
The memories of those moments have sent me once more to the cocaine. Part of me wished that I had simply overdosed on the vile substance and ended my wretched existence, but some survival instinct still dwells within my breast and prevented me from taking too much. When the stupor of the drug passed, I found myself drawn to the journal, urged by some demon from within to continue this confessional.
My life as I knew it came to an end when those words passed Watson's lips. Mary, pregnant? I laugh now to think that, at the time, I felt the burning desire to ask when and how this had happened. Such an absurd notion, but instinctual. Betrayal followed swiftly on the heels of shock. How? How? Irrational though it was, I was horrifically angry at the both of them, but more so at Mrs. Watson. Now I curse all the terrible thoughts that I heaped upon her head. Mary Watson was a paragon of womanly virtue and all womankind should strive to be half of what she was. She did not deserve the abuse that I silently called down upon her. She did not deserve the hate that I secretly harbored deep within my heart.
Watson left me, citing various tasks that needed to be attended to, not even realizing the devastation he had wrought. One simple announcement had brought me from that cold, calculating machine he once related me to, to an irrational, illogical being overrun by his emotions. I collapsed under the weight of my reaction and remained prostrate upon the couch before the fire. Mrs. Hudson attempted to appeal to my stomach in order to garner, if nothing else, at least a negative response, but the notion of food caused that organ to clench and I turned away. No doubt she blamed my lethargy on the cocaine bottle and I was certainly not going to correct her, but I could not gather myself enough to retrieve the Morrocan case from my desk drawer. The mere thought of moving sapped what little energy I had left and it was not long before I drifted off to sleep.
When I woke, I felt even more wretched than I had before. Blasted emotions! This is why I hated them. They positively paralyzed me and drove me to some rash action, but this time I would not allow it! I would triumph over these petty feelings; they would not control me! I just needed a new direction in which to point my attention. I stumbled to my bedroom in order to address the matter of my toilette and it was as I was washing my face that my eyes fell upon the solution to my problem. There, laying open upon my nightstand, was one of my catalogs. The name Moriarty fairly leapt from the page and in that instant a plan sprang forth nearly fully formed in my mind. I snatched up the book, regardless of my still damp hands, and scanned the entry. Yes, this would do perfectly. Moriarty had been allowed to linger too long in the throne of London's Underworld. I had only nipped at his heels before to be a nuisance, but now I intended to hamstring him before going straight for his throat.
I shut the book and went about finishing my toilette. My effort, while I had little doubt would be successful, could conceivably cost me my life. That, at least, was acceptable to me. I was not afraid of death, could not be in my line of work, but Moriarty might have a mind to go after Watson and that I could not allow. It was essential, then, that I cease all contact with him and his household. It would be easier in the end.
For the next two months I devoted all of my attention on systematically dismantling Moriarty's kingdom of crime. I knew that I was making an impression when I was nearly run down by a carriage and my food was poisoned no less than three times. I had the attention of the Napoleon of Crime and he was very unhappy. I was deep in an experiment that would aid in resolving matters in my latest case when Mrs. Hudson announced that I had a visitor. I raised my head to order her to turn the person away when my gaze lighted upon Mary Watson just two steps behind my landlady.
Seeing that my attention had been sufficiently captured, she asked, "Shall I bring up some tea, Mr. Holmes?"
"Yes, thank you." She nodded, leaving the two of us to stare each other down. It was Miss Mary that braved to break the silence first.
"I do hope I am not interrupting an important matter."
"Nothing that cannot be repeated at a later date," I assured as I rose from my chemistry set and directed her to a seat.
"That's good. I'm glad." The awkward silence that followed was practically suffocating us both and I thought briefly about opening the window before dismissing the idea just as quickly. The air out was particularly foul today and I had no wish to allow it to invade my sanctuary. Instead, I silently bade Mrs. Hudson to hurry with the tea, for then, at least, I would have something to focus on.
"It has been some time since John and I have enjoyed the pleasure of your company," she ventured in an effort to dispel some of the tension that lay between us. "You have been missed."
"Yes, I have been quite busy of late. My cases have kept me from calling on you both. For that I must apologize, ah!" My landlady was a welcome sight as I had no want to pursue this line of conversation. Still, I knew that it was only a temporary reprieve, for once Mrs. Hudson had departed, Miss Mary turned on me once more.
"Is it your cases, Mr. Holmes, or the fact that I am expecting?"
My entire body stiffened at the question and I nearly lost control of my tea cup. Let it never be said that Mary Watson is not a perceptive creature. It was she who saw my love for Watson even when the man himself had not! And yet again, any false pretenses I might hope to raise were demolished by her. But how could I answer such a question? It was not so much a question as an accusation! I saw Miss Mary's expression soften, no doubt perceiving the nerve that had been struck.
"It was not a move to drive you away. It was purely chance that John and I were blessed with this gift. But we would not want it to keep you from us, from him."
I clenched my shaking hands around my tea cup before deliberately sitting it back upon the table. Mrs. Hudson would never forgive me if I broke her favorite set. This was going to call for drastic measures.
"Mrs. Watson, I am going to ask you a question and though it may sound a bit absurd, I want you in all earnest to take it very seriously." Once I had her full attention, I pressed on. "Answer me truthfully: do you love your husband?"
"Yes!"
"And you would do everything within your power to protect him and your unborn child?"
"Of course."
"Then you would do well to keep them both as far from me as possible, otherwise you may find yourselves in the gravest of danger."
For a long time Miss Mary stared at me with only the ticking of the mantle clock to break the silence. I tightened my entire body to keep from fidgeting under her stern gaze.
"You once said there is always danger in what you do. How is this different?" She questioned carefully.
My fingers danced over the tablecloth, the energy of my body no longer allowing for total confinement. "This time it is considerable and I would not see harm come to any of you on account of your association with me."
"Then we are already in danger. The friendship between my husband and you is well known."
"But by the cutting of those ties any evil attention that I have drawn will not cast an eye your way." At least, I hoped. Another pause and from the corner of my eye, I observed her head drop to her breast, fingers clenched around her gloves. Her distress touched me, but I steeled my nerves lest I give in. This was what needed to be done, for their sakes as well as my peace of mind.
"You are quite decided then?" she asked, raising her head once more.
I tried not to notice her wavering tone as I turned to meet her gaze. "Quite."
"Then there is nothing more that needs to be said." Rising from her seat and pulling on her gloves, she paused with her hand on the door knob. "Except, perhaps," our gazes met again, "that we want you to be safe. Take all precautions. We would both be devastated if…" Here she trailed off and with a final nod left me to my thoughts.
The tea I had drunk turned in my stomach and I hastily replaced my cup once more on the tray, lest I give into the urge to hurl it across the room. What I had just done was distasteful in the extreme but completely necessary. I did not believe, however, that I would be able to repeat the performance with Watson. The best course of action would be to absent myself from Baker Street as much as possible. There might come a time when a confrontation between Watson and myself, followed by a separation, was necessary and for that I had to be prepared.
But I was not. How I thought anything should prepare me for that moment that I would be forced to leave Watson, is beyond me. Another two months passed and I had succeeded in bringing the Napoleon of Crime to his knees. With his empire in ruins and the Yard in control of sufficient evidence that ensured all would be hanged, Moriarty had nothing to lose. His goal became the ending of my life and as any rational creature that possess an ounce of survival instinct, I ran. It was not in panic that I did so, for as I have stated previously, I had some inkling that this would end with my death. I ran in order that our final battleground should be one of my choosing.
And I brought Watson as my witness.
Any reason that I would give for subjecting my friend to this cruel fate is inadequate at best and horrid at its worst. What shames me the most is that it was the thought of being separated from him by death without having him at my side just once more was too difficult a fate to bear.
The sound of him screaming my name over the roar of those blasted falls still haunts my dreams. The agony of that cry reflected all the anguish that lay within my own breast and for half a second I contemplated the thought of us running away together. A quick glance up, however, revealed that the danger had not passed. High above Watson and me was Moriarty's lieutenant, Colonel Moran. The tiger-hunter was lying upon on his stomach, the air gun I so feared aimed directly at my Boswell. The half-formed cry died in my throat when I saw him glance my way. His meaning was clear. If I informed Watson that I was still alive he would be killed.
So I could do nothing but lie there and watch grief overtake my dearest companion. He remained behind, even after the authorities had conducted a brief and clearly unthorough search of the surrounding area. Even if their conclusion was erroneous, why should they think otherwise? If I had survived, none would have held Moriarty's death against me, for even now I bear some of the marks of that desperate struggle. I had no reason to run; at least, none that they were aware of and surely I would not leave my friend in such a state. I saw one of the officers speak briefly to Watson, even though he gave no response, before patting him briefly on the shoulder and hiking back up with the rest. My Watson made no move to follow.
My Watson! What right have I to name him such? What claim do I have upon him after I have mistreated him in such a manner? And to think I was unaware that I could be crueler. Now I know that I had not yet scraped the bottom of my black heart. But I am getting ahead of myself.
It was only the knowledge that I held his life in my hands that kept me from calling out to him and ending his grief. Each moment that he remained was like a knife to my heart and yet I could not bear the thought of him leaving. Despite the nightmares that I knew it would produce, I drank in the sight of him, committing every detail to my memory. Whatever I suffered from viewing his grief over my death would be my penance. I would welcome the punishment with open arms and wish to increase it a thousand-fold for the harm that I have brought to my beloved Watson. It was no less than I deserved.
Those horrid minutes where I struggled with the professor were nothing in comparison to those that followed. Watson staggered to his feet; he had sat at the base of that rock for more than two hours now and it was growing quite dark. My note was practically crushed within his fist and to my mounting horror he was making his way toward the edge of the falls instead of away! A cry once more rose in my throat and it took every bit of my will power to suppress it. If I called out to stop him I condemned him to death! But if I did nothing it now seemed very possible that he would throw himself into that yawning chasm in order to join me in 'death'. I held my breath and prayed to every deity that I knew, including the Devil himself, that Watson would pull back and not succumb. I do not believe that I breathed again until he stumbled back and crumpled against that rock like a puppet whose strings had been cut. My sobs of relief matched those in his grief and it was some time before either of us could pull ourselves back together. Once I had regained some measure of composure, I looked down to see my faithful companion gather my silver cigarette case and my alpine stock before finally making his way back up the hillside. I sent one last prayer for his safe return before I became too preoccupied with my own survival to give his another thought.
I am not totally certain as to why Moran did not shoot either Watson or myself that day. Perhaps, in Watson's case, it was because my dear friend was completely ignorant of anything that might be used against Moran. Perhaps he just did not wish to waste the bullet that he intended to use on me. Either way, my friend escaped unharmed by the villain who now focused his entire attention upon me. And yet, it was not bullets that came my way, but rocks. I wondered if his gun had jammed when he attempted to fire or if he thought this would make his "hunt" more challenging. Whichever it was, I was heartily glad that he was on my heels and not Watson's.
It was many harrowing hours later that I was able to stop and catch my breath. I had little doubt that Moran was still on my trail, but I had placed enough distance between us that I might pause and plot my next move. Returning to England was out of the question, for I could not place Watson in that sort of danger again. I would need to keep running, put as much distance between my beloved and I as possible.
And so it was. Once I had established my safety to some degree, I contacted Mycroft and informed him of my continued existence. I secured from him the promise that he would keep a careful watch on my doctor and do his utmost to allow no harm to come to him. In return, I performed a few small international jobs entrusted to me by him and, in my spare time, did my best to secure the trap around those of Moriarty's empire whom had initially escaped my first. Within two and half years I had succeeded and all had fallen at my feet save one: Moran. Perhaps he had tired of the hunt or, more likely, he waited for me to succumb to the siren call of my home. I knew that none of my acquaintance was safe until I had bagged my tiger-hunter.
I returned to England without informing my brother of my intention and established myself in a bookshop not a stone's throw from my Watson's practice. The first time I laid eyes on him in over two years brought both joy and sorrow to my heart. He was as thin as when I first met him all those years ago and limping just as badly. I never understood what happened with his leg. I do know that he was struck in the shoulder and that is what removed him from the battlefield, but the one and only time I broached the matter of his leg, the expression that crossed his face was so frightfully dark that I hastened to change the subject. From then on it was merely another war wound and one that he never let slow him down. Now I could see every part of him was moving as though he were a man twice his age. It was a wonder he could instill any confidence in his patients in his condition.
Had I done that? Had my death brought my doctor to this low? If it was not the chief cause, then it was a contributing symptom. I knew, through Mycroft, that Watson had lost Mary a mere two months after his return. A miscarriage followed by hemorrhaging and the poor Mrs. Watson bled out before anything could be done. The stalwart doctor buried his wife and child next to my headstone, as I was told, and I was unaccountably touched by the gesture. Ever the romantic soul, my Watson. He told my brother it was so that I could keep an eye on them, keep them safe. I shall not speak of the tears that were shed when I read this, but I snatched up a pen immediately and implored my brother that if he ever loved me, he would keep Watson safe, even from himself. There was nothing holding him from that proverbial edge now and I was too far away to do anything but hope. Mycroft was as good as his word, but at what cost?
Watson halted not far from my position and leaned against a nearby gas post. To most it would seem as though this gentleman had stopped to watch the great swarm of humanity as it buzzed and flew from one place to another in a great mash of confusion, but I knew my Watson. The thin shoulders slumped under a coat that now fairly swallowed him whole. At this close a distance I could see that his hat was unbrushed and the mud that was splattered over his shoes was from the East End. This caught me by surprise. Why on Earth would Watson have business down there? Surely not to indulge in opium or one of the other dens of vice that ensnared and destroyed so many others. This thought caused me momentary panic and I was on the verge of revealing myself when Lestrade strode up and clapped the doctor on the shoulder in greeting. From their conversation, I learned that the two were working on a murder case together in the East End and it was with a sigh of relief that I remembered my brother mentioning that Watson had become a police surgeon. I was thoroughly appalled at first. Why should Watson ever waste his talents in Scotland Yard? I knew that he was far cleverer than he let on in his stories to the public and the thought of him partnering with the likes of Lestrade made my blood fairly boil. It was some time before I could calm enough to look at the situation with a rational eye. It was a good thing that Watson had taken up the post of police surgeon for it was something that would keep him occupied and under the eyes of those who were not completely unobservant, for all my protestations otherwise.
The second realization was much more damning. In the years that I had been absent, I had attempted to master my deviant feelings in regards to my doctor so that, upon my return, I would be able to enjoy his company free of this burden. I sought and pursued every avenue at my disposal to this end and believed, until that very moment, that I had had some measure of success. If these confounded emotions were this strong now, how would they be when our meeting was face-to-face? I would inform Watson that I was alive, there was never any doubt in that, but now I would have to hold out hope that he would turn me out on my ear once I had done so. It would certainly not be any less than I deserve. Actually, I deserved a good and thorough thrashing first, but in his current state it was entirely unlikely that the doctor would be able to deliver one himself.
Perhaps he would ask Lestrade; they seem to have become good friends in my absence. I will not, and I swear upon this paper now even if none shall ever see it, allow Lestrade to think of Watson as his doctor. I shall make certain that his face has a swift and painful meeting with my fist if he should ever even contemplate the notion. Believe me when I say that I will know if he does!
I abandoned my pen for an hour after writing those last few lines. Despite their glimpse into my dubious mental state, I cannot summon the will to blot them from this account. As loathe as I am to admit it, it was how I felt at the time and still, to a great extent, do. It is absolutely abhorrent to my nature to admit it, but I had and still have no control over these emotions. And because of that lack of control, I have destroyed not only myself, for I sincerely doubt I will live much past the end of this confessional, but the most wonderful person I have ever had the benefit of knowing. If that is not a crime that should see me swinging at the end of a rope, then I do not know one that should. Ah, a rope-------------
End Ch.5
A/N: Allow me to reiterate. Holmes is not entirely sane. I have discovered also, in writing this, that I am telling two separate stories so to speak. Watson tells you of the incident and what follows. Holmes, currently, tells of the events leading up to it. If it will move past that…*evil grin* that's my secret. *cackles*
This is great practice not only in writing on a regular basis, but in the novel that I want to do about these two. Half the time my brain is invaded by that soooo, oops. It will be done in journal style, much like this, only solely from Watson's point of view, I hope.
Reviews are always appreciated and a shout out to all that have so far! You guys are the best.