He slumped back to 221 Baker Street by taking the long way through the winding alleyways and the shadowy thoroughfares of London, best he could. The earthquake shook him as swarms of mortar rained down on his hat and covered him with clouds of old must. Sherlock kept walking without minding the violent shaking of London's very foundations. Based on the past few day's events, an earth-shattering phenomenon of such magnitude was entirely appropriate.
For such a peculiar, horrible past night and day, the largest earthquake to strike London in recorded history felt natural in comparison.
His weight leaned against Watson's cane, and his other hand stayed in his pocket, resting on the doctor's service revolver. The stink of Whitechapel's sewers still hung to him like a curse and he hadn't slept for three straight days. Only the dog whistle contraption was on him, rather than a proper pipe, and smoking the dog pheromones didn't do much for him.
If only he had a syringe of his seven-percent solution. He'd bugger the queen for a quick prick of chemical ambrosia.
God bless cocaine.
—-
Sherlock tripped on an ottoman first thing upon arriving home.
"Bleeding soles of Christ," he muttered.
Feeling his way for the fireplace, he blindly worked his way to the familiar feel of his Morocco leather case. Several bibs and bobs were clattered to the floor as he frantically moved his arms over the entire surface failing to find his prize.
"Where in hell are you?"
He moved his cane before him like a blind man, bumbling his way to the study table. The candle was where it always was, but before he brandished his matches, his hand bumped right into the leather case.
Even a small grin proved to sting his cut face. "Time to get chuffed as nuts."
"Don't light that candle!"
Sherlock turned to find the origin of the proclamation shouting from within his personal residence. He squinted his eyes to make her out in the dimness. Her stature was on the short side and to the usual specifications men found was desirable. Her clothes were those of modest means and not perfectly tailored to her body, contrasted to her masculine top hat that was clearly fitted for her head. She leaned against a parasol as if it were a cane. The rest of her features remained masked by shadows.
Sherlock's hand reached into his coat's waist pocket, found the service revolver, and pulled back the hammer, issuing a satisfying click. He left it in his pocket, allowing knowledge of the threat to speak for itself.
The woman stayed still without the slightest flinch upon hearing the primed pistol.
"Sorry," he said. "I'm not currently open for business. Please return in a month or four during my working hours."
"It's poisoned," she huffed, sounding exasperated, the hint of an accent on her tongue; something Germanic. "I can only just make out its scent, even less over your peculiar… malodorous musk. I'm no detective, but I suspect someone wants you dead; and that you need to practice better hygiene."
"I had a shitty morning," he said. Now he needed his solution in his veins more than anything. "Based on your assertion of not being a detective, you are welcome to this one free consultation: as you have surmised, there are plenty who want to see me dead. So, either I should not trust you, a complete stranger who has burgled their way into my home as my potential would-be-assassin; or you are a client with a case I have neither the time nor inclination of taking at this juncture and you will only manage to risk your life by inserting yourself within my proximity. Or, worst, you are wasting my time."
The woman began walking toward Sherlock. "If I was your assassin I wouldn't have bothered saving your life just now. As for your other concern, I don't bother myself about danger." She stopped where the moonlight trickled through the sitting room's large porthole window, letting it illuminate her heterochromatic eyes; one blue, the other the color of a cairngorm jewel. "Are you always this bad a detective?"
Sherlock peeked back at his candle. Although it looked exactly the same as the one which had always there, he began intuiting its odd placement of it, the unusual pattern of the usual clutter surrounding the candle. He squeezed his eyes shut for a long moment before prying them back open and peering at the mystery woman.
There was something wrong with the candle, conceivably it was even poisoned. Enough was wrong that he should have noticed it, would have noticed it, if this were any other night. Begrudgingly he had to admit how severe his current need for sleep.
"Austrian," Sherlock said, forcing his brain into gear. "That's where you hail from, obvious by your accent. Your posture and bearing tell me how much you care about appearances; you would never leave home dressed such as you are, in anything less than your finest raiments. Stolen are your current dressings. You only just arrived in London and stopped here first thing after discovering those clothes hung out to dry somewhere. Your plight may indeed be dire if your journey necessitated you wandering through the woods on foot, rather than riding in via carriage as any other lady surely would. You didn't change your shoes, and they carry a layer of mud not found within the city."
The woman clapped once. "I would be impressed that you found me out, but I'm standing right in front of you in your home. I don't see how useful a skill like that might be, unless you can do the reverse. Are you capable, Sherlock Holmes, of following a trail until it leads you to a person?"
"If I'm so unimpressive, then I doubt I can help you. Please leave."
The woman squared her stance, planting herself firmer where she stood. "I traveled far and fought tooth and nail in order to reach here, Sherlock Holmes. I will not leave here without you."
Sherlock rested his rump against the table edge and crossed his arms. "What makes you think I'm going anywhere?"
"Other than the fact that every candle and oil lamp in your abode has been poisoned?" She chuckled to herself. "Maybe so we can slip out of the city unawares before Lord Xenosia's spies report back to him that I met with you and he comes to execute you himself."
Sherlock chewed on that name for a beat. "Lord Xenosia? The President of the Board of Control over the East India Trading Company? What do I have to fear of a man previously ensnared within a web of extortion and blackmail by Professor Moriarty, a villain I've already dispatched of?"
"I don't know who your teacher friend is, but concerning Lord Xenosia," she punctuated the name. "A man dubbed by your papers as being 'The Hannibal of Imperialism.' He's richer than the queen, has a bigger navy, and triple as much political sway in the world. He has a city in India named after him, a standing army in London, let alone the countless battalions stationed in other countries, can apparently call lightning down from the sky, and is likely immortal."
Sherlock halted mid-reach into his inner coat pocket for his pipe he wouldn't find there. Every centimeter of his skin itched. He needed a damn smoke and a dark room to himself. "And he can be found at India House on Leadenhall Street most days of the week, and at the East India club on 16th or the Diogenes club on Pall Mall most other times. There, I found your man and solved the case, all free of charge. Good evening Madam."
As he made his way to move past her, the woman slid in his way and stamped her parasol against the floor. Her teeth bared in a grimace for a brief second before she replaced it with an easy grin. "Sherlock Holmes, my name is Carmilla Karnstein. I come from royalty. There's treasure buried in Styria that I alone know the location of. You help me track down the man I need, and you will be rewarded with enough gold for you to buy a quarter of London."
Sherlock passed her by moving in the opposite direction. "Only a quarter," he muttered. Walking astride her, he eyed the side of her face as well as he could in the moonlight. Her hat made it more difficult to be certain, but it didn't look like her face had a similar surgical scar down it that the fake Svengali had. Maybe he was being paranoid, but he needed to resign himself to check everybody from then on.
"What is it you do want, Sherlock Holmes?" She said to his back.
"Other than for you to stop repeating my full name like that, Carmilla Karnstein?" He patted the leather case in his pocket. "To be bloody left alone long enough to get cock arsed to the tits."
"We don't have time," Carmilla's voice was beginning to sound strained by increasing stress. "I want nothing more right now than to go wile away my worries at the nearest opium den for a week straight. But the world is teetering over the precipice of hell. Xenosia will keep forcing his thumb down on us all until everything tips into oblivion, and I'm the only one who can even the scale, with your assistance. Maybe you're not concerned, and neither was I, but he won't let us live in the world he recreates to fit his twisted image."
Sherlock stopped walking away. He remembered his years-long crusade against Professor Moriarty; his own plotting, the enemy's counterplots, the mind-bending discoveries into the depths of Moriarty's depravity and jurisdiction over crime, the paranoia making him need to always check for tails as he traveled throughout London, the ever-present stress, all culminating in the final thrill at Reichenbach Falls where he threw himself over the edge with every last dredge of his conviction. Never had he felt so alive.
He could hear it in Carmilla's voice, and he'd spotted it in her eyes. That same fervor he'd had, that burning purpose that had once too fueled him into acting as his best possible self. He envied her, knowing he could never feel that way again. Any man was blessed to have a higher calling in his life, and Sherlock had found his and completed the mission.
It was over for him. It was all over. He would be stowing away on some boat to travel to the New World, find a home so remote Dupin, his knives, or possible new clients would ever be able to find him.
This time, he'd make double sure the retirement would stick.
"Sherlock Holmes is dead," he said. "Has been for a while now. It simply took this long for it to finally sink in. I wish you well on this escapade of yours, miss Karnstein, but there's no one left at Baker Street to take your case."
It started out as a string of giggles that grew into guttural laughs. Soon, Carmilla was uncontrollably bursting forth unladylike guffaws until she wretched over, needing to lean on the table for support. "I'm- I'm sorry," she wheezed as she wiped condensation out of her eye. "You may have the luxury of being dead, but I don't; not yet. My options are pretty damn limited now that I can't enlist your help. I might just have to go try my hand at assassinating Xenosia by myself. Of course, I'll fail; but I'm afraid of what he'll do if he doesn't kill me.
"I'll be off now, if you could kindly point me to the nearest house of iniquity? I could use one last bout of Uranian congress, a final sip from the glistening lips of London's finest sapphic strumpets."
That was when the first brick flew through the window.