1888
"Of course I'm right. I always am." Sherlock Holmes scoffed, pulling a well-worn deerstalker onto his head. "I expect that I'll be hearing from you soon, Detective Inspector." He said, cordially addressing Greg Lestrade before turning and striding down the dirty cobblestone road. London was old but beautiful, especially under Victoria's reign.
"How did it go?" A lilting Southern voice asked as a young woman fell into step beside the detective. "You look awfully confident."
"The entire dinner party was served soup with Xanthid crab meat in it. They all quickly succumbed to the poison and died, leaving the staff to pick their pockets clean." Sherlock told her in one fluid breath. "I have no idea why you follow me around so, Miss Carver."
"Just Madeline will do." She reminded him, "And I came to England to explore, and you seem to do plenty of that. And that's what neighbors are for, right?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow at her as they continued through the lattice of ancient streets until they reached Maryleborne Road and Baker Street. Sherlock chivalrously held open the door emblazoned with "221", and Madeline swept in gracefully. They met their landlady, Mrs. Hudson, in the landing.
"Have you already finished with the dinner murder?" The lady asked kindly. "You just got the case yesterday."
"Ah, but there's no time like the present, Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock told her simply. "I had nothing else to do, so I put my mind to work." He inclined his head to the ladies, then continued up to his flat in 221B. Mrs. Hudson and Madeline exchanged polite greetings, then left for their respective rooms- Mrs. Hudson in 221A and Madeline in 221C.
Madeline found an envelope with her name scribbled on it left under her door. Her chest swelled when she realized it was from her family in America. She wasted no time in ripping the letter open and pouring over its contents.
"Maddy, We hope you're doing well. The loom broke again, so I sent Will into town to buy another set of bands and a shuttle. Your sister has been helping me weave lately, and Will has been out in the fields with your father. He says to tell you to get home as soon as you can, he still doesn't like you being overseas in a country with a monarchy. You know how he is." Madeline read her mother's words with a faint smile. Her father tended to tread on the more nationalistic side, and even though Madeline didn't approve, his concern for her was comforting. She quickly scanned the rest of the letter, her siblings were doing well, and President Cleveland was losing sorely to Governor Benjamin Harris in the upcoming election. Madeline put the letter aside and made a note to write her family back. A soft scratch at her window drew her attention to the rather obtuse tabby cat mewling on the windowsill.
"There you are, you rotten cat." Madeline scolded it fondly. She opened the window and the cat helped itself, hopping in and strolling through the small flat with an air of importance. Madeline set out a bowl of scraps for it and milk, then set about grabbing her books to read for the evening. As a woman, she wasn't allowed to do much more than loiter around St. Bart's hospital as a cleaner; but she enjoyed sneaking into the labs and "cleaning" them. Her best educational opportunities came when Sherlock offered to let her watch or even help him with his work, and as much as she hated the sight of dead bodies, it was preferable to drearily cleaning the hospital washbasins. She sighed and curled up in one of the chairs scattered in her flat, displaying a horrifying breach of etiquette as she kicked her tight shoes off and pulled her feet up underneath her.
She read for a while, entranced in the pages of her book and oblivious to the world until she heard a sharp knock on her door. She quickly closed her book and sprang to the door, still wearing just stockings on her feet. Madeline opened the door to see a smartly dressed man at her doorstep. He eyed her a bit warily, then with an air of distaste he raised his chin with an aristocratic air.
"May I come in, madam?" He asked in a falsely polite voice. Madeline pressed her lips together and stepped aside.
"Of course, Mycroft. Come in." She made sure to only partially obey the Victorian etiquette concerned with social calls; the more she could annoy Sherlock's older brother, the better. Mycroft Holmes stepped into 221C, surveying the fat street cat eating from a saucer and the books and miscellaneous clothes scattered around the room.
"You seem to have taken on my brother's habit of living in constant disarray." He remarked snidely. Madeline followed after him and took a seat without waiting for him to sit first.
"I guess you're here because Sherlock solved the case with the poisoned dinner guests?" Madeline. Mycroft tilted his head.
"Remind me again why he takes you with him?" He asked a little coldly. Madeline gave him a knowing smile and shrugged, smugly noticing the irate expression Mycroft was trying to smother. He took a deep breath and composed himself.
"My brother has taken the liberty of locking me out of his flat." He said, "I want you to relay a message to him." Madeline leaned forward a little bit. "There have been two murders in the East End," Mycroft said, "Scotland Yard and Her Majesty fear that there may be more. I want you to propose the case to Sherlock. Understood?" He said a bit sharply. Madeline sat back and blinked, a little underwhelmed at the message.
"He hates taking cases from you," She pointed out. "What makes you think he'll take it?" It was Mycroft's turn to give her a smug smile without an answer as he stood and bowed slightly to her.
"It's been a pleasure, Miss Carver." The Holmes brother said a little stiffly, "Please excuse me." He left 221C as quickly as he'd come; but not before throwing another disdainful glance at Madeline's stocking feet. Madeline waited until she heard the front door close, then tiptoed up to 221B. The door was still locked and she could hear loud violin music drifting through the walls. After a rather long bout of banging on the door, Sherlock opened it and gave her an amused look.
"Has my brother left?" He asked, stepping aside and wordlessly inviting his neighbor in. She took a seat in the chair he normally sat in and nodded.
"Mycroft has a new case for you. There have been two murders in the East End. He wants you to find out about their connections and stop the killer before there's another one." She relayed to him. The detective pulled his smoking pipe from its case and tapped it against his leg thoughtfully.
"I suppose we might have to." He said, "But we can focus on it later. Will you accompany me to dinner, Miss Carver? I have somewhere to be." Madeline grinned at him.
"I was wondering when you'd ask."
. . .
John Watson was early. As he always was. He and his wife, Mary were already seated and waiting when Sherlock and Madeline walked in. Madeline delicately removed her hand from Sherlock's arm, and he offered her a seat beside Mary and then seated himself next to John. Madeline immediately saw the two men's' faces light up at the sight of each other, and smiled to herself before turning to Mary.
"How have you been?" She asked a little openly. Obviously the Watsons didn't care much for Victorian propriety- neither of them had stood when Sherlock and Madeline had approached, so Madeline didn't have to worry about conversational etiquette.
"It's been better," Mary sighed, nodding her head in John's direction. "He's been absolutely pining for his detective, and still seems to be a bit of a sexist." The women didn't have to worry about Sherlock and John overhearing them, they were far too busy in their own conversations about murders and mysteries. Madeline pursed her lips.
"I'm sorry." She said earnestly, "I know it's not ideal being…" She searched for the right word.
"A decoy." Mary finished for her. "I don't mind, really. I love him, and I want John to be happy; he just needs to shift his mannerisms a bit, you know?" Madeline nodded, and Mary quickly shifted the subject. "They look so happy together." Madeline smiled at John and Sherlock, who were leaning slightly towards each other subconsciously. A passing waiter threw them a cautious and almost frightened glance, so Madeline swiftly kicked Sherlock's leg under the table to jerk him back to reality.
Since moving into the Baker Street flats, Madeline had become Sherlock's companion on what could be considered "dates" with the Watsons. John and Mary were still a married couple, but lived more on a platonic scale than an intimate and involved one. Whenever they got together, Madeline pretended to be Sherlock's beau and Mary dutifully played the role of a wife. Through their shenanigans, nobody suspected in the least that Sherlock and John were anything more than friends, when in reality they were the couple.
Sherlock threw Madeline a grateful but irate look for her warning and went back to speaking with John. Madeline and Mary discussed the Queen and her husband, and whether or not the opening of the Washington Monument in D.C. would be as big of a hit as the papers were saying.
"Do you know anything about this double murder case they're working on?" Madeline asked Mary suddenly, derailing the meek and polite conversation in favor of something darker.
"I do." Mary said soberly. "In fact, I'd stand to say I know more about it than either of them do." She gave her husband a kind look, and he simply continued to talk with Sherlock. She beckoned Madeline closer, and they both leaned in.
"I know both of the people who were murdered." She said softly. "Knew, rather." Madeline felt her eyes widen.
"How?"
"'How' isn't important." Mary said dismissively, "I knew them. Mary Ann Nichols and Annie Chapman. We were something akin to acquaintances, if not friends."
"You need to tell this to Sherlock," Madeline said in a hushed voice, "Or maybe to Mycro-"
"No." Said Mary a little brusquely, "I have the feeling they already know," She added as an amending afterthought. Madeline pursed her lips and watched Sherlock gently rest his hand on John's for a moment while she thought.
"Just- do me a favor, love." Mary said, pulling Madeline's hands into her lap and holding them in a grip like ice. "Stay out of the East End until the killer is caught. I have the feeling this is just the start of something."
. . .
Mary was right.
Sherlock locked himself in his rooms for days on end, only leaving and moving about in the darkest hours before dawn and making the building reek of pipe smoke. Madeline heard him exclaiming to himself one afternoon and crept up to his flat to see what the excitement was about.
"What are you-"
"There's been another murder!" He whooped. Madeline didn't feel at all like mustering a pleased expression at the notion.
"Another woman in East End?" She asked.
"Two women, actually." Sherlock corrected her, "Elizabeth Stride and Catherine Eddowes. Check the paper." He gestured to a disregarded newspaper on his chair, and Madeline read through it gingerly.
"Slashes on the throats, parts of their… uteruses missing. And they're all prostitutes in the East End?" She asked.
"Most definitely." Sherlock said with vigor, "People are already calling Stride and Eddowes the 'double event'. Will you accompany me to the crime scene?" Madeline wanted to recoil at his oddly chivalrous offer, but decided to go against her better judgement.
Mary's words of avoiding the East End rattled around in Madeline's head like loose marbles, and she felt very exposed as she walked on Sherlock's arm through the streets. Even though their physical arrangement displayed the fact that she was escorted and even protected by the detective, she still felt vulnerable to prying eyes on the street. She and Sherlock walked all the way to Goulston Street in Whitechapel, where Lestrade and Police Commissioner Charles Warren were waiting for them.
"Oh thank God, glad you made it Holmes." Lestrade said in a tight voice, inclining his head to acknowledge Madeline's presence. She frowned. "We found what may have been a piece of Eddowes' apron in the stairway over there." Lestrade jerked his head across the street. Sherlock followed after him, but not before positioning Madeline across from the crime scene and mussing her hair a bit.
"Pretend to look interested, but indifferent." He instructed, ignoring her indignant scoff and efforts to smooth her hair. "And leave your hair that way. It's imperative." He said before quickly following after the Detective Inspector.
Madeline casually surveyed the street around her. Normal street pedestrians were stopping out of sheer curiosity to try and peer past the bobbies crowded around the crime scene, and Madeline noticed that many of them were ladies of the night who had their hair styled like hers (after Sherlock's meddling with it). She threw covert glances at the people who crowded around or passed her, but didn't see anything of interest worth reporting to Sherlock. One person stepped on the heel of her shoe; but she didn't do more than shoot the perpetrator a nasty glance.
A bout of arguing and a sound that Madeline realized as Sherlock's angry voice echoed from across the street, and the detective strode out of the building with Lestrade and Charles Warren behind him.
"You don't just erase evidence, you prat!" Sherlock spat, not caring at all that he was drawing attention to himself. The Police Commissioner spluttered for a second before regaining his footing.
"It was offensive graffiti! I had no idea it may have been connected to the murders!" He countered, "Think of the riots that would break out if-"
"If what?" Sherlock asked sharply, "If you hadn't erased a crucial piece of evidence that would have aided me in finding the killer? No? Of course not. Lestrade, for once you seem to be the most adept officer at the Yard. Quite ahead of this idiot. Good day." The detective turned on his heel and left, leaving Lestrade to do damage control and keep Warren from lunging after Sherlock and throwing blows. Sherlock didn't place Madeline on his arm when he left, so she got the hint he wanted her to follow behind him as if they were strangers.
She trailed him all the way back to Baker Street, then waited for a while to enter after the detective. Once inside, Madeline went straight to 221B and collapsed onto the couch in an unladylike fashion.
"And what was that all about?" She demanded, pulling her hair down and tossing it behind her shoulders. Sherlock still looked angry; but he seemed to have reined in his temper slightly.
"The Police Commissioner-"He spat the title out like vinegar. "Thought it prudent to erase a message written on the wall- in the victims' blood, no less- under the guise that it may have presented an 'antisemetic message'." He scoffed and paced around the flat, and Madeline pulled her feet out of the way so he wouldn't tread on her. After quite a few rounds of pacing, Sherlock calmed down and steepled his fingers in front of his face.
"I'll need your assistance again," He said, "John and I are going out." Madeline raised an eyebrow at the sudden change of topic.
"To which restaurant?" She dearly hoped to see Mary again and tell her about the new murders, although she'd no doubt heard of them anyway.
"We're not going out. We're going… out." Sherlock said, "Be here by seven, I will provide your clothes."
. . .
Madeline had no idea what was going on; but she had the sinking feeling that she was going to become the third wheel on the night's endeavor. It wouldn't be fair to say that she was jealous of John, but she did enjoy the fact that Sherlock treated her like a human being (which was better than how he treated most people anyway and it was preferable to being looked at like a china doll) and got just a little irate when John and his older ideals came around and she became virtually ignored. Sherlock had given her a very dirty dress that must have been pretty in its hayday, and once Madeline put it on the detective mussed her hair again, smeared soot from the flue on her face, and set off. They walked in a bit of an odd arrangement, as society dictated that a man could have two women on his arms but a woman could never have a man on each side.
Madeline was stuck between the two lovers anyway.
Sherlock and John left Madeline on the front steps of the Whitechapel Church, then gave her instructions on where to go. She was only supposed to circle the few blocks composing the Whitechapel area, then Sherlock would take her home. She had the uneasy feeling that she was being used as bait for the murderer; but tried her best not to acknowledge it and look too guilty or suspicious.
Sherlock and John dropped behind a ways while Madeline wrapped her shawl around her shoulders and shuffled down the street. She could hear them murmuring behind her sometimes, and it did little to ease her anxiety.
"Good evening, my lady." A gentleman said, sliding out of a shop like a wraith and flashing her a charming smile. Madeline smiled a little shakily back at him and he frowned.
"What seems to be the matter? Are you unescorted?" He asked with what sounded like sincere concern. Madeline looked the newcomer over. He didn't seem very alarming or intimidating, and he wasn't much taller than she was. With the added protection of John and Sherlock behind her, she felt comfortable taking the arm he offered her and walking with him through the streets. He walked her to a safe spot, then tipped his hat to her.
"I never did learn your name," He said.
"Madeline." She responded quietly. The gentleman raised his eyebrows and smiled at her.
"I'm Professor Jim Moriarty. It was a pleasure to escort you tonight. Tell your gentlemen friends I meant you no harm." He said, waving over Madeline's shoulder. She didn't trust Moriarty enough to turn around, so she simply nodded and watched him stride away. Before she knew it, John was at her side.
"We need to go." He said gruffly, "That wasn't good."
. . .
Sherlock wasn't answering any of Madeline's questions, and John downright ignored her. She sat on the couch in 221B, watching the detective burn treads into the carpet with his furious pacing and wondering why the Professor had been such an issue.
"Who is he?" She demanded for the thousandth time. John sighed and rubbed at his temples.
"He's an Oxford professor."
"So?"
"He's been involved in a multitude of Sherlock's cases; but he's never been able to bring him in." John added the last part a little more quietly, as if he didn't want to further irritate Sherlock's obviously wounded sense of pride.
"If he's involved in this that means that he won't stop there." Sherlock murmured. "He never stops until we're nose to nose in confrontation."
"Then confront him." Madeline suggested. "I've seen you kick more than your fair share of arse." Sherlock let a wry smile bend the corner of his mouth, but the gesture didn't reach his eyes.
"It's not that simple." He said, "I hate to ask you again; but-"
"I'm doomed to be bait again, aren't I?" Madeline sighed.
"We can always have John dress up in a corset and petticoat if you're not willing." Sherlock suggested with only a glimpse of humor. John scoffed, and Madeline felt herself smile.
"I'll do it." She said, "But promise you'll intervene if anything goes wrong."
. . .
It was cold, but she hadn't been allowed more than a wool shawl. Madeline waited aimlessly on a corner for what seemed like forever, then set off deeper into East End when a gentleman began to light the lamp posts on the street. She knew John and Sherlock were following, dressed as inconspicuously as possible; but that did nothing to ease the pace of her heart as it thudded in her chest.
She followed the directions Sherlock had given her and turned right when she reached the Whitechapel church. Nobody milling around on the street paid her any attention; but Madeline still felt like someone was watching her. Her conversation with Mary jumped to the front of her mind, and she hoped that she wouldn't be the next woman to end up gutted and dead in the street like discarded meat.
"You must really enjoy the dangers of wandering around East End." A voice said. Madeline spun on her heel and wasn't surprised to see Moriarty leaning against a wall with a top hat perched precariously on his head.
"You seem to enjoy stalking around East End." She replied in a curt but engaging manner. Her instructions had been to get him talking, to see if he would let something incriminating slip. Jim shrugged.
"There's a murderer on the loose, that's more than enough to make me interested in local events." He smiled warmly at her, but Madeline noticed that his eyes didn't move when he smiled. The thought made her cringe.
"Is your envoy absent this evening?" Moriarty asked, pushing himself off of the wall and walking to Madeline's side. She furtively checked behind her and was terrified when she couldn't see John or Sherlock behind her.
"They're here somewhere." She told Moriarty with a false air of confidence. He smiled like he was merely agreeing with her, then extended his arm to her again.
"I'm sure they are." He said, "But at this time of night, you really should be escorted." Madeline drew back when he smiled again, once she'd noticed that the expression didn't reach his eyes, it was impossible to unsee.
"And you think I need an escort?" She challenged. Jim laughed, and the sound bounced off the cobblestones and buildings lining the dark street.
"Of course not, but I hope you'll be inclined to walk with me again." He said in a voice that seemed vaguely threatening to Madeline. She watched him for a moment, then checked over her shoulder again for Sherlock. She didn't see him, so she gingerly placed her arm on Jim's and they set off.
"You certainly do keep interesting company, Madeline." He commented jovially, as though they were on a stroll through Kensington Gardens.
"I'm afraid I don't know what you mean."
"You play the decoy with the famous Sherlock Holmes so he can spend time with his 'true love', Dr. Watson." Jim elaborated like the information was old news, and Madeline kept her face still. "Sherlock has been an enormous thorn in my side for a while," Moriarty continued. "He always seems to put his nose where it's not wanted, and still come out on top."
"He's good at that." Madeline replied. Jim made a noise that sounded like a scoff or growl.
"That's true; but it gets old after a while- you can understand, I'm sure." He said, jostling her arm like they were two friends sharing a joke. Madeline faked a smile.
"I have nothing else to do." She said, "Besides stitch sheets and clean hospital pans, so I find that it's a welcome distraction."
"Is that so?" Jim said indifferently. They walked in silence for a while longer, and Madeline resisted the urge to look behind her for some sign of John and Sherlock. After a bit of silence with only the sounds of their footsteps in the air, Moriarty spoke again. "You can understand why his interference is such a nuisance, yes? Including his attempted investigation into this recent string of murders." Madeline shifted uncomfortably but started when something sharp pricked her through the waist of her dress. She could feel the tip of a cold blade resting casually against her side. Jim chuckled.
"Oh don't worry, they're definitely behind us. This is just to ensure they keep their distance. I'm sure the great detective can read your body language from here." He reassured her kindly.
"Madeline? Oh thank goodness!" A high pitched voice cried. Madeline felt the knife twitch against her side in surprise, and she turned to see Mary rushing towards her with outstretched arms.
"Mary, wait-"
"And you're escorted by such a fine gentleman, how extravagant!" She continued, looping her arm through Madeline's and slightly pulling her away from Jim. His grip on her other arm tightened, and she felt the knife move away for a second.
"We're actually on our way back to Baker Street," Moriarty said firmly. "It isn't safe for a woman like yourself to be out at night like this." Madeline saw Mary's eye glint dangerously, but she hid it with a smile.
"I thank you for your kindness, sir; but I'll take my friend back home. No need to inconvenience you any further." She said cheerfully.
"I insist." Jim said lowly.
"Mary!" John shouted, apparently just catching sight of his wife standing in the middle of the street. Mary closed her eyes and exhaled slowly, like she was exasperated.
"John, you should stay out of this." She warned him. "This isn't how I was planning the evening to go." She added flatly. Moriarty knew he was outnumbered. He flipped the knife in his hand so that the hilt was in his palm with the blade pointed towards his elbow, then grabbed Madeline's shawl. He threw it in a loop, then jerked it backwards. The shawl was soft; but the force behind it pulled it taut across Madeline's throat. She was able to wedge a few fingers on each hand between the shawl and her skin to rear a few degrees of separation. Mary pulled something out of her pocket, and John pulled a pistol. Jim scoffed.
"Excellent choice of weapon, if you aim correctly, you should be able to go right through her shoulder and hit me squarely in the chest." He said.
"John don't you dare!" Madeline gasped. The shawl grew tighter, and she gasped as black flecks mottled her vision.
"So I take it that this is your confession." Mary said tightly. "The Queen will be glad to know that 'Jack the Ripper' is off the streets." Moriarty rolled his eyes.
"I still don't understand why it's 'Jack' and not 'Jim'. It sounds more fearsome, I suppose." He said in a pouty voice. Madeline pulled her fingers out from underneath the shawl and drove them backwards behind her head blindly. She cringed when her left pointer finger hit something wet and soft; but was relieved when the tension on her neck was released.
She dropped to the ground and rolled to the side, and she heard a clang as Moriarty dropped his knife in favor of clutching at his eye. Madeline swept the blade into her hand and retreated until she was level with John and Mary. Moriarty staggered for a moment, then straightened up with one hand clapped over his eye and a gun clutched in the other.
"Drop it." John said dangerously. Jim laughed.
"And why should I?" He teased, "You're the only one with a long distance weapon, and I'd say that your gun holds about three rounds- whereas mine holds five. By all means, try your chances, Dr. Watson."
"Wait, where's Sherlock?" Madeline whispered after a short headcount.
"He just up and disappeared, as he does." John grumbled. "Now really isn't the time." Jim smirked and raised his gun as a long pole swept out of the darkness behind him and caught him soundly in the head. He crumpled to the ground and Sherlock swung the pole back to its upright position in his hand. John gaped at him.
"And what the hell is that?" He snapped, "You disappeared to steal the lamp lighter's wick thing?" Sherlock shrugged.
"It worked, didn't it? Far better than your plan would have." He responded cheekily. Madeline and Mary courteously looked away as John stormed over to Sherlock and kissed him hard. The detective let the pole clatter to the ground again, right on top of an unconscious Moriarty.
"Are we calling Scotland Yard or dealing with him ourselves?" Madeline asked. "Because honestly I'd rather be at home now." Mary smirked.
"I'll deal with him, go home." She said in a curious voice.
