AN: Prompt at end of chapter.

AN: I wanted to experiment. I do not write like this often and wanted to stretch a bit.

Holmesian Noir

I drained another glass and wiped my lips with the cuff of my sleeve, glad to see the end of another long day. Too many patients. Too many troubles. Outside, the snow was falling again through the streetlight glow. Just like the city, it was pretty but cold. Turning my back to the window, I picked up the black framed picture of Mary.

"Ah, old girl, you weren't supposed to leave me," I said softly and poured another two fingers of rye.

That's when my door opened. Backlit by the gas lamps was a woman and right away, I knew three things about her. First: She was all woman. From the tip of the feather in her oh so stylish cap, down to the toes of her patent leather pumps. All woman and no doubt about it. The second: She was in trouble. In my business, you get so as you can tell just by the way they stand. By the way they hold their head. By the way they cock a hip. Yeah. She was definitely in trouble. The third thing I knew was that she expected me to help her out of it. I knew because she was there, in my consulting room.

"Hello, Doctor," she purred and her voice made me want to kiss her. It was soft, sweet and warm; like it was made from satin dipped in honey and hung in the tropical sun. It made me want to kiss her and that made me angry.

"It's after hours," I growled, drank my rye and set the glass down hard. "Come back tomorrow."

Her laugh was the way I remembered, cool and merry. It was fake as a three-dollar bill. She sauntered in, right up to my desk where I could see her in all her glory. I should have known better. She wasn't the sort to take 'No' for an answer when she wanted something. I gritted my teeth, got another glass out of the drawer and poured, filling both glasses. I slid one across to her side of the desk and waited.

"You used to drink gin," she said, running her finger around the rim before picking it up. Perfect lips the color of over-ripe strawberries pursed as she sipped and I couldn't look away.

"Of all the consulting rooms in all the towns in all the world, you had to walk into mine," I said.

"You're the only man I can trust," she said with the shrug of one lovely shoulder. "So I came."

"Trust?" I snorted. "That boat sailed a long time ago, sweetheart."

"I didn't say you trusted me," she said. "I can trust you, though, Doctor."

"Can you?" I asked and took a burning mouthful. "How do you know?"

"I know because he always trusted you," she said and took one languid step to the chair reserved for my patients. An amused, knowing smirk curved those lovely lips of hers and she sat. "And you trusted him, even when you didn't know what was going on."

"He went over the falls. That's all done with. I'm just a doctor now."

"Are you sure?" she purred.

"I am just a doctor." I slammed back the last of my whiskey and refilled the glass. God, I hated her. I hated her for coming here. I hated her for reminding me of the past. Most of all, I hated her because I wanted the past back and that just wasn't in the cards.

"I meant, are you sure he went over the falls?"

I stared. Her perfect red lips left perfect red prints on the glass when she drank, her eyes never leaving mine. I felt them probe. I felt them measure.

"He went over the falls," I said in a low growl that frightened even me.

She blinked and bit her lower lip between even white teeth. "A package that came today says otherwise, Doctor."

I leaned back in my chair, the old wood creaking under me, and tapped the rim of my glass with my index finger.

"What package?" I asked.

She drank the last of her rye and fixed her eyes on mine a moment before speaking.

"It's about twice as large as a hatbox, wrapped in mummy paper and bound with, I think, hemp twine."

"So?"

"It's addressed to you, John H. Watson."

"Even if it is, that doesn't mean it came from him." I wanted to have another drink but knew better. Talking to her, I had to keep my head straight. I needed to think, and I needed to be sharp. If I wasn't sharp, bad things would happen.

Looking me squarely in the eyes, she said, "The address is written in his hand."

Damn her! Whether she was right or not, whether she was telling the truth or not, I had to see that package. I had to.

"Well, Mrs. Hudson," I said rising. "I suppose I need my coat."

~ 0 ~

Walking down Baker Street brought back memories. Too many memories. I shoved them away before they could beat me down like a rowdy barroom brawl. I was back on Baker Street where it all began.

"Here we are," she crooned in a playful singsong as she pranced up the steps to the front door, high heels clicking on the stone.

Standing in the snow on the sidewalk, I hesitated. If I walked through that door, I would be back in. Did I want to be? Could I survive it?

"Come on, Doctor," she said, smiling down at me. She shook her hips and laughed. "Don't you want to see the package?"

Her invitation was clear but unwelcome. I knew her too well to think it was genuine.

"I'm coming," I said, and climbed the steps to follow her inside.

"The package is upstairs," she said, locking the door behind us and turning up the gas to light the stairs.

"Why?" I asked, slipping my hand into my pocket. My fingers wrapped around the butt of my old service revolver.

"I didn't want Billy to see it." Her words were too fast, too dismissive. Something was up. "Aren't you coming, Doctor? I thought you wanted to see it."

I followed, drawn helplessly after her like a leaf after a speeding train. I didn't want to go, but there are times when you just get sucked in and there isn't a damn thing you can do about it.

When she opened the door to my old flat, memories hit me like a frying pan in the face. It was all still there. The bearskin in front of the fireplace, the Persian slipper, the books, the chemistry set. Even the jack knife pinning the mail to the mantel. All of it. But there was no package.

"Get inside," growled a voice, rough as broken glass. A hard, cold something pressed to the back of my head and I didn't need two guesses to figure what it was.

I stepped through the door, raising my hands so there wouldn't be any misunderstandings. The gun stayed against my head until I stood on the bearskin. A hand ran down my ribs on one side, then the other.

"Try his coat pocket," said Mrs. Hudson. I heard a match strike and smelled Russian tobacco, her favorite. "On the right."

"Shut up," growled the man. His hand dipped into my pocket. The weight of my revolver vanished. "Damn, Doc. Nice mahoska."

"What do you want?" I demanded.

"You and me is gonna talk," he said.

"About?"

"The Great Detective."

"Holmes?" I almost laughed. Of course, this was about Holmes. "He's dead."

"I told you," said Mrs. Hudson.

"Shut up," snarled the man. "And get over here where I can see you. Don't like you behind me. Turn around, Doc."

Bored as a debutant at the opera, Mrs. Hudson walked around me, a feather of grey smoke trailing in her wake.

"I said turn around, Doc," the man growled. "Don't make me say it again."

I turned, looking him up and down. It didn't take a Sherlock to see this guy was a thug on the make. About my size, he had little piggy eyes that stared from behind a screen of lank hair the color of old sewage. With his punch-flattened nose and twisted sneer, he was pretty ugly, and he might have looked tough to someone who didn't know. I knew, though. I had seen tough, and he wasn't it.

"You shouldn't have turned me around," I said.

"Yeah? Why's that?"

"You're a back shooter."

"What?" His voice sounded angry but his eyes darted over my shoulder to Mrs. Hudson. She was snickering. "Shut up, you!"

"Seriously?" she asked and I knew she was rolling her eyes.

"I said shut up!" His gun was shaking and for a half second, I was worried he might kill me by accident. "Don't think I won't do both of you!"

His gun moved to point over my shoulder and that's when I struck. I came in low, pushing his weapon away and driving a punch into his jaw. He rocked back but he'd been punched plenty of times. He must have been used to it. I hit him again and he lunged into me, dropping his gun. We were on the floor, clawing and hitting when we could. All of a sudden, he grunted and arched up away from me, shaking. I heard a wet noise, a noise I had heard too many times and then the guy went limp, falling face down on the bearskin. Mrs. Hudson stood there above him, the old jackknife red and wet. I got to my feet and took it from her. She shrugged and went to the sideboy and the whiskey bottles covered in dust.

"Want one?" she asked. She wasn't even breathing hard. She poured and looked at me, delicate brows raised. I nodded and went to stand near her.

We drank in silence while I got my breath back. Damn her.

"Why did you bring me here?" I asked when I couldn't stand it anymore.

"Because I couldn't take him alone," she said and shrugged. "And, he had Billy." Her look was defiant and angry. "He would have killed him."

Billy, her pageboy. The kid must be in his twenties now and he was still here. Well, who could blame him? A woman like her. A place like this. A city like London. I couldn't. I wouldn't.

"I'm done," I said, snatching my hat off the floor and picking up my gun. "I need some air."

I was almost to the door when she laughed and I turned around. I wanted to burn her to the ground. I wanted to shout and rave at her for dragging me into this. And, damn it, I wanted to kiss her. But, that smile on those perfect lips stopped me. I was turning for the door when she spoke.

"Oh, Doctor," Mrs. Hudson said cheerfully. "Would you be so good as to help me hide the body?"

~ 0 ~

Prompt from sirensbane: "Oh, Doctor," Mrs. Hudson said cheerfully. "Would you be so good as to help me hide the body?"