A/N: It's that time again! The AU train has rolled into the station – chu-chuuuuu! This one got away from me a bit … my bad, lol.
Prompt 07: From mrspencil – a startling transformation.
Lost My Way
Two months shy of the third anniversary of Holmes's death, you are in a place called The Bull Pit.
It is not an establishment you would ever have previously step foot in, located roughly four miles away from Cavendish Square, beneath a Tobacconist's that you sincerely doubt deals in the selling of tobacco. The company is poor and the venue poorer still. Tables are clustered within, set far too close together so that arms and legs brush those of their neighbouring seats. Every inch of wall space is encased in wooden panels, the room shrouded in perpetual darkness. What illumination provided resembles spotlights on an ocean, swirling in your field of vision.
In fairness though, that may be the drink.
The ale served is cheap but passable, and you lost count at the third draught, so focused on the cards in your hand to give your alcohol consumption over the past two hours much thought. If you were sober, you would be appalled at yourself.
A haphazard golden mountain of coins lies between you and your opponent, a Scotsman whose arms resemble thick logs braced across his chest. He wears a permanent sneer behind his red bushy beard and whiskers. His mannerisms remind you of an Irish setter, gruff noises that sound like barks coughing out of him at every hand. Fortunately, you wisely refrain from telling him thus.
A small gathering has formed around your table consisting of previous players, who wisely stopped when it was deemed appropriate, and regular drinkers who seem perplexed as to why you are here.
You are starting to wonder why too, as it is your week's wages that are on the table.
And you are losing rather exponentially.
/-/-/
It is nearer to dawn than dusk when you head home. There are no hansoms and it is a long walk. The cold air does little to sober you up, and your chest feels as empty as your pockets.
You do not fall into the hallway, but it is a near thing, and you are grateful it is too early for the maid to awaken. You tug off your shoes whilst leaning heavily on your cane, the walls listing gently from side to side.
You catch your reflection in the hallway mirror as you straighten. Tired, watery eyes stare back, shadowed by losses that are not purely monetary.
I shall never go back, you vow.
It sounds hollow even to your own ears.
/-/-/
Twelve days later, you nudge the door to The Bull Pit open with your cane.
The barman greets you by name, yet the name he calls you is not your own because you never gave it. You do not wish anyone to know it.
The Scotsman is not there, but a sailor with a slight Liverpudlian accent is more than obliging to take your money.
/-/-/
It occurs to you the next morning that the man in your shaving mirror is no longer a man you recognise, and you lower the razor to examine the face looking back at you.
You wonder when you started changing, when this transformation may have begun, but your thoughts come up empty. You have been many things; son, brother, student, soldier, doctor, biographer, friend, husband, widow … but you've never been this. It hurts all the more that you cannot identify who this man is, who stares back as though he cannot figure you out either. You wonder what Holmes would make of this person, whether he could create an identity from the puzzle before him.
The razor clatters into the basin. You turn away, frustrated. It matters not what Holmes would think, because Holmes is no longer around, and the man in the mirror is clearly aware of this.
/-/-/
You succeed at avoiding The Bull Pit for several weeks straight, only because you need to earn back the money you have lost.
You may not recognise the man you have become, but even this stranger knows that the cost of living is not free. You are grateful, for if nothing else, the condemning looks he gives you are enough to remind you of this fact.
/-/-/
One week shy of the date of Holmes's death, you are unrecognisable, because the man you once knew and the man you know now would never have let it get this far.
The Scotsman is back, the sneer dutifully in place, and he produces winning hand after winning hand, cards tumbling from his sausage-like fingers. Jacks, Queens and Kings appear in colourful succession, and those too seem to gaze up at you in elation.
You have lost more than a week's wages this time, and you have drunk more than you can ever recall. Everything has a blurred edge, would almost be euphoric if you were anywhere but here. Your watch and chain are on the table, and the Scotsman's eyes gleam like pale marbles as he gazes at you over his cards. You suspect him of cheating, but you do not possess Holmes's deductive flair to call him up on it.
"Anything else?" he slurs. The chair creaks beneath his considerable girth as he rocks triumphantly.
You shake your head. Like every round previous, you know you've lost this one.
He gives you a sceptical look. "You must have something."
"I have nothing else," you reiterate, a warning note in your tone. You want to leave, but you have no desire to end this night in fisticuffs, would rather finish the hand and make a swift exit, carrying your non-existent dignity out with you.
"Well-dressed man such as yerself? I find that hard to believe, sir."
"Believe what you will." You gesture to the watch and chain. "This is all I have remaining."
He smirks. "Nothing hiding in them fancy coat pockets of yours?"
It is said in jest, but you tense at the question, a rush of ice going through you. Your mouth feels suddenly dry and you swallow hard.
"No."
The man's gaze hardens. "I reckon you're lying."
Your heart is beating fast now, and it has nothing to do with the beer or the gambling.
"Nevertheless," you say, and by some miracle your voice remains steady, "this is what we agreed to play for."
"If you've got something on yer, I suggest you put it on the table."
"That was not part of the deal," you remind him, and immediately the atmosphere in the room shifts.
The men that were watching your game seem to suck in a collective breath as the Scotsman's face begins to change colour beneath the guttering lights. His chair scrapes loudly as he rises and looms close, gripping the side of the table in his meaty hands. A vein throbs in his temple, and you think with bizarre professional detachment that he should get that looked at.
You rise also. The ale you have consumed turns slowly in your stomach, a sick feeling rolling through you.
"If yer not gonna play for high stakes, then me and you have got a problem." One of his hands moves towards his trouser pocket.
"Yes, we do," you reply, and without hesitation you shove the table into his midriff with all the strength you can muster.
He stumbles backwards into several men, the revolver he pulled firing into the ceiling. The room erupts into disarray, the more degenerate of gamblers using the commotion to upend chairs and glasses whilst snatching back their spoils. You do not see this, have already ascended the stairs and fallen into the dark alley outside.
There is no time to mourn your losses tonight, and so you take to your heels and flee.
/-/-/
Two miles away, feeling no safer but certain you are not being followed, you wave down a hansom.
You give the driver your address and stagger inside. You lean forward in your seat, elbows on your knees, letting the adrenaline wane and taper off. Your fingers interlock behind your neck to stop them shaking, and you breathe deep of leather seats, cigars and horse hair. You wonder if all of London can see inside the tiny cab window, see how low you have sunk.
Never again, you think, and you hope to God you listen this time.
You must doze off, because the next thing you know the door is being yanked open, cool air hitting your face, and the driver is looking at you with pointed annoyance.
"I said we've arrived, sir," he says, sounding exasperated. "Twice," he adds, somewhat unnecessary, you think.
"Right."
You realise with growing horror that you do not have anything to pay him with, but you have not yet begun to shake off the inebriation of this night, can only focus on one problem at a time. You left your cane to the mercy of the pub and are currently conjecturing if you can make it out of the hansom. Your leg has been exerted far beyond its limits.
The driver is watching you, his eyes questioning beneath thick grey brows. "Problem, sir?"
Where do I begin?
"No," you reply, harsher than intended. You are angry now, disgusted and mortified that you are being observed in such a state. You want to erase everything that has occurred in the last six hours, scrub the dirt from your skin until you peel away this layer and carve someone new.
You step down without incident, misjudge the distance between the road and pavement and stumble into the driver. The wind is knocked from you as your chest crashes into his. His hands alight on your arms as he braces most of your weight.
"Easy, Watson," a deep, familiar voice says close to your ear, and the grip tightens. "You have endured a long night."
Your hands come up and you shove him away without thought. A sound like rushing water echoes in your ears, your heart slowly turning over.
The man standing in front of you grins, the years evaporating from his face. He removes the hat and wig from his head, revealing coal-coloured strands beneath.
The transformation is more startling in those three seconds than your own has been in three years, and you can only stare in mystified awe before your legs give out.
End
A/N II: *Sniffs teacup* ... yup, someone is definitely spiking this ...