Wiggins, the third of Holmes' Irregular friends, was an able boxer, and had
once given Holmes a quick lesson on 22nd century boxing. Wiggins' tutorial
came in handy even though Holmes was "the best boxer of his weight"
according to John Watson's description. Holmes knocked Bern out cold
faster than the blink of an eye, or had at least stunned him and the other
guard who had rushed in to "even up" the fight. Unchallenged for the time,
Holmes was about to follow Lestrade again when yet another of Bern's
lackeys pulled out a strange gun with a curse. But a security guard on the
scene stopped him from shooting and broke up the crowd, hauling Bern up to
stand. Assuming he left the gang in good hands, Holmes left without a
word, taking Beth by the arm. He had wanted to begin an investigation for
Moriarty, but Lestrade was in no condition to join him. But when they got
to their room, Lestrade insisted on helping Holmes about the blackened
bruise he received from the fight. The bruise formed on Holmes' right
cheekbone and reached his right temple, although it didn't cover his eye.
Beth Lestrade fetched an ice pack from the hotel room fridge and held it tenderly to Holmes' face. "Does it hurt?" She inquired with concern before he shook his head with a wince. Holmes took the ice into his own hand and Lestrade sat down on one of the two beds in the room. Taking the pack away from his face so that he could look Lestrade straight in the eye, Holmes carefully asked her why she had been so terrified of William Bern. It was Lestrade's turn to wince as she explained with downcast face.
"William Bern's dad was the mayor of this city when I lived here, until a scandal drove him away. Will is the manager of the City Bank, now, and even before he got the job he was the richest kid in town. Everybody - all the girls at least - loved him and doted upon him, but his eye rested on." Lestrade paused with a shudder. "Well, I didn't return the feeling, and he knew it, but one time he -he and that gang of his - they threatened me real bad. They said if I didn't go with him I'd regret it and when I told them to go to hell they." Beth stopped and bit her lip with tears in her eyes.
Holmes stopped her right there by putting a finger to her lips. "Shall we discuss this over dinner, Beth?" Lestrade looked at him blankly and then stood, but she sat down again with a vigorous shake of her head. "No I haven't finished! I've never told anybody, Holmes. I can't stop now. It might be good to let it out - I - I just - it's just that remembering- it's. so painful." Beth Lestrade went on with a shaky voice. "One night they broke into the house and waited for me. When I got home Bern - jumped out at me with a knife and - slashed me with it and - after they tied me up so I couldn't move they - left me to bleed in Bern's trunk. It stank so bad and I couldn't breathe and it was. awful and."
Lestrade choked on her words and didn't go on anymore. She had been set free by a passerby hours later. And she was unconscious as well, having lost a dangerously large amount of blood. Holmes sat in silence, not knowing what to do or say, "Well it's all right now, Lestrade. That gang is in the hands of the law now. I'm certain somebody will testify for the fact that they started a row." Holmes smiled reassuringly, but Lestrade wasn't so certain. She told him how Mayor Bern had bribed the policemen so his son wouldn't ever be responsible for whatever deeds the boy had really done. And why should William Bern change his father's convenient ways? Tears rolled down Lestrade's cheeks like rain down a window on an April day. Sherlock Holmes wiped them away with the back of his hand. There was silence except for the final unstopped tear dropping to the carpet.
Holmes broke the silence, saying he'd go out and order food for them. He left the room and took a quick walk for air outside the building while waiting. Lestrade's story was piteous and terrible but he didn't know what he could do to help her. He felt like it was his story as well as hers, and that he too was running from Bern. Holmes shook his head at himself and got back to Lestrade with their dinner.
When Sherlock Holmes returned to the hotel room, he found Beth sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall, swallowing some kind of liquid from a colored glass pipette. She looked languidly at him, tossed the pipette aside and reached for another one from the open fridge. Holmes was aghast at Lestrade's lack of self-control, threw his overcoat aside and moved to close the fridge. Lestrade waved him off fiercely and showed him a pipette. "Is just beer, Holmes! 22nd century beer - no zedding side effects like vomiting or sh** like that! Sure, slightly hangyover but nothing I can't handle, eh, Holmsy?" She smiled sickly and continued downing the pipettes with amazing speed. Luckily for her (and Holmes, who fronted the bill.) the hotel charged a high room price and so everything in the fridge was complimentary, not to mention that newly filled pipettes were conveyed to empty fridges by a mini-wormhole.
"Ruffian Americans." Holmes muttered darkly as he reached down to help Lestrade up. But she waved him aside with a hiccup. "Zed off, you English ponce!" Lestrade chucked a glass at him limply and went back to her drinks. Sherlock dodged the pipette and caught it with his smooth reflexes, examining it tentatively. There were many different shades of pipettes, and a marble-like stone stuck in the top below the pipette's rim kept the drink from spilling. Lestrade had picked up a small device like a corkscrew and Holmes observed how she placed the bottom part of the "T" on the marble and pressed down hard, pushing the stone into the drink, which dissolved it. Holmes eyed the alcoholic beverage with a critical eye, but something took over him and he swigged it in one gulp. It actually tasted rather good, a mix of orange and raspberry with a crisp tang to it. Wondering if the different colors meant different flavors, Sherlock Holmes felt himself reaching for another pipette, and another and another until he lost track of the number of pipettes he added to Lestrade's scattered pile. And so the two detectives sat there in silence, drinking glass after glass and getting drunker and drunker.
Beth Lestrade fetched an ice pack from the hotel room fridge and held it tenderly to Holmes' face. "Does it hurt?" She inquired with concern before he shook his head with a wince. Holmes took the ice into his own hand and Lestrade sat down on one of the two beds in the room. Taking the pack away from his face so that he could look Lestrade straight in the eye, Holmes carefully asked her why she had been so terrified of William Bern. It was Lestrade's turn to wince as she explained with downcast face.
"William Bern's dad was the mayor of this city when I lived here, until a scandal drove him away. Will is the manager of the City Bank, now, and even before he got the job he was the richest kid in town. Everybody - all the girls at least - loved him and doted upon him, but his eye rested on." Lestrade paused with a shudder. "Well, I didn't return the feeling, and he knew it, but one time he -he and that gang of his - they threatened me real bad. They said if I didn't go with him I'd regret it and when I told them to go to hell they." Beth stopped and bit her lip with tears in her eyes.
Holmes stopped her right there by putting a finger to her lips. "Shall we discuss this over dinner, Beth?" Lestrade looked at him blankly and then stood, but she sat down again with a vigorous shake of her head. "No I haven't finished! I've never told anybody, Holmes. I can't stop now. It might be good to let it out - I - I just - it's just that remembering- it's. so painful." Beth Lestrade went on with a shaky voice. "One night they broke into the house and waited for me. When I got home Bern - jumped out at me with a knife and - slashed me with it and - after they tied me up so I couldn't move they - left me to bleed in Bern's trunk. It stank so bad and I couldn't breathe and it was. awful and."
Lestrade choked on her words and didn't go on anymore. She had been set free by a passerby hours later. And she was unconscious as well, having lost a dangerously large amount of blood. Holmes sat in silence, not knowing what to do or say, "Well it's all right now, Lestrade. That gang is in the hands of the law now. I'm certain somebody will testify for the fact that they started a row." Holmes smiled reassuringly, but Lestrade wasn't so certain. She told him how Mayor Bern had bribed the policemen so his son wouldn't ever be responsible for whatever deeds the boy had really done. And why should William Bern change his father's convenient ways? Tears rolled down Lestrade's cheeks like rain down a window on an April day. Sherlock Holmes wiped them away with the back of his hand. There was silence except for the final unstopped tear dropping to the carpet.
Holmes broke the silence, saying he'd go out and order food for them. He left the room and took a quick walk for air outside the building while waiting. Lestrade's story was piteous and terrible but he didn't know what he could do to help her. He felt like it was his story as well as hers, and that he too was running from Bern. Holmes shook his head at himself and got back to Lestrade with their dinner.
When Sherlock Holmes returned to the hotel room, he found Beth sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall, swallowing some kind of liquid from a colored glass pipette. She looked languidly at him, tossed the pipette aside and reached for another one from the open fridge. Holmes was aghast at Lestrade's lack of self-control, threw his overcoat aside and moved to close the fridge. Lestrade waved him off fiercely and showed him a pipette. "Is just beer, Holmes! 22nd century beer - no zedding side effects like vomiting or sh** like that! Sure, slightly hangyover but nothing I can't handle, eh, Holmsy?" She smiled sickly and continued downing the pipettes with amazing speed. Luckily for her (and Holmes, who fronted the bill.) the hotel charged a high room price and so everything in the fridge was complimentary, not to mention that newly filled pipettes were conveyed to empty fridges by a mini-wormhole.
"Ruffian Americans." Holmes muttered darkly as he reached down to help Lestrade up. But she waved him aside with a hiccup. "Zed off, you English ponce!" Lestrade chucked a glass at him limply and went back to her drinks. Sherlock dodged the pipette and caught it with his smooth reflexes, examining it tentatively. There were many different shades of pipettes, and a marble-like stone stuck in the top below the pipette's rim kept the drink from spilling. Lestrade had picked up a small device like a corkscrew and Holmes observed how she placed the bottom part of the "T" on the marble and pressed down hard, pushing the stone into the drink, which dissolved it. Holmes eyed the alcoholic beverage with a critical eye, but something took over him and he swigged it in one gulp. It actually tasted rather good, a mix of orange and raspberry with a crisp tang to it. Wondering if the different colors meant different flavors, Sherlock Holmes felt himself reaching for another pipette, and another and another until he lost track of the number of pipettes he added to Lestrade's scattered pile. And so the two detectives sat there in silence, drinking glass after glass and getting drunker and drunker.