A/N: Chapter seven? Already? My, how the time... doesn't fly at all. I'm glad you guys are still with me on this thing. You know, I was thinking something the other day. Sherlock Holmes fans are by far the sweetest and most loyal of reviewers out of all the fans here at FFNet. And here's why: there are so few of us out there in the world, and especially at FFNet, that we all stick close together. That, and we all share a common bond - our undying love for the Great Detective. Naturally. Anyway, enough of my babbling. Here's chappy seven.

Disclaimer: "Down the Rabbit Hole" and its characters belong to me, but "The Dying Detective" and the literary characters I've embellished on belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. So please nobody sue me. I have no money anyway.

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Down the Rabbit Hole

a modern Sherlock Holmes fanfiction

by Wakizashi

Chapter Seven: A Mad Tea Party

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Peek in, sneak about

I'm gonna snoop and call you out

I caught you, your hands are red

Now I'm your broken-hearted detective

-No Doubt, "Detective"

----

Oh, what thoughts of violence filled my head at those words.

"You are certainly taking a long time to die."

It all made sense now: why Rhodes, who usually never got sick, became ill shortly after meeting Laney; why she had kissed him on that first day of his illness. She had known, that early, that he wasn't contagious. Because she had known that his illness was not an ordinary one. Everything was clear to me now.

Why, why hadn't Rhodes believed me? I had tried to tell him that he couldn't trust Laney, tried to warn him that there was more to her than either of us knew about. But he hadn't listened. Why did he have to be so stubborn?

I heard Rhodes clear his throat awkwardly. "I... I beg your pardon?" he asked, sounding genuinely confused.

Laney's expensively shod feet came toward one of the wooden chairs in the corner, pulled it up to the bed. "You were not this weak a few days ago," she observed as she sat down, throwing one leg primly over the other. "Were you? You were not so thin, or so short of breath. You do not think perhaps you are getting better, n'est-ce pas?"

Rhodes made no reply. I could hear his labored breathing, and I could barely restrain myself from crawling out of my hiding place and coming to his aid. But I remembered what he had told me, and I stayed put.

"I brought you something, chére," said Laney, and I heard the unmistakable sound of a zipper: she had unzipped her purse. She pulled something out and place it on the little table. "I thought you might be hungry, so I brought you some tea in a thermos, and biscuits. I made the biscuits myself. Would you like some? No? Then I will have some."

There was a sound of liquid being poured out into a cup. "Mmm, I love this tea," she said happily, sniffing it deeply. "Do you know, these biscuits are from an old cookbook which my family has had for generations. They are the perfect compliment for this tea. Well, the way I usually make them, at any rate," she added with a little laugh. There was a pause, and I could almost see her raise the cup to Rhodes. "À votre santé."

To your health.

I heard a clatter as she set down her cup. "But surely, Ethan," Laney said conversationally, "you have seen these biscuits before? Don't you remember?"

"I... I'm afraid I don't know what you mean." Rhodes sounded completely bewildered, but I felt the hair on the back of my neck stand on end, felt a rising dread.

"But of course you do! Think very carefully, Ethan." There was a short silence, and Laney sighed impatiently. "Of course, chére, you are delirious. Then I will help you remember. It was only two weeks ago. There was a package for you that came in the mail, was there not? A thank-you gift from one of your former clients."

Abruptly, my dread blossomed into gut-wrenching horror. Of course. Rhodes may have been too weak and flustered to recall, but I definitely did. I clearly remembered seeing an open box of butter cookies lying on his kitchen table. I had reached out to snatch one, as I was always welcome to help myself at his place, but I had nearly suffered a fatal heart attack as Rhodes seized my wrist in a vise-like grip. I had been more than a little miffed as he had told me they were a gift from a client over a recent case of his, and I remember wondering why he hadn't bothered telling me about it.

So that was how she had done it.

If only Rhodes hadn't let his guard down; if only he had listened to the advice he had given me and trusted his instincts. Maybe he wouldn't be lying here in bed, helpless, at the mercy of this deeply disturbed woman. And maybe I wouldn't be hiding down here, unable to assist him, to do anything but listen to this mad conversation.

"Yes, they were from a very grateful client," Laney continued, her dainty foot bobbing up and down. "And these were very special biscuits. I suppose you are familiar with the poinsettia plant? Of course you are, they are everywhere at Christmas time. Maybe people do not know this, but poinsettias are very poisonous."

Oh, God, I thought, suppressing a groan.

"The symptoms are very much the same as with nightshade. Have you heard of nightshade, chére? Well, poinsettias contain a kind of poison called a corrosive. They destroy the body's tissues, starting with the stomach. Vomiting occurs almost right away, and sometimes it is mixed with blood. I hope you have not been vomiting blood, have you, Ethan?"

Rhodes mumbled something I didn't catch, and apparently neither did Laney. "What was that, Ethan?" she asked.

"It... it was you," he repeated accusingly.

She let out a high, bell-like laugh. "Well, of course it was, silly!" she exclaimed. "You did not think it was just coincidence, did you? Becoming so sick so close to when we met." She clucked her tongue disapprovingly. "I thought you were a detective, Ethan. But it seems that you are not as smart as everyone thinks you are."

This was like a nightmare. How could she so freely admit to poisoning someone, like it was nothing? Ohh, I wanted to kill her. I wanted to reach out, grab her foot, pull her off that chair, and then beat her with it. But Rhodes had told me not to move, not to make a sound. And, idiot that I was, I always did what he told me.

I listened as Laney refilled her cup with the tea she had brought. "Come, won't you have just a tiny bite? You have my word that they are not poisoned." She giggled. "Now why on earth would I be eating them if they were?"

Rhodes gave no response.

"Eat it!" she suddenly shouted, causing the bed to jostle as Rhodes flinched. There was a rustle as he evidently reached out and took a biscuit from her; I could hear him chewing weakly.

"You see? Delicious, non?" she said, not a trace of fury left in her voice. God, she really was insane. "You know, your body is very... what is the word? Resilient? Yes, very resilient. Those biscuits would have been enough to kill most anyone in less than three days. But of course, you just had to be stubborn."

Boy, didn't I know it.

"But the wonderful thing about the poison contained in the poinsettia plant is that the damage caused in the body is cumulative. That means, of course, it gets worse over time. Considering how much time has passed, you do not have much longer, Ethan."

I stifled a bitter sob. It was true. God, as much as I hated her, what she said was true. Rhodes hadn't just been delirious when he had ranted about how he wished we could have had more time together, how there had been so many things he had wanted us to share. He really was dying.

Somebody kill me, too, I thought, squeezing my eyes shut against a flood of tears.

Rhodes was gasping with fear and pain. "Get me... to the hospital," he choked out.

Laney stood up and laughed mockingly at him. "Do you really think that doctors can save you now? Oh, chére, it is a little too late for that. Just as it was too late for doctors to save Donald Wernick, the guard who shot my father."

I felt my heart leap up into my throat. What was this about a guard? Abruptly, the answer was crystal-clear: Laney had poisoned that sniper, the one who had killed Gerard LeFavre. And she had gotten away with it.

No, I thought, my grief melting away and being replaced by a burning rage. She would not get away with killing him. And she would not get away with killing the man I loved. I would personally see that she would pay.

"If you... get an ambulance," Rhodes wheezed, "I'll forget about it... I'll forget that you killed Wernick... that you poisoned me. Just... get me help... please..."

"Oh, Ethan, you are making me sad," Laney replied, in a most un-sad voice. "It pains me that you believe you have that option. You cannot very well testify against me if you are dead. And you will be, very soon. No, I am afraid it is far too late to get you help; or at least, any earthly help. Aide-toi, le ciel t'aidera." Help yourself, and heaven will help you.

Rhodes groaned. "Bridges..."

My pulse quickened. Did he want me to come out? Or was he just calling for me in his delirium? Just give me the word, Rhodes, and I'll ram that chair down her throat, I thought, my fists clenching.

Laney snickered disdainfully. "No, not even your precious Nadia can save you now," she said. "I turned you against each other, remember? Now she hates you, and she will not come. Even if she did, she is too thick to connect me with your illness."

"She warned me... about you..."

"Oh, did she?" she asked, disgust creeping into her voice. "Perhaps she is not so stupid as I thought. Not so stupid as you, anyway. No matter. I suppose I will have to kill her, too."

"Laney," Rhodes whispered, so faintly I could barely hear him.

"Yes, chére, what is it? Do you have some famous last words?"

She leaned forward.

"Go to Hell," he said in a low voice, strong and shockingly spiteful.

There was a stunned silence. "What is this?" Laney breathed incredulously.

"Now, Bridges!" he yelled.

Without a second thought, I thrust out a hand, seized one of Laney's feet, and yanked it as hard as I could. With a screech, she lost her balance and hit the hard wooden floor. Crawling forward on my elbows, I hauled myself out from under the bed and gasped as I felt her grab a fistful of my hair. I twisted around and landed a punch somewhere on her stomach, and she abruptly let go.

I steeled myself as she launched herself at me, knocking me to the floor, her blue eyes wild with rage. Her hands closed around my neck, and though I tried to push her off me, fury had made her ridiculously strong. I felt her dig her long fingernails into my neck as I struggled to wrench free of her grip. I couldn't breathe. My vision was quickly being replaced by a gray haze. Any second now, everything would go black.

Suddenly there was a tremendous crash, and I felt a shower of glass rain down from above. Laney's hands went slack, she fell heavily on top of me, blood dripping down her forehead. And then I felt a strong hand pull me to my feet, and Rhodes was standing next to me, his lean body shaking with anger. In his left hand was a clear handle, all that remained of the heavy glass pitcher that had stood on the table.

He dropped the handle, and it broke into shards as it hit the floor. "Oh, God," he said, breathing hard. "All you all right, Bridges?"

I nodded numbly, staring at him. He touched my neck lightly, experimentally, and I winced in pain as he pulled a small fragment of an acrylic nail from my skin. My eyes widened as I looked at it. "What a whackjob," I said, my voice sounding strained and hoarse.

Rhodes nodded, still breathing heavily. I looked at him again, my eyes failing at first to register what I was seeing. Rhodes was standing, talking normally. Strength had returned to his limbs. What the hell?

"Rhodes?" I said hesitantly. "What's going on? I thought..." I swallowed. "I thought you were dying."

He smiled gently and shook his head. "No, Bridges, I'm not dying," he said reassuringly. He reached up and brushed my hair out of my face. "It was only an act. I'm fine."

With an overwhelming rush of relief, I leaned into him, and he wrapped his arms around me, holding me tightly against him. He buried his face in my hair, and I pressed my ear to his chest, just to feel his precious heartbeat. My relief was so great that I thought my legs would give out. Rhodes wasn't dying. It was only an act. He was fine. Everything would be all right. I kept repeating those words in my head, like a mantra: Rhodes wasn't dying, he was fine.

Wait a minute.

"Oh, Bridges, I love you so much," Rhodes whispered in my ear.

With a savage shove, I pushed him roughly onto the floor.

----

"Yep, that's her, all right," said Agent Edward Solomon, folding his plump arms as he stood over the unconscious form of Gislaine LeFavre. We stood in the middle of the street, bundled in coats, surrounded by a swarm of police cruisers, an ambulance, and the FBI agent's unmarked black BMW. The flashing lights on the police cars painted the entire area alternating red-and-blue glow.

Laney LeFavre lay in a hospital stretcher at the moment, but as soon as she was back to her normal, crazy-ass self again, she would be relocated to a jail cell, to await charges. Her head was swathed in a blood-stained bandage, and her face was a sickly yellow. Just looking at her, nobody would be able to tell what a psycho she was.

"Inherited her old man's murderous tendencies, I guess," Solomon remarked, shaking his head. "But she's a clever one. I don't know how we could have traced Wernick's death to her if it hadn't been for you two."

I breathed in sharply through my teeth as the medic that was tending my wounds dabbed me with an antiseptic. Beside me, clean-shaven and dressed in a fresh suit, Rhodes put a gentle hand on my shoulder. I shook it off angrily.

"So, how did you do it, Rhodes?" Solomon asked, after watching our little exchange with a raised eyebrow. "How did you make everyone, including your best buddy, think that you had one foot in the grave?"

"Yes, tell us, Rhodes," I put in acidly. "We're all dying to know."

Rhodes darted an uncomfortable glance at me, then cleared his throat. "Well, Solomon, I suppose when you come right down to it, it was really all about the acting. Most symptoms of any illness can be easily reproduced by acting: the chills, the physical weakness, the delirium. The retching sounds I had to make, however unpleasant, were also relatively simple; I just had to make sure Bridges did not accompany me inside the bathroom. The rest were all minor details."

"Yeah, but I saw you, kid," the agent persisted. "You really looked like hell. Your hands were freezing, and your head was burning up. How'd you manage to do that?"

"Ah, that was a little harder to manage," said Rhodes, warming to the subject. "I don't know if you're very familiar with the practices of the Tibetan monks." Solomon's face showed that he was clearly not. "Well, you see, they go on yearly pilgrimages across the Himalayan Mountains, and to survive in the blistering cold, they had to develop a special form of meditation. It forces one's body heat to leave its extremeties - the hands and feet - and concentrate in its most vital parts, namely the head and the chest. It lasts a considerably long time."

"And you used this... form of meditation?" Solomon asked, amazed.

"Yes. It helped greatly in providing the illusion that I had a fever. Although," he added, his gaze focused on me, "the heat became almost unbearable at times, especially when I was... in close proximity with another person."

At this both of Solomon's eyebrows shot up.

"At any rate," Rhodes continued quickly, before the agent had a chance to question on this particular statement, "the other detail - the fevered eyes, that is - I must admit, I borrowed that one from a Sherlock Holmes story that Bridges made me read once. A few drops of belladonna in the eyes can work wonders. It dilates the pupil, causes a most pleasing effect. Unfortunately, it also leaves the eyes extremely sensitive to light."

"And all the weight you lost?" Solomon squeezed one of the young detective's scrawny arms. "I suppose you've been starving yourself all this time?"

"Well, yes, actually," he replied. "Except, of course, for the meals Bridges prepared for me." He placed a hand on his meager stomach. "What I wouldn't give for some of her homemade chow mein right now."

Keep wishing, buddy, I thought angrily.

Solomon shook his head in astonishment. "I just don't understand it," he said. "How did you know the woman would try to poison you?"

"Poison is a woman's weapon," said Rhodes. "I had already read about Donald Wernick in the obituaries three weeks ago. Among other things, it mentioned his 'battle with a strange illness'. Poison seemed to explain his symptoms, and when I went through a mental list of potential suspects, Laney LeFavre seemed immediately the most likely. And then I received a package of cookies in the mail, sent by a so-called grateful client. My guard was up instantly, and I had them analyzed for toxins. The results showed that the poison found in them was either poinsettia or deadly nightshade. Then of course, after Laney so conveniently ran into me, my suspicions proved correct."

Suddenly Solomon clapped him on the shoulder. "Well, that was some great work, kid," he told him, pumping his hand in congratulation. "I can't believe you pulled off something this big, but then again, I can't say I'm surprised."

"Thank you, Solomon," Rhodes replied with an uncharacteristically sheepish grin. "I appreciate it."

The agent turned to the uniformed policemen as the medics lifted Laney's stretcher into the ambulance. "Well, boys?" he said with a wicked smile. "What say we take this girl somewhere where she'll be taken real good care of?" He winked at Rhodes and me. "See you, brats."

He lowered his pudgy frame into his BMW, flicking on a blinking red light on his dashboard. He sped off down the street, followed by a horde of police cars, and I was left alone on the sidewalk with my partner, best friend, and true love.

And how I hated him.

----

A/N: Here are my thoughts, if anyone cares. Did anyone else think that Watson might have been a little bit hurt that Holmes had pretended he was dying, forbade the doctor from treating him, insulted his skills as a physician, all to discover that Holmes had been faking the whole time? I would not have blamed Watson if he had been angry. Especially since the detective had not deigned to take Watson into his confidence, implying that he didn't trust him. That was probably the most insensitive thing I can recall Holmes ever having done. I'm sure he didn't mean to be insensitive, but that's how it came across to me. And this is why Bridges is so furious, if anyone needed an explanation. You'll find out more in the next chapter. In the meantime, review please!

-W.