All my stories are fully written before I post the first chapter, so while I'm still not able to go back to any kind of posting schedule, I'll try not to make you all wait too long between chapters :)
"How long have you been awake?"
The question drifted from his place at the chemistry set, but I ignored him to sink into a chair at the table. He should know that answer.
"Watson?"
"Too long," I answered distractedly, most of my attention on the luncheon in front of me. Another sleepless night and several difficult rounds had combined to rob me of any interest in circular arguments. If I wanted to help this afternoon's patients, I needed to either get some sleep or find a way to pretend I had not been awake for too many days.
He frowned but did not press, and only the clinking of glassware broke the silence for several minutes.
"What are you doing?" I eventually asked. Yesterday's brief nap meant I was not yet tired enough to slur, and provided he stayed focused on his beakers, he could not note my struggle to keep my eyes open. Mrs. Hudson's strong coffee might wake me up enough to function for a few more hours.
He did not reply immediately, dripping a red liquid into his beaker before he took a sip from the mug on a nearby shelf. I scowled at his back. He should know better than to eat next to his chemistry set, but I knew better than to think he would listen to me about that either. He never had and probably never would—until he accidently drank a solution, anyway. I could only hope I would be nearby to help.
"Someone accused a Yarder of breaking and entering," he told me when the mug resumed its place, "but this should prove he was on the other side of town at the time."
Surprise made me glance away from the sugar bowl. Someone had accused a Yarder? None of the officers I had met would ever commit a crime.
"Who did—" I cut myself off as something besides the spoon clinked against the inside of my mug. Liquid should not make that sound.
"What was that?"
Silence answered him, and he looked back as I carefully poured my coffee into another mug. The small, white bone I found in the bottom made me glad I had not yet taken a drink—though it also sparked a half-asleep anger that immediately kindled wariness in Holmes' gaze. I thought we had solved this argument years ago.
"Watson?"
"Why is there a tooth in my coffee?" I nearly growled.
"Ah, that is where it ended up." He set his beaker on the table to quickly cross the room, and long fingers plucked the bone from the dark liquid.
"Holmes." My tone remained a low growl. "Why was a tooth in the coffee pot?"
"It was not," he replied evenly, pretending not to notice my anger. "You happened to grab the mug I was using earlier."
Cleaned of coffee, the incisor landed in a small container, which Holmes set to one side as he pretended to resume his experiment. He evidently hoped brushing off the incident would diffuse my displeasure.
He would be disappointed.
"What have I told you about body parts near the food?"
"It was not—"
My snarl deepened. "Holmes."
His apparently careless attention on the chemistry equipment paused at the interruption. I did not have to remonstrate him for my friend to know what he needed to do.
"It will not happen again."
"Good."
Even the strongest fatigue could not keep me interested in coffee after that, and I ignored his minute twitch to focus on the steaming food. He waited for time and a meal to diffuse some of my anger before he almost tentatively broke the silence.
"Are you still volunteering at Charing Cross this afternoon?"
A nap sounded like a better idea. Holmes had once again scratched on his violin most of the night, and with my rounds completed, I much preferred sleep over dealing with more hypochondriacs—especially since said hypochondriacs made use of the charity clinic to list their multiple woes.
"I was planning on it," I answered instead of saying as much, "but that can change. Do you have a new case?"
"Lestrade said he would drop by later." He dumped the contents of one beaker into a second before taking another sip from his mug. "He was not clear whether the visit is in regard to a new case or the Yarder's."
"I can stay." Another pot revealed tea, and I checked it carefully before pouring myself a cup. "They were not expecting me at all. I only told them I might have time."
"Excellent. There is a new shop the Irregulars mentioned that we might visit afterwards."
"What kind of shop?"
"Variety," was the short reply. "Kyle said various sellers rent space in the same building, and the so-called 'antique' shop has a little of everything. He noted chemistry sets and supplies in one corner that I might find worth searching."
Such a store could provide an idea of what I could get Holmes for Christmas. That was much better than dealing with more patients.
"When is Lestrade coming?"
"He did not specify a time."
I nodded, and silence fell again as I fought to keep my eyes open. Holmes' chemistry set remained quieter than his violin had been—at least for the moment—but I wanted to eat before I slept.
"Bread does not make a good pillow."
A blink had kept my eyes closed a touch too long, and I scowled at the smirk in his words. "It makes a better pillow than nails on a chalkboard make lullabies."
"What does that have to do with anything?"
The question provided further proof that he did not see his scratching as the "racket" that Mrs. Hudson and I termed it, but I made no answer. I had tried many times to persuade him to confine his violin to the daylight hours, with no success. There was no reason to discuss it now.
"Why were you up all night?" I asked around a bite of my roll.
"The other burglary is stumping me," he replied, still never looking away from his experiment. "Only the sister lacks an alibi, but she does not have a motive. Anything in that house is hers just as much as his."
"Was there a fight?"
"Neither will discuss it if so."
Fatigue nearly closed my eyes mid swallow, and my attention shifted to not falling asleep at the table. I would take the settee while we waited for Lestrade. The nap would help me stay awake later should his case result in another stakeout, and any sleep would make it easier to focus when Holmes started telling me about his experiment. Mrs. Hudson's footsteps climbed the stairs as I finished eating.
"Telegram for you, Mr. Holmes," she said when she reached the doorway. She started gathering the dishes while he tore open the envelope.
"Lestrade had something else arise," he answered my silent question. "He will not be here until tomorrow. I suppose you will want to go to Charing Cross, then?"
I shrugged and shook my head. "I was not really committed to going today, anyway," I admitted, moving from table to settee after Mrs. Hudson went back downstairs. "They expect a visitor I do not mind avoiding. We can go to that shop you mentioned once you finish your experiment."
The pleasure he failed to hide announced what his words would not, and the clinking of glass resumed as I stretched out on the cushions, trying to tune out the noise. Even a few minutes' sleep would help.
"Are you ready?"
A sudden silence woke me just before the quiet question. I opened my eyes to find him putting away the last beaker.
"Wat—" He turned, breaking off when he realized I had fallen asleep on the settee. Faint remorse flickered into view. He had not intended to wake me.
"Yes," I said before he could continue, the word only slightly slurred. "Jus' give me a min'te."
Pulling myself upright, I stretched then nearly staggered to the washroom. I felt much better for the half hour's rest, and the tepid water in the washbasin woke me up completely. We descended the stairs soon enough.
"Where did you say it was?"
"Near the docks," he answered on our way out the door. He studied me but decided not to comment. "I believe he mentioned a veritable library you might find interesting."
A library? "How big is the store?"
Holmes waved a cab. "He did not specify, but it must either be large or overfilled. Four hours' exploration did not uncover half of its contents." He paused, then twitched a grin, adding, "but that could also stem from a child's distraction."
I huffed a laugh. "Distraction" greatly understated the matter. One minute, those children could be the most attentive spies a detective could ever want, and the next they would scatter in fifty chattering directions like the young ones they were. Anything unessential for survival was best taken with a grain of salt.
"You never know," I replied. "He might have been accurate. Some of the variety stores can get fairly large."
He merely shrugged, and conversation drifted to his recent cases. He had just finished updating me on his hunt for a smuggler when the cab lurched to a halt.
A large building overlooked the dirty water. Peeling paint and broken shutters gave it a rather decrepit look, but the inside looked nearly new—what little I could see around the wide array of merchandise. Cabinets and shelves filled every available inch, spilling into aisles almost too small to walk. I would have to be careful to avoid tripping.
"He did not exaggerate," Holmes acknowledged, gaze on the collection of metalworking tools displayed across from women's jewelry. "He said the chemistry equipment was in the back corner."
He disappeared rapidly into the shelves, but I moved a little slower, drifting here and there as I explored. Variety stores carried such a wide assortment that without a goal in mind, I usually found it much more profitable to get a vague impression of everything they carried before focusing on any one section.
Bracelets and pocket watches filled one cabinet, while multiple blades rested in another. One section was devoted entirely to tools of various sizes, but the opposite corner contained only rings. Several tapestries decorated one wall above blankets, rugs, and quilts, and another area exclusively displayed brooches or pocketknives. A third held piles of books. I browsed through a few novels before an instrument caught my eye.
A sursanga, an Indian stringed instrument similar to the Spanish guitarra, leaned against the far wall. Such an instrument was difficult to find in India, much less London, and I moved closer for a better look.
The luthier had covered the instrument in brightly painted images ranging from mythological tales to intricately meaningless designs. Ganesha and Sarasvati, two prominent Hindu deities, faced each other on its belly, and two other deities—Rama and Lakshmi, if I remembered correctly—depicted its back, with another god I could not identify hovering on the back of the instrument's neck. Five strings stretched taut across a thin, wooden bridge, and engraved tuning pegs anchored them to the instrument's neck. The fine craftsmanship kept me studying it for several long minutes.
"You like?"
The question startled me out of my admiration, and I turned to find a short, older man standing several feet behind me. He moved closer as I nodded.
"I have not seen a sursanga in many years," I replied, gently tracing the designs. "Is it functional?"
The man shrugged. "I do not play, but it is a pretty piece. The owner must have paid a fortune."
An instrument such as this would never have been sold in India. More likely, this had been a gift, and I wondered what would make the owner part with it. The wish that I could take it for myself could not reduce the substantial price tag, however. I carefully set it back on the display.
"Can I help you find something?"
I shook my head with a slight smile. "Thank you. I was just browsing when it caught my eye. You do not find sursangas in London often."
"I have plenty of other musical supplies," he pressed when I tried to look at the next display, "most with better price tags. Sheet music, replacement parts, even a few other instruments. What do you play? String, no? I have many parts for everything from bass to violin."
I did not play anything, thanks to my shoulder, but I did not say as much. I nearly shook my head again before his wording sparked an idea.
"What accessories do you have for violins?"
"Over here." A finger gestured me down the cabinets almost to the other end of the store, and he stopped before a set of shelves sandwiched between war relics and outdated encyclopedias. "Luthier sold his store without selling his goods," he told me matter-of-factly. "He owns more than half of the musical supplies I have now, all separated by instrument. Do you need something specific?"
A quick scan had already identified the item I sought, and I pointed to a small piece of metal hiding in the shadows.
"May I look at that piece in the back?"
He frowned, obviously not sure why I would want the smallest item in the cabinet, but he willingly unlocked the door to hand me the painted metal. I could not stop a wide grin. I had not expected to find such a sturdy one, but I had been searching for this strangely shaped piece of metal for over a year. Even better, the owner had marked the price down to be well within my means.
"If that is too small," the salesman said, "I believe I saw something similar in another cabinet."
"No, this will do nicely." I displayed the price tag as confirmation then dug for money. "Do I need to go up front?"
He quickly counted the coins. "Only if you need a receipt."
Holmes appeared from the opposite end of the store, and my purchase dropped into a pocket as I shook my head. The salesman hurried away, money in hand, as Holmes strode closer.
"Did you find the chemistry equipment?" I asked when he was in range.
"And many other things," he replied. "The Irregulars are not the only ones who could lose track of time here." He eyed me for a moment, then a smirk twitched his mouth. "Check your watch."
I raised an eyebrow but complied, and he barked a laugh at the surprise on my face.
"Is that time correct?"
"It is," he confirmed. "We have been here for over three hours. Mrs. Hudson will have supper nearly ready by the time we get home."
I allowed my own chuckle. Holmes did not often pay more attention to the clock than I did, but I could not regret the time.
I might be able to sleep tonight.
What do you think Watson bought?
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