A plan, a place and a plunge :)
Holmes had wrapped Gala in his shawl by the time they made it out of the warehouse district. Not that it did anything against the cold that nestled deep in Galas bones, but it was a strange gesture that tipped him of balance.
It would have been easier to cope if he used him as a price fighter – would also not been Galas first time doing that.
Holmes kept up his tempo, this time, constantly checking in on the giant lumbering behind him.
"I´m sorry about the grip.", called Homes over his shoulder:" But I had not many options without leaving damage."
Gala snorted. He felt pretty damaged.
Holmes shot him a sharp look.
A coach rushed past them and the snow slush splattered on the pavement, drenching them. Well, it drenched Gala, who´s bulk shielded Holmes from the most of it.
"Oh my.", said Holmes, what Gala took as cruel sense of humour.
They only met a handful of people, who hurriedly changed the street side when they saw Gala.
The second cap of the evening was about to rush past them, when Holmes signalled it to stop.
The carter didn't look up while Holmes talked to him, waving at Gala to come closer.
Expecting to be seated next to the carter he tried to climb the coach box, but a hand on his back stopped him.
"I´d prefer it if you came inside with me."
That was something new. Perhaps Holmes wanted to keep an eye on him.
The cater looked relieved, but only for a moment, until he realized that this grimy and soaked hobo was about to ruin all of his upholstery.
"You never said nothing about him.", the man intervened loudly.
Holmes turned to him with what could only be described as a dazzling smile:" Perhaps, my good man, you have something to wrap my friend in? He has been mugged, I want to take him home before consumption takes him."
That was one unhappy cater.
Grumbling he made his way down form the box, groaning all the way to the back trunk. He tinkered with the lock before he pulled out what looked like a horse cover. Gala was delighted. He rolled himself in the smelly fabric and shinnied his way up to his first coach ride in years.
Holmes followed him and sat down opposite from him. He waited till the coach started moving before he spoke.
"You must have questions.", he was on it again with that pipe. Soon smoke filled the cab. Gala didn´t mind. It smelled better than the blanket.
"Why all that running if you could have just told me?"
"I needed to see your reaction."
Gala snorted. Whatever that meant. He had heard of Holmes. Who hadn't. But the man in the stories had been three foot taller and not half as weasel like, as the geezer in front of him.
Okay, change of tactics: "What will I have to do?"
Holmes nodded and leaned forward while he started explaining: "You surely know that the son of the major is missing."
It was Galas turn to nod.
"You have been picked up the evening he vanished, in front of his father's house."
"I have nothing to do with that.", groused Gala. They had sacked him for loitering. That was a totally different game than abduction.
"I´m not saying you have.", clarified Holmes:" But you might have seen something while you were there. Perhaps you didn´t even realize what you saw. That's why I got you out."
"So, you are searching for the son?"
"Lord Barwick approached me with his concerns, yes. But that's only the reason I was able to get you out of prison."
Gala had enough of this:" Could you come to the point."
Homes grinned again. Gala started to think, that this grin might be hell of a lot scarier than his. He was getting jealous.
"His Lordship is connected with a lot of rather interesting characters. And I have strong hints in him being involved in a lot of illegal trade. I found some of the supply routes, but I need more, a lot more evidence before I can do something about it. I pride myself in being a rather good actor, none the less is it impossible to come to the right people without somebody they know."
Now Gala grinned back:" You need me as a door opener."
"Precisely."
"I´m pretty sure this will go belly up in a day.", snared Gala:" You´ll end up dead."
"Oh I´ve been declared dead a rather impressive number of times."
"They don't declare. They jab."
"You don't need to worry about me."
"I´m not. What do you think they will do with me? To half the city I´ll be traitor, to the other half I´ll have killed Sherlock Holmes."
"You won´t stay in the city."
"What?"
"If something will happen to me, you´ll have a place in the country to retreat to."
"Retreat.", repeated Gala flatly.
Holmes nodded again.
"You want me to help you hunt down the major of London, by getting much to close to a bunch of really maniac people and if everything goes south the only thing for me to do is to play sitting duck in the country side."
"Pretty much. Yes."
"You´re delirious."
"But you see, you´ll be a very free duck."
Gala took a deep breath, tasted the smoke and the stench around him:" Will you lock me up as well?"
"That would be pointless, wouldn't it? We have to come to a more or less common ground if we are to work together."
"I am to stroll around. On my own?"
"Sure. You will be informed if I´ll need your services. We have a room for you, Mrs. Hudson, our landlady, is a splendid cook and runs a very comfortable house."
"You want me to live in the same house?"
"Yes."
Gala was speechless. This ought to be the sharpest tool in the whole of London. He took him out of prison, and he was about to bring him home to tea and biscuits.
He could clear them out the first night there.
"As I told you before. Don't play the yahoo card with me. I´ve looked into you quite a bit. There have been a lot of candidates for this job. Men with better connections. I must confess I have followed you for a while-"
"You what?"
"Sit back down please.", appeased Holmes:" I had to make sure. This is much to big of a fish to take chances."
Gala still stood halfway upright, his head touching the cab roof, his mind racing with thoughts about what Holmes might know.
"You are a much better man then you let yourself believe, and I cannot do this without you."
Daft. Completely deranged. The wheel still spinning but the coach was lost.
Gala found himself rubbing his hand through his face. He slowly, very slowly sat back down.
"You don't have to make your mind up right now. We´ll get you dry, and find you something to eat, you will sleep and tomorrow we´ll see."
If this was the genius he heard of, they were all screwed.
"By the way, the doctor knows who you are. He is rather liberal. Mrs. Hudson was told that you are one of Dr. Watsons military acquaintances. Fallen on bad luck in dear need of a little help."
"A soldier. I."
"Indeed. But you have been discharged, honourable of course, after a rather catastrophically battle. We had to explain the scars. Oh, and we told Mrs. Hudson that you´d rather not talk about it. About your military career in the whole."
"Convenient."
Satisfied Holmes sunk back in the cushions, evidently done explaining.
Nothing of this made sense to Gala. He saw a hundred ways this plan would fail, about three quarter of the time, because he would skedaddle right this night.
They drove for some time. Gala tried to feign sleep, but he feared the tremors that still wrecked his frame betrayed his efforts.
When they finally stopped it was in a nice neighbourhood. The stairs were all polished and scraped free from the inevitable city muck. Clean windows, illuminated with inviting shines of fires promising warmth and safety.
The disgruntled cabby took back his blanket and Gala was left standing in the icy wind while Holmes paid what looked like a hefty fee.
They entered the house, and now, in the temperate hall Gala started to shake in earnest. It felt like his body simply hadn´t realized how cold it had been while there had been nothing to compare it with.
"Mr. Holmes?", a tuneful voice called into the entry way, followed by a woman. She looked like respectability personated. With her grey hair in a high bun, the shining apron contrasting her dress in the sparkly clean corridor. She saw Gala and gasped, but instead of away, she hurried towards him.
No one with a dash of common sense.
Her warm, wrinkly hands touched Galas arm cautiously:" You are cold as ice.", she declared.
"He was robbed on his way from the station.", explained Holmes, to Galas surprise:" Tore his coat, took everything."
"Oh, you poor dear.", the woman practically melted in compassion.
"Perhaps, a hot bath would be in order?", Holmes question was more an instruction and the woman immediately scuttled away to ´prepare the facilities´.
Gala decided he liked her and wiped his shoes thoroughly before he stepped on her gleaming floors.
He was led up a wooden flight of stairs and into a dimly light room with a roaring fire. As they entered the room a silhouette emerged from one of the armchairs at the chimney.
"Good evening.", Holmes greeted the man, as if it was nothing unusual that he brought a crook for tea.
The man stepped into the dim light that emitted from the gas lamps. He was smaller than Holmes, but he looked stout. He wasn't young anymore. Life had filled him out in a way that made you want to take shelter behind him in a storm. It was a sturdiness that only came with time and hardship, and he wore it well. He exploded in a ball of activity the second he saw them.
"Dear god, Holmes!", he exclaimed, ignore the named and went straight for Gala.
He ushered him in front of the fire:" Would you like a brandy?"
This question took Gala by surprise, he looked at Holmes who cheerful said:" Splendid idea Watson."
The Brandy was served by a disgruntled doctor:" Why isn´t he wearing a coat? It´s freezing. He must be freezing."
Holmes shrugged:" He is right there. It might be more productive to ask him."
The doctor seemed to realize his discourtesy.
"Watson, John Watson.", he reached out and to his own surprise shoot Galas hand out to shake Watsons.
"Gala.", he grunted.
"Just Gala?", implored the Doctor.
"Just Gala."
This fazed Watson only for a heartbeat. He looked down on their still shaking hands and his brow furrowed:" May I?"
He pushed Galas sleeve up to reveal the angry read abrasions the shackles had left. Gala withdrew his arm immediately.
Watson angled his head upwards to look in Galas face. It wasn´t easy to see it in the flickering light of the fire, but the expression of the doctor was one of sympathy, not of condemnation.
"I´m not a friend to many of the methods used in prosecution. This is one of the procedures we, as a country, should be ashamed of." He held his hand out, this time with the palm up:" May I see it. Perhaps I can help. It must hurt."
Gala shrugged, but kept his arm by his side:" Don't worry.", he felt like a trout at a bicycle race. The bulbous glass in his other hand was odd. This stuffy room, though warm but still constricting in a way Gala couldn't pin point. Normally he would give men like Holmes or Watson a snarky remark and keep his distance. It made him nervous, this people who would chase him or try to have him sacked being nice. Offering Brandy. It was like walking on a frozen pond and the ice had already started splitting.
The Doctor signed:" Would you like to sit down?"
Gala would rather not. Not only would it ruin the chair, he was antsy enough standing up.
"Mrs. Hudson is preparing a bath. Perhaps we´ll wait with the leisure's till then.", interrupted Holmes. He was situated in the corner, holding a stack of papers, apparently absorbed in the content of the documents.
"Well at least, let me get you a blanket.", the Doctor left the room and Gala standing by the fire.
For some seconds only, the crackling wood was heard.
Gala tried the brandy. It was good. Like liquid warmth running down his throat, pooling in his belly. A door closing made him look up. Holmes was gone.
Everything felt upside-down. He had left him alone. In a room full of protentional loot and weapons. Drinking liquor.
Gala leaned against the mantle piece. He felt slightly dazed. The sudden heat, he decided.
Hinges squeaking alerted him of the doctors return.
The man brought a thick woollen blanked he draped over Galas shoulders.
The silence stretched between them.
"Thanks." Gala murmured finally.
"You are very welcome.", for a moment the Doctor seemed at loss, suddenly his face light up:" I had sandwiches for tea. There are still some left, would you like some? They are good, ham and brown sauce."
Galas stomach gave a traitorous rumble.
The Doctor beamed:" Finish the brandy, there is tea left also.", he touched the teapot:" And it's still warm. Lets see if we can tied you over till bath time."
Mrs. Hudson brought him in a small, tilted room that roused dark memories in Gala. Other than the tiles in his memory these ones had flowers on them. Someone had taken the trouble to paint them with an intricate hazy blue design.
A tub on lion paws stood in the back of the room, its bronze shimmering ominously. A small coal furnace crackled merrily next to it. There was a porcelain toilet as well. Gala eyed it with suspicion.
"I bet you haven´t bathed properly in a while?", she tried to make it sound like a joyful preamble but the tension in her voice nullified her efforts.
Gala shrugged. He wasn't sure if he has had a bath before. At least not one Mrs. Hudson would describe as a ´real bath´.
He had washed himself. More or less regularly at the wells in the Eastend. And he had fallen into the Themes a couple of times. What should have been the reason to take a ´real bath´.
But when the temperature dropped and the wells encrusted with ice, you kept your shirt and your jacket on and thanked the heavens for every isolating layer of muck.
"I thought so.", she said:" There is soap and a brush, and I´ve readied a couple of towels. The doctor gave me his bathrobe but I´m not sure you´ll fit in it. But its worth a try I guess. If you turn this", she demonstrated turning a handle and steaming water gushed into the tub:" You´ll get more warm water. Oh, and before I forget.", she rummaged in her apron and passed him a cigar and a little package:" It's a bad habit, but the doctor can´t take a bath without it. Has to nibble on something, well, the good doctor would bring candy to his own hanging." She left Gala in the bright room with his gloomy thoughts.
He hesitated. Put the package and the cigar on the little stool next to the tub and took a look around the admittedly very small room.
He found a little fogged up window with the view of a leafless tree. If he jumped he might make it.
He played with the soap, smelled it tentatively. It was nice. Calming, but not overly sweet.
Finally, he opened the package.
It struck him like lightning and he sat down on the closed toilet lid, the open bundle on his palm.
Chocolate.
The Doctor gave him chocolate. He breathed in the aroma and closed his eyes. His chest constricted and he oh so gently rewrapped the package. He put it on the windowsill, as far away from the oven as possible, his glassed on top of it.
He shimmied out of the shirt. Groaning when his stiff muscles protested the movement. Undoing his shoes took longer and one of the laces tore. He put them under the window as well. Followed suit by his trousers.
Naked and bashful he examined the foaming water.
He lifted one foot over the rim and dipped it in. It was warm. Warm enough to burn. The second foot followed suit and he slowly sank into the tub. His knees broke the surface while he let his torso slip under the foam.
He hung his legs out of the tub, his feet swinging, anxious to not touch the hot stove.
This way he could submerge up to his nose.
Water entered his ears, dimming the world. He closed his eyes and let the warmth seep into his bones.
He would never again pass up an opportunity for a bath. Like ever.