AN: I had a lot of fun writing that last chapter. Unfortunately, I am a piano noob of the highest degree, so if I got anything wrong, I'm sorry! I wanted to try something different, yet still fit the Victorian era time-period and Watson as a whole. Anyway, here's Chapter Three, and I'm back to shovel angst at it! Second thing to note, this story will be set three days after 'The Adventure of the Three Garridebs', instead of around 'The Adventure of the Dancing Men'.
Sorry for this being late, I got a little busy yesterday!
Day 3(Prompt 11): From Michael JG Meathook-Monster
Warning: Mention of attempted suicide from 'The Adventure of the Dancing Men'
The Thing that Lurks at 221B
Sherlock Holmes's POV
Regret was an emotion that I never fully comprehended.
In my art, it produced the most unusual dichotomy of reactions in my clients, and the villains that hounded them relentlessly. I have seen the emotion make criminals repent, weeping, begging at my knees that they would change for the better. I have seen it make a young woman shoot herself through the skull; for hiding her past from her husband, who lay dead at her feet.
I, however, merely figured it to be part of the way the untrained mind worked. A perfect reasoning machine did not need such a thing to weigh them down.
Regret was an emotion that met a new ally in my life, reluctance. Reluctance was an emotion I was familiar with already. It was a dangerous companion to pride: both of which I could feel in spades. Once before, it had driven me to hide that I was truly alive from a grieving Watson after plummeting off that waterfall with Moriarity. I did not want to make him Colonel Moran's prey, as much as I wanted, and perhaps needed to tell him I was alive.
I can say for certain that was the first time I felt loneliness, admittedly, despite having the company of Mycroft.
Regret, I observed that it showed up whenever my clients or Watson were involved, the latter even more so. I had already put Watson in danger thrice over before three days prior. And each time I did so, regret sunk its claws deeper into my heart: the very one I had thought I locked within me.
The first time? That vile snake that had terrorized Miss Helen Stoner in 1883. I could not find the words necessary to tell Watson about how I felt in bringing him with me, other than that there was an element of danger in our case, by staying in the very chamber that endangered the young woman's life. I knew I could not stop him then.
The second and third times were what made my fourth bout with Regret so much stronger. I had made an almost criminal and a poison-addled man out of my Watson, and both times my dear friend got back onto his feet and even pulled me out of a mess of my own making. This time, it seemed there was no pulling from either of us.
The events of three days prior is as fresh in my mind as if it happened this morning. Perhaps, in my time with Watson, my heart and brain started working together as one, rather than rely on my logic alone, and that's why I felt as deeply as I did.
But… I could not lie to myself, as much as I wanted to hold up to the expectation of those round me that I was this larger figure, one who could come back from the dead. Watson had become as dear to me as my brother, Mycroft. He was the whetstone to my thoughts, and even if he could be dreadfully colorful, my biographer and closest confidant.
To my logical mind, I knew my attachment to Watson could be seen as a weakness. When the first moments of him hitting the ground behind me after the American had shot him returned to my mind, it was, at first, a weakness. A perfect reasoning machine did not do such things as smash the butts of their firearms across a criminal's head.
You're not hurt, Watson? For God's sake, say that you are not hurt! The words had torn from my throat as soon as I could manage to carry him to safety.
Now, I suppose I, too, was feeling all the emotions that my clients had felt.
That was the first time in my life I wanted to throw whatever it was I was doing aside to make sure Watson was alright. I may not have been a Doctor like he, but I knew getting shot in the leg had a chance to bleed out heavily. Even if it did no such thing, and it was superficial, seeing the wound on Watson was enough for my mind.
I had not gotten there fast enough. And that left me sneaking around like some impish schoolboy on our cases that came to our door, to avoid any such confrontation like that again with Watson. I had failed him once; I would not do it twice over.
Shaking out of my thoughts, I regarded the case that had arrived earlier to-day, regarding the disappearance of a fencing instructor from a hotel room in Chiswick, Henri Armand. It was a simple affair but left me not entirely devoid of interest, as Armand had been kidnapped by the very Englishman he was staying with, Arthur Davies. To what end the Englishman desired from this crime, I knew not why.
I had offered to go in disguise as the replacement instructor for the young Inspector Hopkins, who had been saddled with this affair at the last minute when Lestrade became ill. So there I was, striding into our lodgings at 221B Baker Street carrying an epee over my shoulder, with the sun sinking on the edges of the sky. I had grown accustomed to being stared at strangely, though I must confess, the stares at the dueling sword on my shoulder amused me.
"Watson!" I called in, heading into the sitting room. "As a Doctor, I need your advice on a particular strand of skin lesions on-" At once, the state of the sitting room caught my attention away from trying to find my friend.
The pillows on the sofa had been carelessly flung to the floor, mixed with the papers that Watson had been reviewing for a case of his own. The armchair that he had favored since his injury was tipped over onto its side, against a fireplace that had been not yet lit.
Two thoughts warred through my mind when I saw the mess in our sitting room. My logical mind rebelled against the idea my heart brought into question, that Watson, too, had been targeted in the scheme that Davies had been planning. Watson was somewhere in our lodgings, that was all.
"Watson?" I called again, making my way up the stairs with my hand on the dueling sword I had carried in with me. As the wood groaned beneath my feet, a strangled, familiar yell of either pain or surprise sounded, warbling its way down the hall.
"Agh! Get off of me, at once!" A round of giggles followed after the yell, and I knew by then, my heart had won its war, and my logical mind was thrust into the background. That voice had been Watson's.
"Watson!" I sprinted down the hall, trying to follow the sound of the Doctor's yells of alarm. Perhaps I was here in time to prevent the villains from achieving their goals. The kidnapping scheme had reached farther than I could have imagined…!
The yells became more incomprehensible, and I could only hope that Watson held out for a little longer. What were they doing to him? Had it been like our case against Tobias Hess, his air being cut off?
Though not too much longer, as the sounds came from one of the many rooms Mrs. Hudson stored her belongings in, and I, my various chemistry sets. She had resented the idea of my 'untidy interests' being kept next to her fine dining ware, though bargaining with a reduced time of me using my revolver indoors convinced her. I was grateful I should know where this room was already.
I pressed my ear to the door, hearing the same strange noises, and with the flat of my sword, shoved the door open. "Whatever is going on-" I cut off, taking in the scene inside the room. The Baker Street Irregulars were scattered about the floor, giggling in childish glee at the display in the center. Watson lay prone on the floor, with Wiggins, their leader, pinning the Doctor's wrists together, as a young man knelt beside him with a knee to his chest.
"Have you given up, Monster? Will you stop terrorizing London?" Asked he, as Watson nodded, glancing up at both of his captors.
"Yes, you've bested me, Doctor Watson and Sherlock Holmes; I will go back to my lair on the moor." He chuckled, rolling his head over to the side. "We did it, Cartwright!" Wiggins cheered, hugging the older man, only to freeze when he saw me in the room, holding my sword aloft.
"When did you get here, Mr. Holmes?" Asked he, his voice small. The Bakerstreet Irregulars all froze, the room going still at my arrival out of guilt.
"Now," I responded, making my way through the room and towards Watson, Cartwright, and Wiggins. Cartwright had undoubtedly grown since the last time I saw him thirteen years ago during the case with the Baskervilles, his frame tall and wiry, but still with the same youthful energy that had impressed me. "I had come into ask Watson about a particular strand of skin lesions for our case when I thought-" I hesitated.
My younger self would have loathed me for my actions. Hesitation? Sherlock Holmes did nothing in fear and second guesses! The logic that had been shoved into the background of my mind crept back in, slowing down the frantic thumping of my heart. I was trying to find the words that would not upset the Irregulars, not hesitating.
"-I thought something had happened to Watson, and he was being hurt." I finished. Watson rolled his head in my direction, offering a gentle smile. I needed to give him more credit for his patience with me.
"My dear Holmes, I am alright. The Irregulars of yours came to see me while you were away to cheer me up. Then Cartwright came down from Dartmoor to talk about my publishing of our case thirteen years ago." Said he, as Cartwright retrieved a small, wrapped parcel from his jacket.
"Here you go, Mr. Holmes; Watson published it yesterday." Cartwright murmured, pressing the object into my hands. Placing down my epee, I unwrapped the parcel to reveal a mahogany-colored book with gold-edged trimming. On the cover was a faint illustration of the Hound that Stapelton had groomed to attack the Baskervilles, his silhouette outlined in phosphorous.
"The Hound of the Baskervilles." I read the title, though raising an eyebrow at Watson's prior pinning. "What were you all doing to Watson?" I asked, and I knew at once my heart was still affecting me, as my voice came out in a weak tenor.
"Cartwright and I were explaining our adventure, Holmes, and the children wanted us to act it out. They volunteered me for the role of the 'Monster.'" Watson piped up. "Wiggins and Cartwright were you and I, and they chased me round the place."
"Mr. Watson gave us a lot of trouble; he was a perfect monster!" Wiggins cheered, leading to a chorus of similar sentiments from the Baker Street Irregulars. "He makes the best monster noises!" Another assented, the origin of the voice I could not identify.
"I could say the same thing for the young Irregulars, Holmes; they managed to tip over the chair that I was using as my' lair.'" Watson added as I knelt down beside my friend, offering him a hand.
"They did not bother your injury?" I inquired, pulling him into a sitting position. I was well versed in all manner of injuries picked up, so I was ready to help. Watson shook his head, meeting my gaze with absolute sincerity.
"No, Holmes. I am quite alright; you know it was a scratch." Said he, squeezing my hand. "What is this really about, Holmes? You were never one to fuss so much, and we were just having fun." The Irregulars and Cartwright nodded, looking at me with worry.
To-day seemed like a day for admissions, so what was one more? "The moment James Winter shot you, Watson, I realized a great many things. Chiefly among them, I regret placing you in danger, and all the times I did so. Regret drove me to search for you, in fear that those involved in the kidnapping of Henri Armand got to you." I revealed.
"My dear fellow, you know that I am happy to be at your side, no matter what dangers befall us." Said he, who then lowered his voice so that I may be the only one to hear. "Regret is a monster of human making, Holmes. It is something men tame and turns into a strength." How did he know…? The thought repeated in my mind again.
Regret is something men tame and turns into a strength. Watson was correct in that measure. I had been thinking about Regret as something logic could tame alone, but if I included my heart in it, I too would be able to tame it. If it could make a man like James Ryder change his ways before going down the path of crime, perhaps I stood a chance.
"Now, what was that about skin lesions, Holmes? I can aid you once we have finished here." Watson offered, as I aided him onto his feet.
"Thank you, Watson. Now, does the role of the monster change hands when the monster touches you?" I asked Watson and the children. Wiggins was the one to respond to this, giving me a gap-toothed grin.
"Yes, it does! How'd you know that, Mr. Holmes?" He asked as I let out a bark of laughter. These children in my employ were always delightful to impress, each and every time.
"I know that friend Watson would not scatter his papers or pillows about in such a manner. That, and one of you left this." I said, revealing a paper doll wearing a coat like the one I wore in the countryside.
One of the newer Irregulars, a young girl named Agatha's cheeks began to flush, causing her to bow her head. "That's mine, thank you, Mr. Holmes." She squeaked, scampering over to grab her doll. When Agatha had returned to her spot with her doll, I turned my attention back to Watson, offering him a brief smile.
"Now, Watson and company, I believe it is your turn to run." I said as the trio glanced at me in confusion.
"Holmes? What do you mean?" Watson asked, and to that, I mustered up the best 'monster' face I could.
"We are still playing this game, are we not? If so, I am the Monster now, and I will not go easy on any of you." I said. The Irregulars, Cartwright, and Wiggins let out shouts of playful delight, dashing out of the room to avoid being touched, with Watson rapidly on their heels.
Perhaps this is the first step to taming the Monster. I thought, thundering after the group, my heart lighter than it had been in three days.
AN: And that's chapter three done! Sorry I was late again, I wanted to make sure this worked between being busy! I decided to make a double meaning for the Monster, which helped, since The Hound of the Baskervilles was published in 1902, the exact same year The Adventure of the Three Garridebs was set in. If Holmes seemed a bit off, I figured it took him a little bit to bounce back from his panic, more than he let on at least, so I wanted to write this.
The texts that were mentioned/referenced here: 'The Adventure of the Speckled Band', 'The Adventure of the Bruce-Partington Plans', 'The Disappearance of Lady Frances Carfax', 'The Hound of the Baskervilles', 'The Adventure of the Dancing Men', 'The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle' 'The Adventure of the Devil's Foot', 'The Final Problem', 'The Adventure of the Empty House'. Also mentioned here, 'A Duel of 88', the previous chapter.
And finally, thanks for the feedback! I'm glad you guys enjoyed the previous two chapters!
-In the Fields of Verdun
