An Assassin and a detective

by SlushBro19

What happens when an Assassin and a famous detective work together? Keep in mind this is only the beginning of the story

'Who is that?'

'That, my dear Watson, is probably the most dangerous man in all of London,' came the measured reply of the tall thin man with the most intent of gazes. He was looking across the street, at the south west corner of two major throughways, at the young man taking on four toughs in red jackets and black bowler hats.

'More dangerous than Professor Moriarty?' Watson inquired, his eyes too riveted to the mastery with which the stranger in his patched long coat wielded his cane sword and… was that an Indian kukri in his left hand? Most curious indeed. The good doctor's interest was piqued.

'Oh, the dear Professor is dangerous but not in the same league as our young friend here,' the tall lanky man with the long face of a thinker assured his shorter companion. 'Moriarty weaves his webs in the dark and never steps out into the light.'

Two of the attackers stumbled back, blood spraying from their necks. When had the mysterious youth managed to inflict that kind of damage? Watson had missed that entirely. He watched as the two corpses slowly dropped to the ground and the cane-wielding man turned his attention to the other two who showed some hesitation, now that their numbers had been reduced by two.

'Watch, dear Watson,' he murmured softly, shrugging in his coat. It was a sunny but chilly day at the end of October. 'It is almost over.'

Smashing his fist one more time into the already bloodied face of the last Blighter, the victim that was not straightened up, flexing his fingers. His knuckles still hurt from the fight last night at the Fight Club down by the riverfront, and this unprovoked brawl hadn't done them any good. They'd be swollen for a week now: he would need some of Agnes' sister's cream to soothe them. Next, assess the damage to his jaw. That first sucker punch, the one that had started this free-for-all between him and the quartet of Blighters, had been a doozy. He'd just been walking along, minding his own business when these four drunk idiots decided that they wanted a piece of him. One had hit him from behind and drawn a knife. The other three had circled around him with nasty smiles and longer knives. So much for being drunk. An act, one that would draw an unsuspecting victim in. Well, they'd gotten their wires crossed, hadn't they?

He frowned. That wasn't right. Too easy. They couldn't just be walking along the same street as him at the exact same time. Had it been deliberate? Had they been looking for him?

He was in the process of massaging his jaw and pondering that very question when a rough but polite voice spoke behind him.

'Watson, allow me to introduce you to Mr. Jacob Frye.'

His speed was astonishing - in a civilian. His readiness to face another enemy so soon after dealing with the first four was apparent in his stance and stare: knees bent, feed spread apart, the bloody cane sword at the ready in front of his chest, ocean-blue eyes sharp as shards of ice. Not military: there was none of that respectful attention on his face that one gave to a superior officer or another army man. Neither was there any recognition of Watson as a soldier. Mr. Jacob Frye had adopted a guarded position of one used to street fighting, a different kind of war than the one the doctor was used to. That, however, did not make him any less dangerous. Or fascinating - as demonstrated by his colleague's apparent interest in him.

'Gentlemen,' he addressed them politely enough.

'Nice work, this,' Watson's friend congratulated him, studying the four broken bodies on the pavement. Blood was pooling here and there under them. That one had a broken arm: it was twisted unnaturally into the direction opposite to the one nature had intended. The burly one with the shaved head had had his hand crushed to a bloody mangled pulp. One was still twitching but that wound in his neck would soon finish him off, in Watson's estimation. How had Mr. Frye inflicted those neck wounds? Surely not with the cane sword: it wasn't designed for stabbing. That one on the right clearly had been impaled through the neck - but with what?

'Thank you,' Mr. Frye responded, keeping his voice even. His blue eyes were scanning them both, assessing. He had relaxed his stance somewhat: clearly not perceiving either of them as an immediate threat. For some reason that impressed Watson: for a man of explosive action, this young brawler obviously used his brain before his brawn. From what Watson could tell from a fleeting assessment, Mr. Frye had a boxer's physique: not too tall but broad in the shoulder and if that last punch were any indication, considerable strength of core. He could remember a few fellows like that in his own regiment in Afghanistan: strong yet agile, brutal in combat yet loyal to a fault. He wondered if Mr. Frye was cut from similar cloth.

'What business have you with me?' the young man asked, extracting a piece of cloth from the left pocket of his very curious long leather coat. It did not appear to be made from one piece of leather but many: some were brown and of large size, others were darker, almost black, and smaller. Where had he gotten this fascinating garment that gave him a threadbare appearance at odds with the dark grey vest of good cut and the red cravat negligently tied around his neck?

'Mr. Watson does, as a matter of fact,' the tall spare man deflected the question to his army friend, his eyes riveted to the cleaning of the cane sword, more specifically to the left arm of their new acquaintance: a rather interesting and bizarre brace seemed to cover the left limb from the wrist up to the elbow. Thick leather straps with strong buckles held it in place. A dark glove of the same material covered the entire left hand. Metal studs protected the back of the hand from injury.

A most penetrating inquisitive look settled on the burly doctor who sighed at the small 'betrayal' by his friend. That was so much like Sherlock, to put his friends into hot water while he stood by and observed. He was almost used to that by now. Almost.

'What can I do for you, Mr. Watson?'

'Perhaps here is not the best place to discuss such things,' the doctor noted with a swift glance around at the stopping passersby attracted to the four bodies and the three men standing above them. In the distance, down the street, Watson could see a police carriage.

'I agree,' Mr. Frye said, putting away the cane sword and the stained cloth. He too had seen the approaching police. 'It is better that we are not obviously present here.' He headed down the street, away from the inert corpses of his attackers. 'Follow me.' Said in the tone of one used to command and instant obedience. As an army man, Watson was used to that tone - even if it came from someone younger than him.

'Tom, these gentlemen are with me.'

The blond boy of about twelve nodded seriously, his green gaze soberly evaluating the two unfamiliar adults accompanying his boss. Opening the metal gate in the fence around the old rookery building he let them through. Watson noted that the gate appeared to be new: the cast iron did not display any cracks or dents and the black paint was fresh.

'You employ children?' he inquired once they were out of the earshot of the little gatekeeper. The doctor thought he was fairly successful at keeping his disapproval out of his voice. He had never liked the practice of child labour: he found it distasteful and dangerous to the little workers whose lives meant nothing to the adults employing them.

'No,' came the short curt reply of their new associate. 'I save them.' The wooden stairs creaked under the combined weight of three adult men. Watson remarked that these too were recent: obviously Mr. Frye had come into some money and decided to upgrade this rookery. Where had he gotten the money?

'I believe Mr. Frye is referring to the recent spate of raids on Mr. Starrick's factories,' the tallest of the three men remarked, bending slightly to enter into what had the appearance of an office and a supply room at the same time. There were crates, open and sealed, stacked about the walls. Some of the opened ones contained bottles of what Watson thought was whiskey, others had packages of sugar and spices.

'That was your work?' Watson was impressed in spite of himself. Given the brutal nature of Mr. Frye's actions to date, the former army surgeon had not expected him to exhibit compassion. Perhaps he'd spent too much time in the Royal Army: he caught himself on the thought of having become jaded as to human nature. 'The newspapers are full of stories…'

The young man, casually swiping one of the bottles of what indeed turned out to be whiskey from an open crate near a table stacked with papers, ink pots, and small ammunition boxes, bowed floridly in their direction.

'Jacob Frye, saviour of children, at your service.'

Watson smiled, unable to help it, and was pleasantly surprised to notice a similar expression on his friend's face.

'Please be seated, gentlemen, and tell me your troubles,' the young man invited them both with a negligent gesture at the two sturdy chairs on the other side of the table from where he was pouring three glasses of whiskey, neat. Watson usually didn't indulge in alcohol but the place and the time were appropriate.

'Those men who attacked you were the Blighters, were they not, Mr. Frye?' Watson's friend asked in an offhand manner. His gaze, however, was intent, sharp: like that of a hunter on a scent.

'The infamous Blighters, yes,' Jacob replied with aplomb, sitting down in a very informal manner. 'They take issue with my being on their turf.' He grimaced, taking a sip of his whiskey. 'Formerly their turf,' he corrected himself with a most disarming little smirk.

'Formerly?' Watson was puzzled although a part of him was starting to put two and two together. Four thugs attacking a man in the middle of a day in broad daylight was not a coincidence. They clearly had accounts to settle. The rescue of child labourers from Starrick's industries. The street fighter nature of their new friend here. The rookery…

'You're him!' That slipped out on its own. He hadn't meant to sound so… accusatory. 'Jacob Frye… that gang…' What was their name? He strained his memory to remember.

'The Rooks, dear Watson, the Rooks,' his phlegmatic companion supplied softly. 'We're in the presence of their chief.' He raised his glass in salute and Jacob responded in kind. They both drained their glasses in one go, finishing at the same time. The young Rook lifted the bottle in a silent offer of more and Watson was astonished to see his ordinarily teetotaling friend nod.

'So, Dr. Watson, what can the Rooks do for you?' Jacob asked, leaning back in his chair, twirling the clear glass with the yellowish liquid in his hands.

'Holmes, you never told me we were going to…!'

'Dear John, the police were proven useless in helping to locate your beloved wife,' Sherlock Holmes reminded his friend with infinite patience. 'When the law is helpless, you must go outside of it.'

Jacob, his eyes moving between the two men in his office, suddenly sat up, tensing. 'Holmes? As in Sherlock Holmes, the detective?' His tone was edged like a razor.

'Indeed, Mr. Frye,' the detective half bowed in his seat. 'The one and only.'

'I have heard much of you, Mr. Holmes,' the young Rook remarked, his tone still one of tension. 'Scotland Yard seems to be helpless unless you are involved.'

'While there are a few bright sparks in that establishment, the rest of them seem sadly bound by every bureaucratic intricacy of the law,' Holmes agreed, with only slight irony tinging his words.

'The police do spend too much time buried in paper - or wearing disguises so bad that you can see through them.' He chuckled at some memory.

'You mean detective Abberline?' Holmes, one leg crossed over the other, smacked his lips. 'Excellent whiskey, dear Frye. Wouldn't you agree, Watson?'

The surgeon, reeling from the latest revelations, nodded more out of habit than true appreciation of the Scotch. To ask for aid was one thing. To ask that aid of a known gang… well… that was going far. Even if the chief of that gang was waging war on a moral front of child labour. Watson had never been one to step outside the law - until he'd met Holmes, a most practical individual who did what had to be done. Jacob Frye here with his insouciant attitude appeared to be made from that same pragmatic mold. Alien to his own, both of them.

'The good detective sent us to you,' Holmes explained, sensing that Mr. Frye was on edge. Understandable: as the leader of what many considered a criminal organization he had a right to be cautious. Since they needed his services, it was better to put him at ease by being open. 'He remarked on your particular…' Holmes appeared to search for a specific word. 'Insights, shall we say.' Holmes held the steady blue stare of the youth across from him. He could tell that Jacob had guessed the import of his last words and wasn't too happy about that.

'I will need to speak with the good detective,' he spoke in a soft voice that nonetheless carried hidden menace for Abberline. 'At length.'

'I do hope you will forgive him,' Holmes noted blandly. 'He couldn't help it. The remark wasn't one he made verbally.'

One eyebrow went up into Mr. Frye's hairline. He had a scar running through it, Watson noticed idly. No doubt the result of one of those innumerable ambushes like the one witnessed today.

'You don't say.' That same earlier tranquil tone that spoke volumes. Watson shivered: Holmes had called this youth the most dangerous man in London and the former military man now began to recognize the truth of that. There was nothing overtly threatening about Jacob Frye. His presence, however, filled this room: he exuded menace, in the same way other men projected kindness and goodness.

'I consider myself to be somewhat of a student of humanity,' Holmes said urbanely, apparently unaffected by the hazardous currents in the Rookery office. 'Especially where body language is concerned. While the mouth can lie, the body never does.' His grey eyes matched the Rook chief's stare for stare.

'And what does my body language tell you?' No inflection. No threat. Seemingly an ordinary question.

'A very interesting story,' the lanky detective said, shifting in his seat. 'You lead the Rooks. They are loyal to you. You have their confidence and believe in yourself. You belong to the Fryes of Croydon, a mysterious family that belongs to a society more secret than the Freemasons. An ancient society - that brace you wear so openly testifies to that.'

Watson opened his mouth in astonishment as Jacob slowly rose from his chair, equally stunned. How had Mr. Holmes found out all of that? Who was Mr. Holmes anyway? A detective, yes, but beyond that?...

'Right now, you are thinking that perhaps you should kill me and Dr. Watson here,' Holmes continued in a matter-of-fact tone, apparently unaware of the impending death that Watson was sure was about to descend on them. 'Before you do, would you be so kind as to help us find his beloved wife Mary, who incidentally, is pregnant?'

Watson blinked, sitting up as if electrocuted. Pregnant? What?... He hadn't…

'Holmes,' he said in a warning tone. Just now he would happily have joined Mr. Frye in killing his friend.

'Forgive me, Watson,' the great detective apologized. 'I only found out by accident. Mary asked me not to tell you.'

'But why?' Watson was nonplussed. Secret societies. Marital secrets. His world had turned upside down.

'She wanted it to be a surprise for your birthday, dear doctor.'

Watson, without thinking about it, drained the glass and poured himself more whiskey. His nerves were in tatters: he hadn't slept, hadn't eaten - not since the night he'd come home from his practice to find their apartment ransacked and his wife gone. He was at the end of the rope, quite frankly.

'Oh, do sit down, Mr. Frye,' Holmes said, waving a long-fingered hand at the gang leader who still looked as if he were on the verge of violence. 'I assure you that your secrets are safe with me and Watson. We won't tell a soul.'

The narrowed glare of Mr. Frye's eyes was most unnerving - to an ordinary man, that is. Watson, having served in the Royal Army and been to the front lines of war, had seen that kind of expression before: soldiers and boxers who were calculating whether or not they should pull that trigger or make that knockout punch. The fact that both he and his detective friend were alive to diffuse the situation assured him that Mr. Frye had pulled his blow.

'Since Freddie sent you, that is guarantee enough that you are not babblers,' he said in measured tones, resuming his seat in creaks of leather. 'I also doubt that the doctor here would want to have his association with a known outlaw bruited about.'

Watson, taking deep breaths to calm himself, happened to second that last sentiment. He did have a reputation and a profitable medical practice to protect.

'What would your price be, Mr. Frye?' he managed to ask with some semblance of politeness. Men like this young man with secrets to conceal usually did not act out of altruism.

'Let's say I owe detective Abberline a favour,' Jacob answered evasively. 'He's helped me recently. In helping you, doctor, I can repay that debt.'

Detective Frederick Abberline practically jumped out of his skin when a heavy hand fell on his left shoulder and the familiar suave voice spoke in his ear.

'Detective Abberline, may I have a word with you?'

He was steered around the back of Goose and Crown, the local pub in Lambeth that he frequented. Their porter was locally made and tasted delicious. Until now. The aftertaste in his mouth turned sour when Jacob Frye, his strong hand gripping his shoulder in a vise, turned him and pushed his back against the brick wall.

'How may I help you, Mr. Frye?' His voice shook despite his best efforts to maintain an even tone. There was a particularly cold gleam to the younger man's eyes that indicated unhappiness with the detective.

'You can tell me everything that you know about Mr. Sherlock Holmes and doctor Watson, whose wife has gone missing.' The indifferent intonation with which the gangster pronounced every word, the clipped quality of the phrases, conveyed the simple impression that this was not a polite request: this was verging on a demand from a superior to an inferior.

'Mr. Frye,' he tried to inject a bit of a reprimand into his tone.

'Detective Abberline.' Just a hint of emphasis on the first word, coupled with a slight increase in the pressure of the hand on his shoulder. 'These two fine gentlemen showed up, unannounced, uninvited, on my doorstep asking for aid. Your name was mentioned as having guided them there.'

'I had only suggested that you might have connections and means of aiding them,' the shaken detective defended himself. 'I had never openly recommended that they visit you. I would never…'

'... Associate with a known criminal,' Jacob finished for him.

'... Sell out one of my associates,' Abberline continued disregarding the Rook chief's last remark.

'I surely hope not. For your sake.' He never raised his voice but Frederick Abberline felt uneasy all the same. It was apparent that his young friend was not happy.

'Are you suggesting what I think you are, Mr. Frye?' He could not back down: he was a policeman in Her Majesty's service. That meant that he couldn't and wouldn't be browbeaten by a youth who carried himself with the assurance of a born killer.

'I am not suggesting anything, detective. I am simply asking for information about two men who sought out my assistance in a delicate matter.' He released the shaken detective's shoulder. 'Shall we go to the station and discuss it there?'

Abberline, rubbing his no doubt bruised shoulder, shook his head. 'The file I've kept on the kidnapping is at my home.'

'Very good,' Jacob crooned, taking the shaken detective by the elbow in a most companionable way. 'Why don't we head over for a night cap?'

The Watsons' two bedroom apartment looked like a disaster zone. Every paper that the doctor ever had, every book and journal he'd ever possessed had been ripped open and the pages torn apart. Bits and pieces lay scattered everywhere on the floor, the shelves, even the small fireplaces in the bedrooms were filled with crumpled bits of processed wood bark. Curtains had been ripped from the windows and shredded: Jacob fancied he could detect a scent of piss on the ruined fabric. Lamps had been smashed and shards of glass made walking on the stained carpeting hazardous.

'My, my,' Jacob murmured, scanning the sitting room. 'Someone did a number on this place.'

Holmes grunted in agreement. His friend's apartment was in shambles and that was putting it mildly. 'Someone was looking for something here,' he remarked, stepping carefully on parts of carpet and floor free of debris. He had no wish to disturb anything: he needed data to inform his deductions. 'Watson, was the apartment like this when you came home that night?' He already knew the answer but wanted to hear it confirmed.

'No… not quite...' Dr. Watson, face filled with shock, was frozen in the entrance to their apartment. 'They must have come back later…'

'If they were the same people,' Holmes corrected him, his magnifying glass out. He was studying the dark stains on the wallpaper. 'Mr. Frye, what do you make of this?'

The young Rook, having seen how careful the older man was about putting his feet down, followed suit and soon stood beside him. For a moment he had his eyes resting on the flower-covered paper and then bent to sniff it.

'Brandy,' he finally pronounced his verdict. 'Not the cheap stuff either.'

'Right you are,' the great detective approved, his grey gaze settling on his new friend in a most thoughtful manner. 'What does that tell you?'

'Wanton destruction,' Jacob shrugged, feeling as if he were being tested. He'd never liked that: being put on display. His father liked doing that to him: testing him randomly at all times. Almost as if Jacob weren't good enough. Well, Father, look what I've accomplished now! 'They'd not found what they were after so they just… ransacked the place.'

'You are correct except for one detail,' Watson spoke behind them. He was standing near his work desk, his face filled with dismay. 'They did find it.'

The detective and the Assassin, whose membership in that society was still a secret known only to him and Holmes, turned around with equally puzzled looks.

'My journal,' Watson explained in a dead voice. 'The one where I wrote of your exploits, Holmes.' His hand shook as he ran it over his pale face. 'They took it. I kept it on the table most of the time.'

Jacob, frowning, looked between the two men. His thoughts were churning with all the new information coming in. 'Let me get this straight,' he said, taking a careful step aside. 'Dr. Watson's wife is kidnapped.' He held up one finger. Holmes was watching him carefully: having the clues listed out loud was something he did not do very often. He saw no need since usually it was him solving the cases: he would tell Watson everything after the fact. Because they had a new member of their little detective club, he was willing to indulge. Moreover, it would be interesting to watch their new friend in action, so to speak. He had heard of Assassins but never truly met one - until Abberline had pointed him in the right direction. A very fascinating study Mr. Frye was turning out to be too. Young, brash, quick to violence should occasion warrant it. He could seem superficial - however, a man who lacked depth or was ignorant could not have done what this young man had in such a short span of time. He'd taken over and resurrected a gang that was on the verge of giving up. He had given them a new name, a new life, a new purpose. He had managed to secure the loyalty of the smugglers and the children of the city, not to mention some of the policemen. A man who could become a most bothersome thorn in Mr. Starrick's side surely was one it was necessary to cultivate.

'Presumably, whoever does that then comes back to find Mr. Watson's journal successfully. Instead of leaving, though,' he gestured at the stripped down domicile.

'It was a statement,' Holmes reflected, putting away his magnifying glass. 'Blackmail.'

Watson directed an inquiring look his friend's way. 'Blackmail?'

'Someone is trying to put pressure on you, Watson, so that in turn you can pressure me,' Holmes explained, rather evasively given the growing confusion on Watson's face. 'This is not the best place to discuss such matters,' Holmes decided. 'I suggest we return to Mr. Frye's headquarters and continue there.'

'Why not 221B Baker Street?' Watson asked as they were heading out and down the stairs.

'I fancy some more of that Scotch Mr. Frye gave us earlier,' came the even more puzzling reply from the tall man briskly making his way down the stairs.

'Some time ago, two months to be precise,' Holmes began, taking long strides around the Rookery office and puffing his pipe. 'A very curious event took place. I was in my study, alone, going over some case - you know the one, Watson, the missing boy with a clubfoot.'

Watson nodded, a little absent mindedly. He'd already consumed four shots of whiskey, neat, and was starting to feel the effects.

'There was a knock and Mrs. Hudson informed me that a young lady had come to see me,' Holmes continued, not in the least dismayed by the apathetic reaction of his best friend in London. 'I hadn't expected anyone… my first instinct was to ask Mrs. Hudson to tell the young lady that I wasn't receiving visitors at this hour.' He stopped his pacing, to lean against the stack of open crates of cloth, carefully holding his pipe away from the flammable material. 'My dear landlady never got the chance because the visitor let herself in and firmly shut the door of my sitting room.'

Jacob, one ankle thrown over his knee, listened carefully, tapping his finger on the whiskey glass. He had always liked a good story and Holmes did have a rather crisp delivery that he found it easy to listen to.

'Did she introduce herself, Mr. Holmes?' he asked during a short pause which the storyteller used to relight his pipe.

'She presented herself as Ms. Lynch of St. Albans,' the smoke-concealed detective replied. 'That was clearly a lie since I have a directory of all the last names in Great Britain. There are no Lynches in St. Albans.'

'What did she want from you, then?'

'She told me that she had come on behalf of her employer.' Here Holmes caught the younger man's gaze and held it for a moment. 'She never did mention his name.'

'Of course she wouldn't,' the Rook leader sniffed, lifting his eyebrows, one of which was scarred permanently, a scuffle five years ago in Croydon. 'So what was the offer on the table?'

'She said that her nameless patron wanted to use my deductive skills for a matter of some importance.'

'That's all?' Jacob asked, sipping the warming whiskey. The night outside was cold and rainy: as usual, the London autumn never failed to live up to its ordinary habits. Good thing he'd had this rookery repaired, all the holes plugged and waterproofed - otherwise they'd be swimming up to their necks in cold water. He, for one, didn't enjoy cold baths.

'Yes, Mr. Frye.' Holmes walked over and sat in the only remaining chair. 'Since she was so vague about the business, I felt free to refuse her.'

'I take it she wasn't too happy,' Jacob remarked, pushing over an ashtray so that the pipe-wielding detective could empty his tobacco.

'Indeed not. A week after her visit, accidents began to happen.' That last was said in a very casual manner, almost as if it were of no importance whatsoever.

'Accidents… of course…' The boss of the most successful criminal organization in London shook his head in amusement, irony filling his voice.

'I see you know what I am talking about,' Holmes noted, equally ironic.

'My wife's kidnapping is not an accident,' Watson spoke for the first time in an hour. He did not feel urbane at all. He was sick and tired of all this talking!

'No, dear Watson, it is not,' Holmes agreed calmly, turning his attention to him. 'That and the theft of your journal are the first steps in a rather crude plot to subdue me.'

'Dr. Watson,' Jacob, sitting up and reaching into his coat, extracted a leather folder bearing the mark of the police department. 'Here is the file with the police investigation. All that they could come up with.'

Watson took the file with care and opened it. Inside were police reports, descriptions by witnesses of what they had seen and heard that night. Apparently not much. The apartment had not been broken into: the windows were whole, no window latches broken. That meant that the front door of the apartment was used: the landlady mentioned letting in one of the tenants who was wrapped in a long cloak due to the heavy rain that day. She hadn't paid much attention because it was laundry day and she needed to get back to it quickly before hot water ran out. Another witness mentioned a carriage with a livery stable insignia waiting outside of the Watson apartment building around the time that the alleged kidnapping happened. He did see two men get into the carriage with a woman between them. He couldn't really see her face but from what he did manage to see she had not gone willingly.

'Hm… a livery stable,' Holmes murmured. 'That is a start.'

'Insignia can be faked,' Jacob remarked. 'Painted over.'

'That would leave traces,' Watson, whose thoughts were at long last starting to organize into some semblance of rationality, muttered. 'If done quickly.'

'And unprofessionally,' the crime boss added, chewing his lip. 'For a kidnapping in the dark you don't really need a good paint job, though.'

'We need to find that carriage,' Holmes decided, exchanging quick glances with his co-conspirators.

'That's a lot of ground to cover,' the young Assassin demurred. 'I can have my Rooks do the rounds,' he offered. 'Give me two - no, three - days. Assuming that the carriage is still somewhere in the city and hasn't been destroyed, my boys will find it.'

'Gentlemen,' Jacob greeted his fellow detectives in crime, entering the back room of a pub that his Rooks controlled as an intelligence-gathering centre in the Southwark part of town. Conveniently this drinking and information-exchange establishment was located near Waterloo train station - this meant that any vital pieces of knowledge could travel at train speed from one part of the city to the other, a measure which was unfortunately used not only by the Assassins but also the Templars.

'I have good news and bad news,' the proprietor of the said news continued blandly, removing his hat and running one hand through his hair seriously in need of a cut - at least according to his mothering sister. 'Which one would you like to hear first on this fine winter day?' The streets outside of the warm pub were covered in the first snow of what promised to be a cold winter season. He had his hands full with arranging additional quarters for his growing army of street kids. He had no intention of letting them be frozen to death or starving. His smuggling this year had paid off well: Ned Wynert had offered the use of his hidden warehouses on the outskirts of London as the ideal refuge. They had heating and enough space for fifty beds each. It would be a little tight for the kiddies but warm and safe.

'Mr. Frye, I take it the carriage is no longer with us,' Holmes guessed, puffing on his fresh tobacco.

'It is a pile of ash, actually,' Jacob clarified, pouring himself a hot cup of tea with a generous dollop of brandy stolen from Templar smugglers. 'Found in what was formerly Mr. Starrick's foundry Forge A not far from here.'

'A dead end then,' Watson said, his earlier optimism dissipating.

'Not quite, Dr. Watson,' the chief of the most powerful gang in the city objected. 'Mr. Starrick's involvement is not a coincidence.' There was a dark undertone to his voice and a knowing expression on his face. Starrick. Again. The Grand Master of the Templar Order could never admit defeat. He always seemed to be concocting schemes designed to further his ends: absolute control and absolute power. Jacob and the Assassins had managed to derail most of his operation over the past two years - over strident objections of the Assassin Council, which as usual sat on its hands and dithered while there was work to be done. However, if he had learned anything about the Templars, it was that their plans had layers and layers like an onion. You peeled one off and more were uncovered. Since taking over London through industry and gangs hadn't worked, Crawford Starrick had turned to other means.

'You know this Mr. Starrick, do you not?' Holmes asked astutely, observing his young friend very intently. Jacob didn't fail to notice the careful tone, nor the stare.

'We've had business,' he remarked, his tone carefully pitched to be indifferent.

'That is putting it mildly, Mr. Frye,' Holmes spoke from a cloud of fragrant smoke. 'Before you came to London last year, Mr. Crawford Starrick had a stranglehold on London. He was in charge of all: industry, transportation, even the criminal elements.' Noting Watson's somewhat sceptical face, the private detective continued, 'Come now, Watson. You remember what the streets of this city were like last winter. The Blighters and their subordinates were running amok. Killings, robberies…'

Watson had to agree with that. The streets of London were safer. Nonetheless, as the current situation he found himself had revealed not quite as safe as he'd hoped.

'What is the good news?' the good doctor asked bringing the conversation back on track.

'A new prison is being built near Enfield,' the Assassin reported, removing a somewhat smudged paper from his coat. Unfolding it, he placed it on the table between the two men. 'I thought that any new building programme needed Her Majesty's approval.'

'It does,' Holmes confirmed, lightly running his eye over the paper. 'This particular prison does not have the royal blessing… and is financed by Mr. Starrick himself through one of his armament industries located in that area.'

'The rifle factory,' Watson snapped his fingers. 'One of my patients was a foreman there until he had his fingers cut off by the stamping machine.' He let his gaze slide between his fellow conspirators. 'Are you suggesting that my wife is held there at the new prison or perhaps the factory?'

'That is precisely what he is suggesting, dear Watson,' Holmes responded with a gleam of steel in his eyes. 'What do you propose, Mr. Frye? What shall be our next steps?'

The fire in the Starrick armament factory in Enfield made London newspapers a week after Guy Fawkes was burned in effigy all over England. No apparent cause was reported: the journalists who'd not been allowed anywhere near the danger zone had to speculate as to why the rifle factory, which had seemed to meet all of the non-existent safety standards, would suddenly find itself gutted, the black fumes billowing to the heavens. There was no shortage of clever and silly theories, however, some fueled by the news, others idle speculations of gentlemen of means and housewives. Negligence on the part of the workers was cited as the most logical suggestion. Revenge for some slight by one of the foremen was another, more sinister recommendation. Others thought that a drunken brawl had started and someone had accidentally spilled some hot coal where it shouldn't have been. The list went on and on…

Jacob Frye, the mastermind behind the arson at Starrick's arms factory, chuckled as he read the latest nonsense which addressed the identity of the culprit.

'They don't have a clue,' he remarked, folding the drivel in half and slapping it down on to the table of the tea house in Enfield. It was in an out of the way street, run by one of Ned Wynert's associates here.

'The press likes to invent the story around the facts.' The great detective's tone was one of sad contempt for the disseminators of daily doses of information which he was not quite successful at not revealing. 'However, they do have their uses. The public is distracted now with all this idle chatter.'

'I hear that Mr. Starrick has hired a private security company to guard the destroyed factory,' Watson chimed in. The erstwhile army surgeon appeared to be quite like his old self: a spark in his eyes, a more determined step. He'd brought his revolver with him, hidden under his coat. 'I saw them today on my stroll around town. The new prison sits abandoned.'

'It may seem to be,' Holmes cautioned his oldest friend. 'I think our young friend here will agree that oftentimes appearances are indeed deceiving.' The quick flick of his eyes at the youngest member of this conspiracy club spoke volumes about his meaning.

'You mean to tell me, Holmes, that there are still guards in that prison?' Watson's voice was dripping with scepticism. He had not caught on to the significance of the words or the glance.

'On the field of battle, Watson, it is possible to hide in plain sight,' the detective reminded the former army surgeon, echoing the words of the Assassins' Creed - albeit unwittingly. Or was it really so innocent?

'The workers left at the building site,' Jacob clarified the cryptic remark, considering Holmes' last words. 'They haven't done any construction work at all since the 'fire'. They're just standing around, filling space with their presence.'

'Alright,' the bereft surgeon agreed. The past two weeks had taken their toll on him despite the bravado he was putting on now. He hadn't really been sleeping well, his mind occupied with thoughts of what may have happened to his dear Mary. Was their initial guess correct, that Mary had been taken to put pressure on Holmes? What had Ms. Lynch's employer truly wanted Holmes for? He was certain that Holmes hadn't told them the whole truth about the task that Ms. Lynch had been the messenger of. For a man of superb intelligence not to be able to see through a scheme?... Preposterous! And Jacob Frye? What of him? He had his own plans, his own agenda: he had come ahead of the two of them and arranged the 'accidental' fire at the factory - no doubt with help from his gang. Why had he not taken either of them along? What game was he playing?

Sneaking up behind the man in the worker's clothes, almost on tiptoes, Jacob grabbed his ankles and yanked them out from under him. The man yelled but it was soon cut off with the sharp blade in his neck. He never saw, never knew who his attacker was. And that was just as it should be.

For a split second, Jacob listened to the silence around him. Nothing. No one had heard the man die. Excellent. Ahead was a sharp turn in the corridor. That needed to be investigated. He didn't want to stumble over any surprises. Still stealthy, he made his way to the intersection of this passage and the next. Peeking around the corner he spotted two men far down at the end of this wider intersecting hallway. No wonder the scream hadn't been heard: the two 'workmen' were too far away to hear anything. All the better.

One hand on the wall the Assassin made his careful way down the newly built prison basement section. This was the only part that had a roof: Starrick was beginning from the underground up. No doubt this was more than a simple jail for the undesirable underclasses. There were plenty of jails and flouting Her Majesty's orders about building permits so blatantly meant that there was more to this prison than met the eye. What was Starrick up to here?

The two private guards didn't know, nor did they get the chance to explain anything to their killer who didn't give them the time of day. He simply approached from behind and stabbed one into the heart with the signature weapon of the Assassin Order, the hidden blade, a mechanised relic of a thousand years ago which now had been updated to be faster and a more efficient killing machine. The other guard received an elbow to the side of the head which stunned him before the blood-covered blade found his heart too. Simple. Precise. Deadly.

Hiding the bodies in the nearby doorless cell so as not to attract too much attention, Jacob stopped to think over the next part of the plan. He preferred spontaneous ones - he knew that whatever plan one had prior to a battle went out of the window once the battle started. What was the point of sticking to a plan that wouldn't be carried out anyway?

The new hallway that cut across the one where he stood was just as wide, just as dark, just as silent - and yet there were guards stationed along the way, both ways.

'Mr. Starrick, what are you guarding in an empty prison in the middle of the night?' Jacob wondered idly, his eyes flashing an unexpected gold. He needed to know where Mary Watson was being held and the guards were confusing him. He read the remaining smells and afterimages of psyche in the air. She'd been here, that was certain. She'd not gone willingly either. Well, that was only to be expected in her situation: a woman taken from her home in the night, bundled into a carriage which was then disposed of in a factory forge.

'On the left,' he muttered, rubbing his shoulder. That rope launcher did have a tendency to tug at his arm. Sometimes his shoulder began to hurt. 'And these ones are not standing still…'

It was true. The three guards were not stationary: they patrolled the entire hallway end to end, meeting with the two guards in the middle that he had killed and the ones on the far right.

'Oh jolly….' He retreated from the mouth of the passageway, deciding to study the pattern of the guards' movements first before he made his move. He really really did not want to attract unwanted attention - it was Mary Watson's life on the line and he wasn't willing to risk the Templar agents doing anything to her.

The next five minutes passed slowly. The guards walked with a steady gait that allowed them to scan every crack and crevice with the lamps they held in their raised hands. When one of them reached the hallway where Jacob was hiding, he stopped to inspect the emptiness where his two comrades should have been.

'James?' he called out into the darkness. 'Marlin?'

Receiving no answer he took a step forward, then another, peering into the dark. 'Lazy sots,' he muttered. 'Must've gone for a night cap.' He was just turning to go back when he felt his legs cut out from under him. His knees hit the hard cold floor hard, the lamp gently extracted from his hand and blown out. He was dragged into an open cell and sensed his limp body being lifted onto the bare bunk, his hands arranged on his chest. He was aware of another presence, another man there but he was helpless to do anything about what had happened to him. The last thing that he did sense was something cold sliding between his ribs and stopping his heart.

'Sorry about this,' Jacob apologized as he left the dead man in the dark cell. 'Starrick's money is not worth it.'

He still had two more guards to take care of. Lighting the lamp he'd taken from the dead man with the matches he found in his pocket, Jacob began walking down the corridor, holding the lamp high enough to make his face as indistinguishable as possible. The young Assassin kept his steps steady, unhurried. A night watchman in an empty building had nothing to worry him - until a heavy hand grabbed him by the back of the neck and slammed him face first into the stone wall, breaking his nose. The dry crunch of the crushed cartilage would have been the loudest sound if not for the groaning scream of the owner who slid down the wall, tears and blood seeping down his disfigured face in equal measure. His comrade didn't fare better, his arm snatched and twisted hard enough to pop the elbow joint. He howled and was silenced quickly when his neck was snapped with the ease of practice by the assailant whose face he never did catch.

'Nothing personal, gents,' the killer in the night spoke, not even breathing hard. 'Just business.'

Watson stepped over the body of the lone 'workman', remarking the bloody gash in his neck. It was quite clear to his medical expert's mind that the blow had been delivered from behind with a straight blade. Simple and efficient. Death must have been immediate.

However… the blow had been given from behind. The 'workman' never had had a chance to see his attacker, to face him. To Watson's military mind, not facing his enemy was inexcusable. On a field of battle a soldier stood face to face with his foe and looked him in the eye, even in death. Mr. Frye never had looked into the dying eyes of his victim: he'd simply kept going, even as the body dropped to the cold floor. Or had he?

'You misjudge him, Watson,' Holmes said softly, noting his friend's obvious preoccupation with the dead body. In fact, Watson had given all of the bodies they'd passed careful scrutiny. To the deductive mind of Sherlock Holmes, the other man's concern was evident: he did not like Mr. Frye. Specifically he did not believe him to be anything but a street thug. Watson was letting his emotions cloud his thinking. He was making the facts fit his thoughts and not the other way around.

'Really, Holmes?' the former military surgeon's eyebrows went up into his hairline. 'You of all people condone this?' he said with a somewhat dramatic gesture in the direction of yet another corpse dressed in workman's garb of trousers and shirt, all in grey tones.

'How I feel about this dead man is of no import,' the detective shrugged. 'However, ask yourself this, dear doctor: when you give a large dose of opium to a patient - a soldier, say, in one of your surgical tents on the front lines - in order to ease his death, are you that different from what Mr. Frye at that moment?'

'What are you saying, Holmes? That I kill patients on purpose?' Watson's voice became slightly hoarse with disbelief.

'No,' spoke Jacob Frye, coming around the last corner with almost soundless ease. 'What the detective means is that you also sneak up on those who are dying and stab them in the back - only you do it with a syringe needle, Mr. Watson.' His lips pulled into a semblance of a smile, not a kind one either. 'And I use this.' With a sharp metallic snick, the left brace spat out a long blade with a triangular head. The doctor, surprised, took an involuntary step back and hated himself for it. Was he truly so afraid of this young cockerel strutting around killing at will? Him, a lieutenant of the Royal Army!

'You dare, sir!' he hissed, his anger, distrust, the combined stresses of the last few weeks all boiling to the surface.

'Gentlemen,' the detective turned peace-maker intervened. 'We have business to attend to here. Our personal disagreements surely can wait another time.' He gave the impression of absolute indifference as to the imminence of violence in this subterranean prison.

'True,' the young cockerel agreed with that same smirk of the mouth, sheathing that lethal instrument of which he'd boasted a moment ago. 'I have located Mrs. Watson.'