A Treatise on Failure
Third Person POV: Sherlock Holmes's thoughts on his own failures and struggles. Set during the events of 'The Adventure of the Dancing Men', with mentions of 'The Five Orange Pips.'
While not written in ACD's style, it is exclusively based on the books, and the Granada TV series, with Jeremy Brett, with my own little additions, included in between. The timeline may be a bit wonky, but it's mostly for the purposes of this story.
Author's Note: Hey, it's been a while. I've… lead a hectic life for about seven years or so, and to be honest, I kind of gave up on writing Fanfiction as a whole. However, since 2020 is a thing, I suddenly got the idea for this one-shot(perhaps a two-shot?) the other day. I've been reading my giant collection of Sherlock Holmes stories for a while now. I particularly enjoyed the rich writing, the mysteries, and the Great Detective himself, so I figured I'd end up here, writing a Fanfiction about two of my favorite short stories, 'The Adventure of the Dancing Men' and 'The Five Orange Pips.' I hope you enjoy it, and I promise I won't take another seven years to start regularly posting Fanfiction again.
Disclaimer: I do not own anything contained in this story, just my plot. All rights belong to their respective owners; I do not claim any of them as my own. This is just a Fanfiction.
For the residents of 221B Baker Street, mystery wasn't always far from their door. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson had been tangled up in a curious adventure: one Hilton Cubitt of Ridling Thorpe Manor had sent them a disturbingly puzzling series of ciphers, consisting of haphazard, childish scrawl in the form of Dancing Men.
For the normal eye, these Dancing Men would have been nothing more than a child's prank. Watson had seen it as such, as did Mr. Cubitt, until he saw the great importance and sheer terror that his wife, Elsie placed in them. That terror had seemingly seeped into Hilton, permeating the air any time Holmes and Watson received a new telegram, a new cipher.
While the sun dropped lower and lower in the sky, two days into the puzzle, one Sherlock Holmes was hunched over the collection of ciphers, his grey eyes boring into each character that leaped and bounded across the pages.
Watson had been out for the day, as Sherlock had all but barked at him that he needed silence. But as the Doctor crept in, the Detective glanced over his shoulder, giving his friend an amused nod.
"Yes, Watson?" Asked he, causing the Doctor to appear as though he was a schoolboy with his hand caught in the cookie jar before supper.
"I thought you'd like the Times, Holmes." Watson muttered, attempting to pass the paper to his friend. Holmes chuckled slightly before waving it off.
"I do not need to know the prattling of the day right now, friend Watson. What do you make of my progress?" Holmes asked, flicking his wrist towards a chalkboard that had been propped up in their sitting room.
Watson peered at the blackboard, then to the papers, perhaps wondering if this was what his friend felt like when he received a case: his brain whirling, attempting to dredge out any sense of logic from something that was anything but.
Scratching his head, Watson knew at least as much as his companion would let him. These puzzles were a message, but to what extent, the Doctor could not conjecture.
"Well, it still doesn't very mean much, does it?" He mused, as Holmes finally spun around in his chair, smiling.
"Quite enough for me to send a telegram to the United States." Said he, as he strode across the room.
A telegram? What in any of these messages warranted Holmes to wire his compatriots in deduction? As much as he didn't want Sherlock to rebuke him, yet again, for failing to keep up, he couldn't help but want to know.
"Aberslane? What does that mean?" Watson called, as Holmes sighed, taking the air of an amused teacher as he often did.
"Watson. If this, is E-" Sherlock placed the telegram in his mouth, jumping into the position of the dancing figure that he corresponded with. His wiry arms stuck upwards like matchsticks, causing Watson to snort in amusement.
"Been practicing that for a while, Holmes?" Watson droned, as Sherlock's eyes glimmered from his stoic facade.
"Oh, do hush, Watson!" He ejaculated, though Watson could tell that Holmes was trying to hold back a bark of laughter. Watson sniggered, wiping one of his eyes. "Apologies, my dear man, it just seemed that Sherlock Holmes was so eager to show off his interpretation of the Dancing Men that he forgot his stoicism at the threshold."
That earned Watson a raspy round of amused laughter from the Detective, who then decided to play along. Holmes placed his knuckles into the indentation of the small of his back, sticking a single arm in the air this time. "Flag denotes the end of words." He said, offering Watson an amused smirk as he disappeared out the door.
The long evening blended into the remaining days like Holmes's days when he was in his 'black moods,' leaving both men unable to get any further with the message of the Dancing Men, no matter how hard they put their minds to it. Often, during these long days, Watson would rouse from his slumber to use the privy when he found his companion bundled up in his night-gown, pacing a hole into the floor as he stared at the messages.
His nails had gone yellow from gripping his chalk in his hands, and even Watson, though not half the detective Sherlock was, could tell by the tobacco stains on his night-gown that he was using that damned pipe again.
"Holmes?" Watson would call into the darkness, earning a chiding snort from the man in question. "Go back to sleep, Doctor. I shall keep this vigil; you do not need to join me." He called in kind. Now, Watson was more than inclined to take Holmes on his offer, to retreat to his bed, but each time, he could not. Instead, he'd bundle himself up in his night-gown, shuffling out to join the Detective in his nightly investigation of the messages. He could tell that Holmes was starting to take this to a personal level. While he knew the man was an avid purveyor and solver of puzzles and ciphers(he had claimed to have solved the Gold-Bug puzzlelong before William Legrand had), it troubled Holmes that he could not solve it quick enough.
And each time Watson had asked, Sherlock Holmes had shaken his head, muttering to himself about different functions these messages meant. And each time Watson settled on the couch to offer aid to his friend if he needed it, he'd wake with a heavy blanket draped over him, and Holmes curled on the settee, dozing with the chalk still gripped between his reedy fingers.
This became something of a ritual between the two, Watson waking up to join Holmes, Holmes denying that he needed help, the two of them ending up falling asleep in places that were anywhere but their rooms.
When their landlady, Ms. Hudson, discovered their nocturnal habits, she could only chide both men under her breath, something to the extent of 'these cases will end up wearing holes into my furniture'-much to the chagrin of Holmes.
After five days of their ritual, Watson was able to coax Holmes to sit down with him for supper. His companion had grown thinner if it was all possible and still refused to stop his attempts to solve the cipher for anything.
"Holmes." Watson glanced up from his meal of grouse, watching his friend sit opposite him, his wiry arms crossed in front of his chest, his eyes squeezed shut. He was ruminating hard on the Dancing Men, this much was true, but now it was beginning to worry the Doctor, as much as he was a willing participant.
"Holmes. I do wish you'd eat a bite." Watson prompted, as Holmes's eyes flew open, shaking his fist.
"I just need-" He broke off, placing his fist on his mouth. "I need that telegram from America, and that completes this story." Said he. Watson set down his fork, raising an eyebrow.
"My dear fellow, can I ask what is bothering you? I have not seen you this agitated by a case since The Five Orange Pips." He inquired, as Sherlock's hawkish stare bore into Watson. At first, he seemed agitated, his jaw twitching in an unheard rhythm.
"Friend Watson, I'm not sure where you have acquired that deduction." Holmes grunted as Watson shook his head, refusing to let this up.
"Holmes. You have not slept in your bed for almost a week now; your nails are bright yellow, and your night-gown reeks of the pipe! Do not lie to me to save face, man, what is going on? As a Doctor, this unnerves me. As your friend, I am dreading the day when solving this conundrum leaves you in a state of exhaustion that I can not fix for you." Watson said, leaning forward to emphasize his point. "You are among friends. Please."
Holmes sighed, his skinny shoulders sagging. "I fear that Elsie Cubitt has brought many terrible unseen dangers to her door, ones that I fear I might not be able to solve in time. I fear, no, I think the next telegram that should arrive at our door will be my failure." He said. For one, Holmes looked shaken, vulnerable.
The air in 221B hung still in Holmes's confession, as Watson sat back, his eyes wide. "I thought you to be fearless." He mused.
Holmes let out a bitter laugh, his fingers twitching for his fork. "I am fearless only to your imaginative eye, Watson. There is a great deal of fears that I possess, chief among them being my failure to protect the life of someone I pledged my services to." Said he.
"Young Openshaw's death has darkened your mind all this time?" Watson asked, hoping that Holmes would pick up his fork.
"I would have hoped your profession as a medical man would have seen that." Holmes muttered, picking up his fork.
"And this case is reminding you too much of it?" Watson said, his voice dropping to a whisper as he scanned the quiet, devastated look on Holmes's face.
"Watson. Tell me something. Am I a failure for not solving the Dancing Men in time?"
Watson was all too tempted to gape at the man, who presumed himself to be a failure. Did he feel that way all the time? Was it an effect of what happened to Openshaw? "My good man, you are anything but a failure." Watson chided, placing a hand on his friend's wrist.
"You are… arrogant. You can be a master class cunning devil, Holmes. You infuriate and endear yourself to everyone you meet. But in my years of knowing you, I have never met a man who was so unshakably faithful and loyal to anyone who he deemed worthy of his affections and services. My dear Holmes, you are a lot of things, but a failure is not one of them." Watson said, watching as the fire lit back in Holmes's eyes, his usual stoic facade snapping back into place.
The pair said nothing until Holmes lifted a bite of grouse to his mouth. "John." Said he, garnering every ounce of Watson's attention. He usually never-
"I know I never refer to you by your first name, but… you do not know how much I have needed to hear that." Holmes said. "I shall endeavor to continue on my path, no matter what comes our way."
Watson took a page from his friend, letting out a bark of laughter. "I thought you told me you were not like one C. Auguste Dupin, but yet you've read my mind brilliantly!" He ejaculated.
"I acknowledge Poe's brilliance with my methods, but friend Watson, he is still forever the inferior fellow. I believe if I were set on the path of what happened in The Murders in the Rue Morgue, I would have done much better than he." Holmes tutted, both friends digging into their grouse to stop giggling at each other like large schoolchildren.
After Watson had confronted Holmes, the Detective had stopped dozing off on the settee, instead transforming their sofa in the sitting room into a makeshift bed. Even if Holmes's uncertainties had been eased, his ominous words of warning hung around both men any time they thought of the Dancing Men again.
On the seventh day of trying to solve the Dancing Men, Holmes was roused from his slumber on the couch at the sound of a knock. The Detective grinned, vaulting over his sofa as he sprinted to the door.
"Watson!" He bellowed upstairs, causing the Doctor to thunder down the stairs after him.
"Is that the telegram from the United States?" Watson yawned as Sherlock unfolded the paper that was sent to their mail. His prior jovial expression melted away to a pensive frown as he turned the paper towards his friend.
"It's another letter from Hilton Cubitt." Said he, as he hurried towards his chalkboard, wiping the surface clean with his sleeve.
Even if Watson had not yet deciphered the Dancing Men himself, he at least knew one word that stood out on the scrap of paper. Elsie. Her name in the hieroglyphics stood out, as two Dancing Men matched Holmes's earlier dance with ease.
As Holmes picked up his favored chalk, both men could notice that their worries were rushing back to the forefront, thrumming in their ears. Louder and louder it grew, as Holmes scrawled out what he could decipher.
"Elsie… Prepare…" He muttered as he glanced up at the chalkboard before there was only this:
ELSIE PREPARE TO MEET THY GOD.
The world around Holmes and Watson froze. Watson swallowed, feeling as though some dry hand was squeezing his heart into a vice in the thought of the consequences this threat would bring. As for Holmes?
His eyes burned with some new, hidden fury, masked by emotion that anyone could spot from a considerable distance. Fear.
Watson and Holmes scooped up their papers, bundling out the door and grabbing their dressing clothes. They thundered out of the apartment, managing to elicit a yelp of surprise from the cabbie that had pulled up.
"Mr. Holmes! Telegram!" A young messenger hurried up beside them, passing over a yellowing paper to the Detective.
"Thank you." Holmes said as he turned to his companion. "It's from Wilson Hargreave, of the Chicago Police Bureau." He explained, reading the note aloud:
"Abe Slaney is one of the most dangerous crooks in Chicago." Holmes just about threw himself into the cab, shaking the wooden structure, which only persisted when Watson followed suit.
"To the train to Norfolk, and hurry!" Watson called up. The young man who was driving their cab nodded in fright, whipping the horse into a furious canter down the roads of London.
The London cityscape blurred into nothing but a facade of urbanization, industrialization, and smog, transforming into the blend of greenery that was the train station. As they arrived, Holmes did not give the driver the decency of stopping, flinging himself out of the cab and in a run towards the train, with Watson shambling at his heels.
A rotund man, the Norfolk Station Master, about Watson's lightly tanned complexion hurried after them at their panic. "Aren't you the detectives from London?" He called. Holmes froze at that, his grey eyes rounding in panic.
"How do you know?" Asked he, his voice shaking in its usual tenor. The Station Master looked at them with sympathy, shrugging.
"I figured you would be, sir, or surgeons. You might not be too late to save her. Or else she's headed to the gallows."
Watson went the color of a washed sheet, his mouth opening, and closing. "The gallows?" He managed to get out.
"Well yes, sir. Elsie Cubitt murdered her husband, Hilton Cubitt. It's made the rounds from Norfolk. After she killed him, she shot herself and is at death's door." The man said. Sherlock's composure went stiff, rigid, his fists balling at his sides.
Watson glanced at his friend, his expression adding to his horror. Not once, since the Five Orange Pips, had he seen his friend look so despondent and shaken by the news of a death. For both, it seemed as though their grave failure rung in their ears like some distant church bell, over and over again.
You failed. You did not get there in time. It seemed to say, as Holmes hailed a carriage, climbing inside with Watson without a word.
If someone had asked Watson how he had felt about one Sherlock Holmes when they had met some years ago, Watson would tell you that he found Holmes to be a bizarre fellow, nothing more. But upon seeing the bleak melancholy his friend had further slipped into, the Doctor could place a word to the emotion he felt for his friend.
Heartbroken. Not just for Holmes either, but for Hilton Cubitt, the man who was taunted by secrets he could not see, and for Elsie Cubitt, whose past caught up to her and damaged everything in its way. Even her beloved husband. Watson gave a dry swallow, attempting to say something to break the silence on their ride to Ridling Thorpe Manor.
"Holmes?" He whispered as Holmes's attention snapped over to him. The Detective's jaw was clenched tight, his expression flickering between melancholy and a set desire to devote his life to this quest, lest Hilton Cubitt go further unavenged.
"What would you like me to say, friend Watson? That I did my absolute best? If that had indeed been the case, Hilton Cubitt would be resting at home with his wife, not on the floor dead." Holmes seethed, clasping his hands together with intense agitation. "If I had done my absolute best, Elsie Cubitt need not have been so frightened by the Dancing Men. I failed, friend Watson. Again, in the worst way."
Watson leaned back in his seat in the carriage, his gaze not leaving his friend's face. "Before I give you my thoughts, Holmes, tell me this, and tell yourself this. When young Openshaw was thrown into the Thames by that dreadful organization from America, what did you do?" He asked.
"I set my hand upon that gang and used their devilish signature against them. Watson, I thought you recorded everything." Holmes muttered as Watson shook his head.
"That is beside the point, my dear fellow. When we both heard of the tragedy, you took it upon yourself to become a police, and I have never seen you more determined to set things right. This is that case, though, with a few extra mysteries we two have yet to solve. Instead of you storming off to be a police, we are heading to prevent any further tragedy. I am positive that between the two of us, Hilton Cubitt will not rest a moment longer unavenged. Now, I do not partake in these events as much; we both know this, but if I am going to be honest with you, Holmes, this has become personal for me as well. And I know in my right mind that I will not sit back and let poor Elsie Cubitt suffer a moment longer."
Watson paused, as Holmes's jaw released some of its tension, the Detective sitting forward to listen to what he had to say. Taking that as his cue, Watson reached out, taking his friend's hand in his.
"We failed. This is true. My dear Holmes, you have failed before, four times over, you have said. Twice over, we have failed to save the life of a client now. But you have not failed now. Lesser men would have crawled away and hidden from their failures or looked for the answers at the bottom of a bottle. Instead, you are charging towards your next goal. What, to you, does that say about failure?" Watson asked.
"In my art, failure should never be an option, Doctor. However, failure can only strengthen my resolve for my clients, that I can get better at doing right by them." Holmes answered his blank melancholy sliding off of his face at the realization.
"Allow yourself not to be perfect, Holmes. In whatever way you feel you can." Watson chuckled, as Holmes's signature, casual, yet wholly intelligent grin quirked his face upwards.
"I do not think I can do that exactly as you say, but your point is not less than accurate." Holmes said, returning Watson's gesture by squeezing his hand.
"Now, friend Watson, will you join me? There might still be some element of danger with the uncertainty of Abe Slaney." Holmes asked as Watson couldn't help but grin.
"My dear fellow, I think it would be worth it to brave the danger." Watson said as Holmes pulled him out of the carriage and onto the threshold of Ridling Thorpe Manor.
The site of Holmes's second greatest failure.
Author's Note: Thanks for sticking with me this far. In the next chapter, I'll be wrapping up this two-shot with the conclusion of 'failure,' admittedly with success. See you in the next update!