A/N: Hello, everyone! I know it's been ages and ages since I updated anything. RL really did some mean things. I'm getting back into the writing again - I'm sorry it took so long, and I read every message and review you guys sent in the past year and a half. I know I didn't have a chance to respond to all of you, but I want you all to know that your persistence and your encouragement and your enthusiasm kept me determined to come back to this when I could. So...without further blathering from me, here's the next part of the story! (I'll be trying to get back to all of my unfinished works eventually - thanks to all of you for your patience, and for your lovely reads and reviews!)
Watson only stopped by his old house in Kensington – now used for his medical practice and nothing more – to ask his neighbor Anstruthers to cover his walk-ups for the day. He did have several house calls scheduled in addition to his in-office consulting hours, but he shirked those with the help of a young lad who looked vaguely familiar – a little lost Irregular, no doubt, though why he was tailing Watson rather than hounding Holmes for a pocketful of biscuits was anyone's guess. Armed with a list of addresses and more shillings than was strictly necessary, the lad made off to deliver Watson's excuses to those high class hypochondriacs who could not be bothered taking a carriage to see their doctor in his practice room. Rich folk felt entitled to everyone else's leisure, Watson mused as he stripped off his blue waistcoat and exchanged it for a darker, wool one that could stand a bit of an excursion to less than savory neighborhoods. And while those titled and landed fellows pressed upon Watson for his precious time in making house calls, the people truly in need had to drag their sorry, sick arses to his doorstep and then wait for him to get back. It was deuced unfair; he should stop making house calls altogether, or else start refusing those who genuinely did not need his extra attentions.
In all honesty, Watson had left Baker Street with the intention of putting in a proper day's work, but the walk to his Kensington rooms afforded him ample time to imagine all of the myriad manners by which Holmes might come to know of the true outcome of Lestrade's investigation. And the lie he had told to try to hide it was even now gnawing at him. He had been called many unkind things by Holmes over the years, not to mention being twitted over his writing on a regular basis, but to hear Holmes calling him a liar as if he had never before conceived of the notion that Watson might tell him a falsehood… That had been more painful than Watson ever could have anticipated. He had tucked Holmes into bed with the niggling feeling that he had shattered yet another lingering facet of Holmes' sometimes boyish innocence. Watson had told him that all the bad men were in the docks where they could not hurt him anymore, but he had known as he said it that it wasn't true.
Or at least, Watson hoped that it hadn't been true. The last thing he wanted in this instance, ironically enough, was to be proven an honest man because if he had not lied, however inadvertently, it meant that Holmes had indeed imagined a fourth perpetrator. The ramifications of that – of telling Holmes that his own mind, his most prized asset, had failed him – were too terrible to ponder. It would break the most brilliant man that Watson had ever known, for though Watson saw more to merit in him than just the calculating machine, Holmes did not; he was nothing without his skill at observation, his deductions…his wonderfully inexplicable mind. If he could not trust his own eyes to see what was actually there, how could he ever again trust himself to solve a case correctly?
The trip to the Punch Bowl ate up half an hour's worth of Watson's brooding thoughts. He was not a stupid man, but he was also not on a par with Holmes when it came to solving crimes. After the fact, Watson could look at Holmes' reasoning and find it simplistic in the extreme – as hindsight rendered all things – but in the midst of an investigation, what Holmes did could only be described as astounding. Watson could fancy himself a student of Holmes' methods, but he knew quite well that his mastery of them only barely surpassed that of, say, Lestrade's. And that was only because Watson had more exposure to Holmes' company than Lestrade did, and had absorbed more of his insight by proximity. In spite of that, he had to try. He would not allow Lestrade to consign his dearest friend to the ranks of hysterics and accidental madmen unless he had exhausted every alternative himself.
The hansom dropped Watson right in front of the dingy establishment, which looked far more shabby in the weak morning light than it did when blazing from within during fights. He fully expected to have to pound on the door for a few minutes to wake someone, but his first rap of knuckles brought the owner outside almost immediately. "Oi! What you be wantin' 'ere, Mister? I 'ave work ta do, so be quick."
"Right," Watson replied uncomfortably. He was not accustomed to doing this without Holmes nearby, at least in spirit. "My apologies for the interruption. My name is Doctor John Watson, and – "
"Aye; you're Mister 'olmes' friend," the man interrupted. He eyed Watson warily for a moment and then jerked his head in a silent invitation as he stepped aside to allow Watson entry. "We ain't seen 'im 'round in almost two months. You 'ere to pay 'is rent?"
Watson removed his hat as he stepped into the dark interior, the whole building contaminated by the cloying scents of cheap ale, sawdust and old, bloody sweat. "His rent?"
"Aye." The pudgy owner left the door open, probably to avail them both of some sorely needed fresh air, and ambled back to the bar where he appeared to have been booking his previous night's earnings. "He's a month behind on it already, and soon ta be a nuther. I don' say nothin' about it usually, since 'e always makes it up, but 'e ain't been 'round for a fight lately. I gots ta make a livin' here, Doctor, so iffin 'e ain't comin' back, I deserve to know, see? I got other blokes what might rent the place."
"Of course," Watson agreed, absently fingering his hat brim. "I'll see that he sends a payment to you this week." He made a mental note to do so himself, though he wondered if he should bother. It seemed unlikely that Holmes would ever desire to come here again, but then, Watson could never be sure with him.
"Tha's right kind of you, sir." The owner hoisted himself up onto a stool and then swiveled to regard Watson with a faint if guarded interest. "What is it I kin do for you, then? You didn' come down to this hole to talk about Mister 'olmes' debts, and I ain't got nuthin on the books about owin' you an unclaimed winning."
Watson cleared his throat and then found himself unable to meet the owner's rather perceptive gaze. "Are you familiar with a gentleman by the name of Josiah Redding?"
The owner straightened on his stool, leaning away in the process. With obvious reluctance, he replied, "I wouldna call 'im no gen'leman. In fact, I 'eard 'e finally got 'imself arrested." He grimaced and then muttered under his breath, "'bout damn time, too."
"Right." Watson resisted the urge to clear his throat again because it would be obnoxious. "Then he was in the habit of coming here?"
The owner spent a few moments in silent contemplation of Watson's person, and then gestured to the ring centered in the open space behind them. "You'll want ta talk to Gruener. He keeps the lads in check 'round 'ere. Down the hall, third door on the left. Tell 'im I said he's ta be civil with ya."
"Thank you." Watson nodded and began to lope off in the indicated direction when the owner's soft cough prompted him to pause. He glanced over his shoulder to see if that were meant as an attention seeking sound, and indeed, the man was looking at him with an odd, expectant expression. "I apologize. Was there something else? If you require an advance on the rent, I would be happy to pay a portion of it now in good faith."
"It's not that, Doctor." The owner's speech had improved considerably, along with a marked unease. "You tell him we miss seein' 'im, will ya? It's not right, what they did. Mister 'olmes is a decent enough fellow, more decent than most we get in 'ere. If it weren't for those blighters bein' in the docks already, we'd've put 'em into the Thames. And not for no swim, neither."
Watson stared for a moment and then looked down. His lips thinned as he pressed them together in the hopes of staving off any emotion that might threaten to show on his face. Then he inclined his head just enough to hide his expression beneath the brim of his hat. "My thanks, sir. I'll be sure to tell him."
The owner nodded in return and then went back to his ledger with the air of man who needed to shake off the memory of having displayed good manners. Watson left him to it and made his way carefully through the room, his eyes straying to the empty boxing ring. The last time Holmes had been there, they had been watching him. They had stood on this very floor, rooting for his downfall, and when it had not come in the ring, they had plotted their own version of it. And Watson could not yet be certain that they had failed at it.
Watson shook off that morose thought and quickened his steps, passing into the back corridor where packed earth, rather than sawdust, served to dull the sound of his footsteps. He knocked on the door that the owner had indicated and waited through the sounds of someone lumbering upright and staggering to answer. The door swung open a moment later, and a very large man paused in the act of some sort of familiar greeting when he realized that he did not know the person standing outside his door. "Mister Gruener?"
Gruener drew himself up abruptly and scowled down at Watson, his features smudged with sleep in spite of the sudden sharpness of his gaze. The man was enormous, and Watson almost expected a French accent to come from the man's mouth, snarled around broken English words, as if he were a relation of that Mister Dredger from so many years before. "Aye. Who the blazes are you, then? How did you get in here?"
Watson straightened more out of apprehension than pride. The man spoke impeccable English, even if his vocabulary had grown coarse on account of the company he kept. Briefly, Watson wondered what had led an educated man to work as a bludger in a dive like the Punch Bowl, and then he experienced a glow of satisfaction at his elementary deduction. Holmes would have laughed at him for being so proud of something so blatantly simple, but Watson chose not to dwell on that particular aspect of it. "My name is Doctor John Watson. The owner has instructed me to say that you're to be civil with me."
"Mm. Doctor Watson?" Gruener's posture became less hostile, but he still eyed Watson warily. It took very little for a man of his bulk to appear intimidating. "That name seems familiar, sir." He stepped aside and gestured Watson in, the sweep of his hand reminiscent of much better breeding than his surroundings suggested. "Have we met?"
"I don't believe that we have been properly introduced," Watson replied. "But I am often here in the company of one of your regular boxers. Mister William Scott?" His thoughts stuttered abruptly and Watson amended that to a mumbled, "Was often here, that is."
Gruener shut the door and indicated a neatly kept table. "Ah. I recall now, sir. You're Mister Holmes' physician."
Watson offered a wan smile in return and sat in the offered chair. "I see that you know him."
"My job here is to keep the marks calm and the fights from getting lethal, sir. I could hardly do that properly without knowing that it's Mister Holmes himself in the ring." Gruener sat down opposite Watson and folded his hands together. "You wouldn't believe the number of blokes we get in here, looking specifically to do him a bad turn."
Watson frowned and cast an uncomfortable glance at the room around him. It was neatly kept and mostly free of dirt, the cot in the corner well appointed and the sheets tucked with military precision. "Am I to understand, then, that it was no great secret who William Scott actually was?"
Gruener appeared apologetic. "Mister Holmes' strength is in disguises, sir. But when he comes here, there's no false appearance to be had, not with being bare to the waist. It wasn't something we talked about, but most folks realized the truth sooner or later. Plenty of people around here know him on sight from his investigations and such. He even keeps some of us in steady employ, just to keep our ears open. He likes to make sure he knows the news around here. We hear things in places like this; men are loose with their tongues when they've got drink and the itch in them."
"Would you be one of those he employs, Mister Gruener?"
"No, sir," he replied shortly. His response seemed to betray an odd brand of pride. Perhaps he believed himself too cultured to fall prey to that sort of employ? "I mind my own business too much to be of any use to him there."
No, not too cultured, Watson thought, studying the man openly. Too disciplined, more like; Gruener was accustomed to obedience, and in a place like this, he would naturally have been instructed to turn a blind eye to the lesser illegalities he may encounter. Watson indulged himself in a split second's reconsideration, and then elected to play a somewhat risky game that he very rarely managed to win at, though not for lack of Holmes' attempts to teach him. "I can see that, sir. May I ask what rank you held?"
Gruener started and then leaned back in his chair as if to reappraise his guest. "Only a sergeant, sir. And yourself?"
Watson grinned in spite of his grim mood. "Corporal. You would have been infantry, no?"
"I would. And you in the medical corps."
"Obviously," Watson replied dryly. "You don't seem to have the manner of someone who returned from combat to find himself without family or homestead. Men of your lineage do not often end up in such a position. There must have been a row of some sort to drive you here."
Gruener's manner stiffened and Watson put himself on guard. "A difference of opinion, sir."
"Irreconcilable, I would guess?"
"Yes, and with all respect to you, Doctor, I can only forgive one man for this sort of prying. You are not he."
Watson started slightly. "Is it too bold to ask who this one man is?"
Gruener ground his teeth for a moment, but not in malice or anger; he merely appeared indecisive. "Mister Holmes has a sort of perspective on family quarrels, sir. I found his unwelcome insight to be rather helpful once."
Watson nodded. There seemed to be many aspects to his old friend that he had never been introduced to, and he wished that the circumstances for uncovering them were not so dire as they were. "He has that talent."
"He's an irritating, pompous busy body," Gruener countered, but the line of his mouth hinted at a flash of mirth. Or even, perhaps, at brotherly affection. "Once you get past that, though, he's not such a bad fellow. Too nosy for his own good, not that he really means it that way. I don't imagine he can help it."
A faint smile washed over Watson's features, but he could feel the sadness in it. "I often imagine the same thing." Any lingering traces of ease died in the wake of that remark. "Mister Gruener, I find myself in a rather untenable position."
Gruener's face mirrored the downfall in Watson's. "Aye. We all heard what happened, but the word is that those – " He chose an extremely unflattering term that colored even Watson's army-hardened ears. " – had been caught."
"That's what I've come to confirm," Watson replied. He shifted in his chair and laid his hat on the table before he could be tempted to pick apart the brim in his agitation. "Do you recall that evening, sir?"
Gruener's face pinched in distaste for the barest moment before he closed his expression off completely. "I do."
"And you saw Redding here?"
"I nearly had to remove him from the premises. He got rather upset at losing a bet."
"Is that unusual?"
"Him losing? No. And neither is the need to toss him out, arse over ankles. He'd bet against Mister Holmes that night. Truth be told, I would have too. Good ol' William looked like he'd come here…well. Not to win."
Watson felt his face pinch and pull his expression down. "Not to win?" Surely Holmes wouldn't throw a match; he was brash and insolent, but he had honor. He would never set up a match for the sake of a paltry bet – to line his own pockets on a bribe. Would he? What if it wasn't his money; what if it was Watson's? Holmes had been so upset at losing Watson's money…
A sharp crack interrupted Watson's troubled distraction; Gruener had slapped the flat of his hand against the table and was now glaring across it at Watson. With a precision of enunciation that could only have come from good breeding, Gruener growled, "Mister Holmes would never fix a match."
Watson swallowed. Until now, he had not felt the least bit menaced by Gruener's imposing bulk. "I apologize. I do know that."
Gruener frowned off to one side, considering, and then levered himself to his feet in that manner peculiar to men of uncommon muscular bulk. "I was about to put on a pot of tea, Doctor. Will you partake?"
"That would be most welcome," Watson replied, if only to maintain an appearance of manners. The thought of putting anything on his stomach right now left a peculiar fluttering sensation darting about his innards, but he could hardly find a reasonable excuse to refuse.
"I'm afraid my salary doesn't allow for the luxury of a good blend," Gruener apologized. For the first time since Watson had entered, he appeared mildly ashamed of his circumstances.
"I was in the army, sir," Watson replied kindly. "I assure you that I have had much worse, and in far less hospitable circumstances." Watson shifted and contemplated his hands for a moment. "Mister Gruener… Your remark, earlier…that Holmes did not come here that night to win?"
Gruener grunted and set about turning on the stove. He seemed to consider silence as an answer, but in the end, he merely offered, "Mister Holmes seems an unhappy man at times."
Watson let out a slow breath in an effort not to sigh. "Yes. At times."
"Anyway, he turned about in the ring and gave the lout a sound beating, fair and square. Redding lost near a hundred pounds. He was a damn fool to bet that much in the first place, but you know the type. Can't help themselves – it's the rush."
"Yes," Watson interjected, his voice nearly catching. "I know the feeling myself."
Redding glanced back, smiled as one does to a brother in arms, and then bent back over the tea preparations. "Understand, Doctor. If I'd had even the faintest inkling that Redding was going to hold that grudge, I would never have allowed Mister Holmes to leave here alone."
"You have no need to apologize, sir."
"I do," Gruener retorted flatly. "It's my job to keep order here, and I take it seriously, no matter that what we do here is illegal."
Watson considered arguing, but it would serve little purpose. "Then am I to understand that Redding never took things so far before?"
"Not here." Gruener placed a kettle over the open flame and then reached for a few shining tea cups, chipped around the brims but otherwise carefully kept. They seemed out of place in this setting, and Watson guessed that they were a carryover from his better days. "Redding's got a reputation, and he's a hot-headed piece of – " Gruener cut himself off and mumbled, "Beg your pardon, Doctor. He's got a temper and he toes the line, but he knows better than to rough anybody up here. I'd have his bollux for door knockers, you see; Mister Holmes' fights bring in quite a lot of money. Even if it weren't a matter of friendship, there would be business justifications to putting the man down."
"Of course," Watson agreed, if only to indicate his attention.
"Those cronies of his only ever followed his lead." Gruener tied up two satchels of crushed tea leaves and dropped them into the cups. "They're all three of them spawned from the lowest dregs of humanity. Foul creatures. But Redding was the one who encouraged them."
"Kirkpatrick and Smitty Williams," Watson supplied.
"That's right." Gruener glanced back at Watson, his head tilted curiously, and then returned to his staring match with the tea kettle. "They got all three, then."
"Yes," Watson hedged. He made it clear from his tone, however, that this was not the full story.
Gruener picked up on it and rearranged the teacups for no good reason. "Then why are you here, sir?"
Watson looked down to where his fingers picked at each other in his lap, then forced himself to sit with at least a modicum of the dignity of a soldier. Or of a very close, very worried friend relying on the charity of others' loose tongues. "Did you happen to observe Mister Redding speaking to anyone unusual that evening? A gentleman, perhaps?"
Gruener made no reaction whatsoever at first, and then he slumped to lean his hands on either side of the teacups. "Old Thomas put out that there were four of them. I thought he'd just gotten his facts mixed up."
"No," Watson told him softly. "We think that there were four involved."
"You don't sound so sure," Gruener commented. "What did Mister Holmes say?" He paused suddenly, in speech as well as in manner, and then twisted his upper body around to peer at Watson. "Did Mister Holmes say? I mean, he's alright, isn't he? Thomas said he was a bit off when he saw him, but he didn't…" Gruener trailed off, and for a very short, scattered moment, he seemed genuinely stricken. As soon as the expression surfaced, Gruener turned away to fidget angrily with the teabags. Guilt. "Is that why he hasn't been back? Clyve said he hasn't paid his rent since then."
"I'm handling his rent," Watson deflected. Clyve must have been the owner's name. "Did you see Redding with a gentleman that night?"
"I didn't see him talking to anyone out of the ordinary, no." Gruener glared at the teakettle, observed a bit of steam escaping the spout, and then turned off the flame. "As for any odd gentlemen, we do get a few. I don't recall anyone standing out that night."
"He would have been rather richly dressed," Watson prompted.
Gruener fixed him with a dry, annoyed look. "With all respect, Doctor, I do know the definition of the word 'gentleman.'"
Watson flared his nostrils and looked down again. "That's the only descriptor I have, Mister Gruener. He was dressed in finery and seemed rather anxious to keep the dirt of this part of town off of himself."
"The prim sort usually doesn't make its way in here," Gruener informed him. "What exactly did this gentleman have to do with it?"
Watson took a deep breath and passed his hand over his eyes. "He may have hired Redding's crew to perpetrate the attack."
Unexpectedly, Gruener snorted, and Watson glanced up from under lowered brows to see him pouring water into the teacups. "Redding doesn't take orders, Doctor. You couldn't pay him enough." He finished pouring and set the kettle aside, then made his way back to the table with two carefully balanced tea sets. "Is that what this is about, then? Redding's trying to push off the blame on some imaginary rich gentleman with a grudge against Mister Holmes?" He scoffed again as he set Watson's cup down next to his hat. "That's absurd, Doctor. And Redding's a bloody lying son of a… Sorry." He offered Watson a somewhat apologetic glance. "I'm afraid my language suffers from working here."
"No need to apologize," Watson replied readily. "I have called him much worse, I assure you."
"Good to hear." Gruener blew across the top of his tea and then recollected himself with a start. "Bugger. Did you want sugar, Doctor? I'm afraid we don't get milk down here, but – "
"Please don't trouble yourself," Watson told him gently. "This will be quite enough for me."
Gruener grunted as he settled into his chair again, his saucer cradled in one massive hand, the teacup held primly in the other.
Watson almost laughed at the incongruity of a man who looked like a brute holding a fine tea set with the perfect manners of gentility. He looked like a bruiser sitting at a child's imaginary tea party. It was an hysterical humour, however, and the moment it bubbled about in Watson's throat, he forced it back down. "Erm." Watson coughed to clear his throat and picked up his own tea just to give his hands a task unrelated to fraying the loose strings of his overcoat. "Actually, all three of them confessed to the whole thing. They're not claiming that they were hired for it, or that anyone else was involved."
It took a moment, but Gruener narrowed his eyes and then peered across the table at Watson. "Mister Holmes says there were four, then. And Redding denies it?"
"All three of them deny it," Watson replied, sobered to the point that he didn't think any amount of alcohol could have cured him of it. "And the Yard believes them. There's no evidence, you see, that would confirm a fourth man's presence, especially when the three perpetrators they do have are…gloating over what they did."
"Braggarts, are they?" Gruener growled. A rather menacing darkness pervaded his features; Watson could well picture this man playing the part of a bouncer in the midst of a drunken, rowdy crowd. He changed tacks without warning, but the shadows coloring his expression remained. "So what you're telling me is that Scotland Yard considers their duty done, and they aren't even looking for this other toffer."
"It's…somewhat more serious than that," Watson confessed. "But essentially, yes. I need to find some sort of proof of his existence, something I can take back to the Yard to make them reopen the case. An additional witness from that evening, perhaps, or someone who saw Redding transacting with a strange gentleman either before or after the incident."
Gruener directed a pensive frown into his teacup. "Well…Kirkpatrick has a wife, you know. If there was something odd going on, she might have known about it, though it's not likely. From what I understand, she was pretty close to losing her senses from the shock of learning he'd been arrested. Kirkpatrick wasn't a very nice sort, but he had that woman spelled, if you follow."
Watson nodded; the man was rather cruel to his wife, and the wife had fallen into the inevitable pattern of self blame for the abuse. It was a regrettably common occurrence in the lower classes. Unlike with the more affluent members of society, whose every move and intrigue was the subject of scrutiny and gossip, there were no prying eyes amongst the unfortunates to perform for; so much went unseen and unremarked down here. "Do you know where I might find her?"
"I don't, but you can ask Daniel Cutter. He's one of our regular bookies. From what I've heard, he's had to track down plenty of debts in his day. He should have an address for that rotten little blighter."
Watson finished his tea quickly and left armed with both the address of the bookie Daniel Cutter, and Gruener's blessings, which came in the form of an injunction to, "Show those damn Yarders how stupid they are, will you? If Mister Holmes had said there were fairies in a bell jar in that alley, then you could bet your last sixpence that there were. And all he's saying now is that there's a gentleman hiring thugs to do his dirty work." If it came to it, Watson had the impression that Gruener would gladly lend his own powers of persuasion to anything Watson deemed necessary, legal or otherwise.
Unbeknownst to Watson, Holmes had apparently acquired a whole second life down in this unruly part of London, and a cadre of somewhat brutish if extremely loyal friends. Watson wondered as he nodded his goodbyes to the landlord if Holmes were aware of just how many allies he actually had floating about in the shadows, because none of the people he had met so far fit the strict definition of business contact or informant that Holmes had always assigned to his acquaintances outside of Baker Street. These people cared, and they had few compunctions against showing it. Watson's newfound knowledge warmed him in unexpected ways. However much it seemed so on the surface, he and his friend were not alone in this.
Holmes would never admit it to anyone on god's green earth, but convincing himself to leave the cab once it brought him to Whitehall had been nigh on the hardest thing he had ever done. And it was shamefully ridiculous to know it. Just two months ago, he would have given that honor to making himself walk away from the falls while Watson screamed his name over the cliff's edge. Leaving his father's home at the age of thirteen would have ranked next. But this – simply stepping from a hansom onto a street he knew as well as his own…
The cab clattered away a moment later; Holmes wasn't sure how much he had tipped the man, but from the grumbling, it must have been inadequate payment for the irritation incurred by conveying him here. A furtive glance about revealed a distressing absence of street urchins; Cartright must have lost his cab in the heavy morning traffic. For some reason, the lack of his customary young shadows troubled Holmes far more than he thought it should. This was Whitehall; Scotland Yard was right there on the other side of the street, directly across from where Holmes stood. He had been here hundreds – no, thousands of times before. And as if that weren't enough, it was broad daylight and every constable who walked out on patrol was known to him, half the shopkeepers and errand boys were known to him – even the beggars bore familiar faces.
After quite too much time spent obstructing pedestrian traffic, Holmes scuttled – actually scuttled – across the sidewalk and through the front entrance of Scotland Yard, where he paused against the wall beside the doors and refused to admit, even in the privacy of his own mind, that he needed that moment to regain his composure. There were people everywhere outside, but it was broad daylight, and none of them smelled foul or looked to have more evil intentions than the usual pedestrian. But Fourth Man was a gentleman; he could have blended in with ease, which meant that other evil men could as well; after all, Holmes had brought his share of gentlemen to justice over the years – rich men, privileged men who everyone had thought above reproach until Holmes had started digging his fingers into matters. And he had already learned that he was not safe alone.
Unfortunately, the crowd inside Scotland Yard was not much better, at least not to a man like Holmes in his current hyper-vigilant state. He slipped past the various people milling about just inside the door and strode down the hall on feet that he imagined barely touched the ground. He tried not to look as if he were in a hurry and desperate to be away from what passed for a throng by his definition of the word, but he was sure that he looked rather unwell as he navigated the corridor that led to the detective branch. So many people, and details everywhere in a wash of stale humanity – there, a woman concerned by the seeming disappearance of her husband; to his left, a young man enraged at the father of the woman he had not been allowed to propose marriage to and suspecting some brand of despicable cruelty within the girl's family; before him and quickly skirted, a business man of disreputable character likely hoping to cast aspersions on a competitor, to ruin his reputation; a pickpocket recently released from the docks, working the crowd in the hallway – nervy lad; an unfortunate woman who looked to have been assaulted, escorted by an older matron – madam and attraction in a brothel, most likely, and the woman attacked by a customer with no respect for the proper treatment of valuable merchandise – and she was valuable, or the else the madam would never have allowed her to file a police report against a paying customer. The madam likely had a connection in the Yard if she expected her girl's complaint to actually result in a charge of assault.
It went on and on without end, and Holmes could not help but see it – see them exposed in all of their glorious mediocrity, open books to be perused at his leisure though he had no interest in reading them. The stories they told were more to Watson's taste than his, characters suited to sea novels and over-dramatized stage plays and romantic drivel. He tried not to look at them, but unlike hapless carriage horses, Holmes had no blinders to wear.
Holmes stopped abruptly, halfway to his destination, a bit of flotsam snagged by a submerged log. He glanced back. The hallway leading to the holding cells branched off a few feet behind him. He had already determined that some sort of conspiracy was in the works here – something about Fourth Man and the men he had hired. And Watson had lied… What if none of them were here at all? Holmes had seem them load Redding into a four-wheeler, but that didn't mean… Were the other two mentioned in the papers even the right men? It was the height of paranoia to suspect otherwise, and yet Holmes stood rooted to the middle of the corridor, seized by the sudden apprehension that maybe everyone was lying to him. After all, he knew Watson better than he knew himself, and Watson had managed to pass one off over him. What of Lestrade or Clarke? There was a newspaper article, but reporters only printed what they were told. As Holmes himself had been told…
His feet were moving before he registered the conscious decision to turn back, walking for a moment against the tide of foot traffic. He twisted his shoulders to avoid side-swiping a young constable with his arms full of files, and then swiveled off into the side passage. There were fewer people here and Holmes moved unhindered with the fingers of his right hand trailing along the wall in an outward bid to maintain his internal balance. A few objects and people in his periphery shimmered in brief flashes of drug-induced aftereffects, but only faintly; the sensory trips were nowhere near pronounced enough to impair his faculties, and they would subside fully by high tea time, if not before then.
"Mister Holmes?"
It should not have startled him, and yet Holmes whirled to put his back to the wall, one breath away from dropping into a defensive crouch. He recovered himself in time to simply freeze, and even that left the color flaming in his cheeks. Clarkey had come out of one of the rooms he had just passed – nothing more. Holmes dropped his eyes and fidgeted away from the wall. "Constable. Good morning."
"To you too, sir." Clarkey dropped his head to one side and took a few steps closer to Holmes, as if approaching a horse prone to bolting. "Can I help you with anything? You don't usually come down to this level."
On any other day, Holmes probably would have snapped something about unnecessarily obvious rhetorical statements, but even as the habitual scowl washed over Holmes' features, the words themselves did not consent to pass his lips. He glowered balefully up at Clarkey from beneath lowered brows, and then his body gave away more than he intended by making him glance over his shoulder. A young sergeant sat behind the desk at the end of the hall, filling out paperwork and guarding the doorway that led to the indoor cells.
A faint, resigned sigh sounded from Clarkey's direction. "Sir…"
Holmes' gaze snapped back to Clarkey and darkened such that he could see the reflection of it in the blanking of Clarkey's features. "Do not dare address me in that tone." A nonspecific yet subtle brand of menace polluted the even timbre of his voice. "If you wish to pity someone, pity yourself."
Clarkey pressed his lips together but had the grace to lower his eyes. "Just the same, I can promise you don't want to do what you're thinking of, Mister Holmes."
"Yes, because you, of all people, can deduce my thoughts," Holmes scoffed.
For a moment, it seemed that Clarkey would elect to clam up, affronted by the unwarranted and uncharacteristic snub. He did not, however; he merely set his jaw and trained his eyes on the floor as he remarked softly, "With all respect, sir, such words are unworthy of you."
Holmes' mouth contracted into an uneven line and he followed Clarkey's gaze to a nondescript panel of flooring. "Many things seem…unworthy of late, Constable. I fear that I am not acting my own part at the moment."
"There's no need for apology, sir. Consider the matter forgotten."
"Mm." Holmes could feel himself wavering on the backwash of morphine in his veins, the edges of his vision blurred to a scattering of sparkles that did not belong. Some distance grew between himself and his own mind, but within a moment, his focus snapped back to the corridor and to Clarkey's politely shuttered expression of concern. In a fit of self consciousness, Holmes dropped his hand from his mouth, where he had been pressing the pads of two wayward fingers to his lips, and straightened like a puppet on yanked strings. "Is Inspector Lestrade in? I should like to speak to him."
Clarkey mirrored the abrupt shift to a sort of stiff formality. "I'm afraid not, sir; he's been at a scene all morning. If you'd like to come back after luncheon, though, I can tell him to expect you. He's due back about eleven."
Holmes tipped his head to one side in contemplation, and his gaze followed with it, slanting off in the general direction of the front entrance hall. There was a café across the street; it sold excellent scones and the tea was always fresh – it even appealed to Watson's finicky palate. But it was always so crowded and the din of voices nearly always overwhelmed him, and Watson was not with him to keep an eye on him or pull him out of it, and there were people there – people he didn't know, people who might be in league with Fourth Man, or know Fourth Man, or be Fourth Man, and Holmes was relatively certain by now that Fourth Man was the one still free, and –
"Or you could wait in his office?" Clarkey suggested, hesitantly adding, "I don't think he'd mind, sir."
"Yes!" Holmes barked even before the last bit of Clarkey's voice had trailed off. Then he suppressed an impulse to wince at the too sudden, too loud exclamation. Drawing himself up with even his feigned dignity looking threadbare, Holmes repeated at a civil volume, "Yes, I would prefer to wait."
Clarkey did an admirable job of not reacting to Holmes' odd behavior, which paradoxically made Holmes more agitated rather than soothing his somewhat maimed pride. "Very good, Mister Holmes. I'll go with you to unlock the door."
Yes, because apparently, poor Mister Holmes can no longer be trusted to even find his way through the halls without a child-minder, Holmes thought, his very thoughts surly for no reason that he could put words to. All of the carefully guarded conversation, the sudden cessation of certain harmless topics, the looks people gave him when they thought his attention elsewhere, the blasted care that every bloody person took with him now – be quiet around Mister Holmes, do not upset Mister Holmes, do not make eye contact with Mister Holmes, do not comment on Mister Holmes' behavior or move too quickly in his sight or let him go about alone or handle dangerous chemicals, and for pity's sake, under no circumstances is he to be allowed to walk through Scotland Yard without an escort. It was bad enough that Clarkey could not stop himself from making such an irritating display of concern toward Holmes, but to have everyone they passed, from the lowliest clerk on up, avert their eyes because it was him and then pause to stare after him once they assumed that his notice had moved on –
Holmes did not exactly want solitude, but paradoxically, he did wish for nothing other than to be left alone, to be utterly anonymous and boring and so easily overlooked that if asked about his passage later, they would recall nothing other than the faceless crowd streaming along the corridors – a gentleman so average and nondescript that it was as if he had never passed through at all.
Just for a moment, as he followed Clarke up a short flight of stairs and feigned ignorance of the discomfort and pity on the face of yet another Yard man, Sherlock Holmes wished that he could be Common.
It didn't take Watson more than half an hour to track down the bookie Daniel Cutter. Of all the ridiculous things Watson had seen during his years with Holmes, a bookie with a proper office suite ranked near the top. Cutter rented a series of rooms on the third floor of a factory building down at the docks; they appeared to have belonged to an accountant before him, and a rather more affluent one than would normally condescend to take rooms in that part of London. Obviously, Cutter was not the first businessman of dubious morals to utilize the suite. The building next door was none other than the fishery that Smitty Williams was purported to have worked at.
Watson stared at the fishery for a long moment, his thoughts blank. Then he simply turned and mounted the stairs to Cutter's building. A bruiser greeted him, but he treated Watson with a surprising degree of deference. It took Watson half the trip upstairs, following in the bruiser's wake, to realize that the courtesy was probably due in part to Watson's solid payment record, but more because of a certain amount of insulation that one garnered from being the confidant of Sherlock Holmes, who just happened to moonlight as the boxer who regularly made Cutter an obscene amount of money.
The bruiser showed Watson into a small office and shut him in. Watson stood in the center of the floor, listening to the slow cadence of heavy footsteps fade back down the stairs. A small, somewhat gaudy rug decorated the sitting area – expensive, though in poor taste. Watson toed the nap and wondered vaguely if Holmes would have been able to deduce the height and body type of his soon-to-be host from the indentations left near the chairs. The scent of old tobacco hung in the air and Watson wrinkled his nose. Holmes would have known the brand and the length of time elapsed since the last person had smoked a pipe in the room, in addition to the chair occupied by said person and perhaps that person's state of mind at the time – agitated pacing, leisurely relaxation... Watson saw only an empty room around him, the atmosphere unpleasant and stale.
Several minutes passed before Watson heard footsteps again. He turned to greet the opening door, which disgorged a short, unkempt man swathed in clothing far richer than what his bearing deserved. "Mister Cutter?"
The man nodded and shut the door before addressing Watson. "Word travels, Doctor Watson. They said you was lookin' about the Punch Bowl, askin' after my books?"
Watson shifted his stance and tried to slouch a bit. He felt out of place, attired in less finery than cutter and yet poised more nobly. "Not exactly. I've come to inquire after an address for Mister Kirkpatrick."
"Kirkpatrick's in the Yard," Cutter replied, his tone and manner both put-upon.
"Yes," Watson said. He cleared his throat. "I need to speak to his wife."
Cutter's eyes narrowed, and he finally paid a bit of attention to Watson. He still hadn't asked him to take a seat, though. "What you want her for?"
Irritated now, Watson snapped, "I ask on behalf of Sherlock Holmes. I will not discuss his business with you."
"Oy!" Cutter straightened and strode past Watson, his posture mellowing as he walked. "Why didn' ya say so in the first place?"
"I wasn't aware that it was necessary," Watson grumbled, stroking the brim of his hat where he held it against his stomach. His fingers betrayed his agitation.
"Right, now." Cutter pulled a key from his waistcoat pocket and unlocked a heavy oak cabinet that stood against the far wall. "She's a nutter, that one," Cutter informed him. No doubt, he was trying to be helpful in some as yet undetermined fashion. He drew out a small ledger book and flipped to the end. Watson sidled closer but stopped when the bookie's gaze cut sideways to warn him off. "Patty Boy's got rooms near the timber yard in Hoxton. Shoreditch road. Stay south of the timber mill, right? Nasty place, that."
Watson nodded. "Of course. Thank you very much, Mister Cutter."
Cutter merely snorted in response. "Won't be thankin' me once you get a gander on that place. The stench alone could kill a man."
"I'll keep that in mind," Watson replied dryly. "Good afternoon, Mister Cutter." As Watson turned to leave, Cutter peered over his shoulder. Something in the man's rheumy eyes spoke of an odd brand of wariness, and it held Watson's focus long enough to stop him at the door.
Cutter examined him with a shadow of shrewdness and then opened his mouth to breathe. "Doctor Watson, you remember me and my boys here. We got favors owed to Mister Holmes, and I don' like holdin' onto debts for too long. If you got trouble brewin' somewhere over this, we'll clean it up good. Just say the word."
Watson blinked and felt himself withdrawing at the intensity in Cutter's eyes. He may have thought little of the man upon first seeing him, but the glint of Cutter's pupils as he stared Watson down spoke of a dangerous quality. Hesitant to offend, and yet – in all honesty – scared witless all of a sudden, Watson nodded. "Your offer is most kind, Mister Cutter. I will remember it."
"Good." Cutter showed Watson his back and made a show of examining the innards of his oak cabinet.
Watson stared at him for a moment longer and then beat a hasty retreat. The bruiser grinned at him as he hurried out of the building, and in hindsight, Watson reflected that he might have been stupid to come to this place alone.
"Simpletons," Holmes muttered, agitated. He scribbled an injunction across the front of the case file he had been thumbing through to ask the nanny why she stopped donating her old linens to charity. The letters swirled out in a large and florid script, a far cry from his usual cramped handwriting, nib gouging the thick material of the folder. Then he flung it aside with all the rest of Lestrade's paperwork. "Obviously," he shouted at the empty office, "her brother talked her into it." With a frustrated huff, Holmes pressed his lips together, eyes scouring the now cleared work space. He felt a tiny trickle of apprehension when he realized that he had just cleared Lestrade's entire caseload, and there was nothing else in here for him to do to keep from going mad while he waited.
Holmes shot to his feet and took to pacing, his footfalls loud in the enclosed space, clacks echoing off of the rather bare walls. Lestrade kept very little in the way of décor; it was simultaneously refreshing not to be subjected to a plethora of meaningless trinkets and distracting colors, and maddening to have nothing upon which to focus his attention, not even banal keepsakes or depressingly sentimental clutter from which he could deduce the occasions upon which they were gifted to Lestrade. A grateful widow here, an appreciative and avenged victim there… For perhaps half a minute, Holmes paused at the window behind Lestrade's desk and contemplated popping over to the café for a nip after all, but without conscious decision, he simply ceased thinking on the option altogether and resumed his aborted circuit about the office.
His initial aim in going through Lestrade's case folders had been to find his own, obtain the information he required, and then leave without bothering to speak to Lestrade at all. Holmes was not accustomed to needing things from Scotland Yard that he could more easily or comprehensively obtain on his own elsewhere, and it rankled him to know that in this – in a case that directly involved himself – he had been kept from a most vital piece of information. It was like being called to a crime scene gone ten days cold – no useful evidence left, ground trampled, scents carried away and linens already washed and aired out. What use could he be to anyone if he was only ever called in too late?
"Mister Holmes! A pleasant surprise, no doubt."
Don't panic. Holmes forced his mouth to twitch into a welcoming shape and made a very deliberate show of turning around to face the door. "Inspector Lestrade. How good to see you."
Holmes' knees locked and he felt more steady on his feet because of it, regardless of the continued rapid pounding of his recalcitrant heart. He should have heard Lestrade approach, should have recognized his tread in the hallway and been waiting expectantly for the door to open. He should not have been caught so entirely off guard that Lestrade had not only opened the door, but closed it behind himself and advanced halfway across the room without alerting Holmes to his presence. This behavior had to end; Holmes could not afford to be so distracted in his line of work. The last time he gone about in such a state...well. It had gotten him here, hadn't it.
Lestrade hung his great coat on the tree in the corner, his hat in one hand and his scarf draped over his arm as he made his way to his desk. "To what do I owe the… Mister Holmes, what have you done to my desk?"
"Oh, that!" Holmes sidled out from behind the desk and paced toward the opposite wall, his mannerisms crafted to appear normal even though his usual movements felt like ill-fitting clothes pulling at his limbs in all the wrong places. "Consider it a gift. Tis the season, and all."
When Holmes turned around, Lestrade was eyeing him warily. "It's October, Mister Holmes. Hardly the season for gift giving."
Holmes felt his cheek tic, perhaps in irritation, and drew himself up with feigned indignation. "I'm getting started early." The artifice of it left him off balance somewhere inside.
Lestrade's eyes narrowed and he picked up one of his files to read what Holmes had scribbled on the cover. After a moment, he blinked, shifted his focus to the folder below it, and then looked up, his eyes wide. "You solved all of them?" he demanded.
The note of anger in Lestrade's voice made Holmes shrink back even as he cursed himself for a sniveling coward. Lestrade could hardly hurt him; Holmes had seen the man fight. "Pedestrian," Holmes waved it off. "Hardly up to my usual fare."
Lestrade bristled. "Pedestrian?" He appeared to bite his tongue over a further outburst, and Holmes cocked his head in fascination as Lestrade visibly calmed himself. "Right. Mister Holmes, in future, I would appreciate it if you refrained from disturbing my things. This – " He waved a hand over the surface of his desk to encompass all of his files and loose notes – "is official police business, and as much as I respect your abilities, it is not for public consumption."
Normally, Holmes would shrug off a comment like that, make some snide remark about the merits of a false expectation of privacy versus actually solving crimes, not to mention that Holmes was hardly the public, and skipped into his actual purpose for coming here. Rather than irritation at Lestrade's thick-headedness, however, Holmes merely felt weary and small at being chastised yet again for his inability to not see everything so clearly. Holmes turned away and fumbled with his sleeve, straightening the cuffs and tugging them down even though he refused to button them. "As you wish, Inspector. I have no desire to cause a stir."
Behind him, Lestrade sighed, a resigned sound, and his footsteps carried him closer to where Holmes stood. "Why did you come, Mister Holmes? What can I do for you?"
Holmes raised his head, but his eyes refused to focus on the coat tree in front of him. In his periphery, just past his left shoulder, Holmes could see Lestrade poised waiting for a response. His posture indicated concern and something solicitous which turned Holmes' stomach for its direction at his person. It was too akin to pity for his liking. "I read the article in paper this morning about the sentencing of three of my attackers." It was only a great force of stubbornness that allowed him to complete that sentence without hesitation or a break in tone. "I am here to satisfy myself as to their correct identification, and to inquire as to the identity of the fourth man." He gave a dismissive sniff and lowered his eyes to where his fingers picked at themselves. "Watson indicated that there was some trouble with the investigation. If that is the case, then I wish to offer my services toward his apprehension." He gritted his teeth briefly and shifted his gaze sharply to the side, away from Lestrade, lids blinking rapidly with an emotion so suppressed that it didn't even register. "Such as my services are, at the moment," he added lowly. He was suddenly glad for the lingering effects of the morphine in his system. They dulled his whole being to a bearable intensity.
For a moment, the office was silent. Then Lestrade took a deep breath and swore softly on the sigh that followed. "Mister Holmes," he started, but said nothing more.
Without looking back, addressing the silence obliquely, Holmes calmly ordered, "Do not tell me to let this lie. I will not. I do not care who he is or what his connections may be, Lestrade. I will have him. Do you understand me?" His voice grew in intensity but not volume. "I refuse to continue on like this. I wish to leave my own home without wondering if he is near, if I will encounter him on the street. I am tired of…" He trailed off, his lids fluttering low into deceptively lazy slits, his breath slow and weakened, but not shallow. In a whisper, ashamed to admit this truth to anyone, let alone Lestrade, Holmes forced himself to finish. "I am tired of being afraid."
It seemed, at first, that he had spoken too softly to be heard, or perhaps that he had not actually allowed the words past his lips at all. But then Lestrade's hand slipped gently onto his shoulder, and then man himself followed, stepping into Holmes' direct line of sight. "I am keeping nothing from you that could pose a danger, Mister Holmes. My word, I would not do that to you."
Holmes nodded to acknowledge that, but his eyes remained stubbornly fixed on a point just beyond Lestrade's elbow. "Watson refuses to speak of it," he said. He could hear how calm, how unaffected his own voice was, and it disturbed him, but the sparkles from the morphine made it impossible for him to care overmuch that he may be giving things away by his placitude. "He knows something of it, but… Lestrade, please do not make me beg. I know that there is something amiss. I only ask for the truth from you."
Lestrade was nodding in the corner of Holmes' eye, a reluctant gesture as if from the gallows-bound. "If I told you that all those involved had been neutralized, that I am certain that the case is closed and that no danger remains, would you leave it at that?"
Holmes looked up at that, the spell of the morphine finally broken. Lestrade truly did not wish to elaborate; there was something very wrong here, and the knowledge that Holmes could not see the solution grated his nerves deep inside where little else could have touched. "Would you leave it?" he asked. Holmes deduced that this response alone would be convincing, and he was correct.
Lestrade closed his eyes briefly and patted Holmes' shoulder before removing his hand. He stepped away, perhaps in anticipation of Holmes' reaction, and held an open hand out, not to invite clasping but in entreaty. "God, I don't even know how to say this. Mister Holmes, there is…no evidence of a fourth man's existence."
"Obviously, he would have used an alias in his dealings with the others." Holmes scowled at the ineffectiveness of Scotland Yard; he should have anticipated this. "You must look beyond that."
"I said, 'of his existence,' Mister Holmes. Not of his identity."
Holmes parsed through that statement, then treated Lestrade to a stern frown. "You're not making sense, Inspector."
Lestrade nodded, his jaw set in unforgiving lines. He met Holmes' gaze without flinching. "There is no fourth man, Holmes."
"What are you talking about? Of course there is. I told you – "
"There is no fourth man." Lestrade stepped closer to Holmes, and Holmes twisted backwards to remain out of arm's reach. "There is evidence of only three. There are witnesses to only three. The testimony of the previous victims states that there were only three."
"Stop being ridiculous, Lestrade." Holmes felt wild for a moment, his hands clenching only to release at the clammy feel of a cold sweat breaking out on his palms. "He obviously has some hold over the other victims – blackmail, perhaps, on account of their…perversions. It only makes sense that they would hide his involvement. If you allow me to speak to them – "
"We have confessions, Holmes." Lestrade moved forward again, and again, Holmes shied. Lifting his hands in a conciliatory gesture, Lestrade held his position and pressed, "Redding, Williams and Kirkpatrick admitted to sole responsibility for all of the assaults."
Holmes shook his head. "No. You have bungled this investigation – "
"They had no contact with each other prior to interrogation. Their versions matched in every way. There was no contamination – "
"No! They are lying to you. You must see this!"
"There were only three men, Holmes." Lestrade appeared to be having difficulty with his breathing, and his voice sounded strange. "All of the evidence bears this out."
Holmes blinked at him. "Has he threatened you? Is that what is going on?"
Lestrade swallowed and then shook his head, turning away to run a hand back over his collar to grip the back of his neck. He straightened a moment later but remained facing away. "There is no conspiracy, Mister Holmes. There were three men involved. We have them all in custody. There is no other man to be found."
Holmes' eyes narrowed and he took a careful step away from the wall. "What does he have on you? I can help, if you'll let me. My brother has connections – "
"For god's sake, Holmes!" Lestrade whirled on him and before Holmes could back out of reach again, Lestrade had firm hold of the lapels of his jacket. "Listen to me, you bloody infuriating git! There is no fourth man! – there never was!"
Holmes stared, his hands gripping Lestrade's where they fisted his jacket. Lestrade did appear to believe this; Holmes could identify none of his tells for deception or evasion, and Lestrade was not enough of an actor to fake this kind of honesty. "But I saw him."
Lestrade blinked in the most peculiar, rapid manner, then unhanded him so abruptly that he basically shoved Holmes from himself. His jacket was now rumpled where Lestrade had grasped and crushed it, but Holmes made no move to straighten himself out; he merely watched Lestrade stalk to the opposite wall, wrestle himself back under control, and then pull his clothes back into place. "I am going to call for Doctor Watson." Lestrade peered over his shoulder at met Holmes' eyes. "I want you to remain here until he comes. Will you do that?"
This made no sense. Lestrade was not dissembling, and yet – "You do not believe me," Holmes realized, and it was just about the most horrific thought he'd ever had. That was alright, though – Holmes could remedy this. "If you will allow me to see the file, the evidence – I can prove it to you. There are discrepancies, I am certain – just let me – "
"Mister Holmes, please." Lestrade turned and gestured at him to stop, to calm. "Wait until Doctor Watson gets here. I promise you, it will be alright."
Holmes balked. "Why are you speaking to me as if I've gone mad? I am perfectly fine, Lestrade; it is you who are making no sense."
"If you'll just sit down, I'll have a constable fetch us some tea."
"I don't want tea, I want an explanation!"
"Mister Holmes – "
"Stop it! Stop speaking to me as if I am addled! I don't – don't need your pity, or – " Holmes swayed and identified the irregularity of his breathing, the dangerous rapidity of his pulse in his ears. "I will find him myself." Holmes pressed his hand to his chest to better feel the expansion of his lungs when he breathed. He seemed unable to focus his gaze on Lestrade's unstable form, so he ceased trying altogether. "I have no use for incompetence; you need not trouble yourself further in this matter."
"There is no one to find, Mister Holmes. You were under a great deal of stress that night - "
"Don't patronize me!"
" - it was dark, and you were violently assaulted - "
"By four men, Lestrade! I counted them, I am not addled, I did not imagine perpetrators - "
" - the shock alone would have tried any man in that situation - "
"There were - FOUR - MEN!"
Silence. It rang sharp and clear in the room, and Holmes heard himself struggling to breathe in a suddenly airless room. Clacks and shuffles betrayed Lestrade's rush across the room, and Lestrade caught at his arms before he could fall. "Steady now, Mister Holmes."
Holmes gulped in a breath of air, but it did nothing to dispel the wavering blackness encroaching on his vision. "Unhand me." The words mumbled themselves on the way out, and Holmes sagged against the wall at his back, his body growing heavier than the weight to which he was accustomed. His skull thumped back against the wallpaper and Holmes blinked, owlish in the blur of grays that the room had become. He heard Lestrade summoning someone in from the hallway and wondered when he had fallen to the floor. Hands rolled him onto his back, elevated his legs, and Holmes identified the scent of seven different tobacco blends absorbed into the carpet against his cheek. Morphine was not supposed to make him feel like this.
Holmes' eyelids sagged across his vision and Lestrade's face appeared hovering over him. "We've sent for Doctor Watson." Someone else held a brandy to his lips. Where had all of these people come from?
From nowhere, some giddy part of his mind supplied. They come from nowhere like Fourth Man, and go back to nowhere when they're done. Invisible men that only he could see.
He choked on the brandy and Lestrade swore, and then Holmes slipped into nowhere too, praying to the god he disbelieved in that he would not meet his invisible Fourth Man while he tarried there.
~TBC~