CHAPTER SIX
AN: MENTIONS OF SELF ABUSE AND THOUGHTS OF SUICIDE.
When Mr. Holmes finally arrived at Station 4, John had already been promptly early. He was once again seated in Mr. Holmes' office. He took in his surroundings once more, as he had the day before.
No pictures, well, that wasn't too out of the ordinary for a Watcher; from what John understood of them and had experienced they were a highly spartan lot.
Mr. Holmes did however have a copy of the periodic table on the left wall and a skull sitting on a single shelf to the right. A little unnerving, John wondered if the skull had belonged to an enemy.
The door opened and in the reflection of the window directly behind Mr. Holmes' desk he saw that it was indeed the man he had been waiting for.
John stood and reached out to shake the Watcher's hand.
"Mr. Holmes," John said politely. Mr. Holmes looked a little more disheveled that the last time they had spoke.
What could shake a man more than seeing a person get their throat ripped out? John thought curiously. But in the world they lived in, that could be a long list.
"Please, call me Sherlock. I don't particularly care for formalities." Sherlock explained and he took a seat behind his desk. John was halfway between sitting and standing when Sherlock jumped up again.
"Who opened the curtains?" Sherlock demanded suddenly, gesturing to the window with his hand.
John was still and speechless for a moment. The man was quite changeable.
"Oh- I, they were open when I got here." John said and it was true. And he hadn't noticed it before. Sherlock immediately closed the curtains.
"Worried someone is watching?" John said, not sure if he should be worried or not.
"Someone is always watching," Sherlock said. "I just try to limit the surveillance as much as possible."
"Oh. Right. Will the Irene be joining us today?" John asked, hoping to god she wasn't.
Sherlock shook his head.
"No. She needs some alone time after yesterday. I doubt she'll even understand why I'm isolating her." Sherlock said hurriedly. He glanced at his watch.
"Right. We have another trip to the morgue to make." He said heading for the door, John following him quickly.
"Another Watcher murdered?"
Sherlock explained what Irene had sent him. The file was on the tablet Sherlock carried and he handed it over to John.
The soldier-spy-doctor went through it, noting the details, anything about this one that might stand out. And he spotted it.
"You noticed it then?" Sherlock said as the elevator doors opened and they stepped out into a bright hallway leading to the mortuary.
"Yes," John said, "Whoever is doing this is working their way up the foodchain."
"Precisely." Sherlock agreed. "Started with the first, Thomas Ryder. A low ranking lieutenant, Station 1."
"He received and interpreted resistance code." John added. Sherlock nodded.
"Next victim," Sherlock began. "Alex Woodbridge, security guard and analyst for Station 2. Then the third victim, Vincent Harrison."
"Says here he was an undercover agent for WAR?" John inquired. Sherlock smirked.
"It stands for Watchers Against Resistance. Nice little ring to it, don't you think?"
John chuckled.
"A bit obvious."
Sherlock paused outside the mortuary swinging doors, frowning.
"Obvious?"
"Well, I mean- oh. You... you came up with it-"
"Yes."
There was an awkward silence that followed. As they stood there John noticed something that suddenly made things both less awkward and strangely... funny?
On the right side of Sherlock Holmes' neck was a... lovebite? It looked like Holmes either had no idea it was there or tried terribly to cover it up.
"Well, shall we go say hi?" Sherlock said, pushing open the doors and John following him.
"Fourth victim: Seamus Franklin," Sherlock said pointing the fourth victim on the cold slab. It was all very indelicate. "Senior Watcher, patrol duty sectors 1-5 were his beat. Not very well liked."
John took note of the man's knuckles; they were scared and bruised. He grimaced, he knew those kinds of hands. A part of him wasn't sad this one was dead.
"And our most recent victim to join the party," Sherlock said and he tore away a sheet from the last and most recent cadaver. "Colin Murphy, another Senior Watcher slated to take my job one day- I hated him."
"Did you kill him?" John joked. Sherlock shrugged.
"Thought about it. But no, I did not kill him." Sherlock said nonchalantly. John wasn't sure if he should feel comforted or on edge by the Watcher's words.
"You don't trust me." Sherlock said pointedly, his hands were in his pockets his back straight. They were at least ten feet apart with dead bodies lined between them.
"What's the saying? Never trust a Watcher?" John said and Sherlock smirked and nodded.
"Yes well, you're not a Watcher, John. I have every reason to trust you. And since killing you would not further my advancement in any way, you can trust me."
"Oh, well, yes that's very comforting." John said sarcastically. Sherlock chuckled.
"Oh come now, Captain, make some deductions. Why would the killer work their way up the foodchain?" Sherlock asked, he placed both hands together in a prayer motion, thinking and observing the corpses as if they could come back to life and tell him who killed them.
John sighed and took a closer look at them.
"Stop that." Sherlock quipped. John looked around and shrugged.
"What did I do?"
"Don't look, observe." Sherlock suggested, rather annoyingly actually. John groaned and tried to change whatever it was he had done wrong. Apparently, Sherlock appreciated it, because he didn't interrupt this time.
"There must be something that connects them," John said. "I mean besides the obvious."
"Yes, they're all Watchers, how very astute." Sherlock muttered. John shook his head.
"No."
"No?" Sherlock squinted his brow at him and for a moment John wanted to punch him.
"Yes. They're all married."
Sherlock looked like his brain had just been fried. John took a step closer.
"Sherlock?" John asked but no answer. The man wasn't blinking, he didn't appear to be breathing. Just... standing there.
Then-
"OF COURSE!" The bellow echoed through the mortuary and thank god everyone in the room was dead. Well, most everyone.
"What?" John asked but Sherlock was already on his way out and the shorter man quickly followed.
"Don't you see? All married Watchers. If they were single it would make more sense but this is clever, clever, clever!" Sherlock said excitedly. They ended up back in the elevator.
"What does them being married have to do with anything? Honestly I was picking something to annoy you."
Sherlock slapped John on the shoulder.
"Oh I figured that out already. No, John, a married Watcher is ten times less likely to be murdered because it's been placed at his feet to produce more children, to further the human race. He's less likely to take risks, more likely to tip-toe around things. Whereas an unmarried Watcher, he takes risks, he revels in the thrill of the chase. There's something in this, something I can feel it."
John tried to keep up with Sherlock but the man spoke so quickly it was hard to. He had never met anyone like Sherlock Holmes before. So random, so quick. How the man spoke so quickly and precisely without so much as stumbling over one word was lost on John.
"Where are we going?" John asked him as they left the building.
"Isn't it obvious?" Sherlock asked, a look of surprise on his face. John shook his head, still slightly annoyed.
"The widows, John! It's always the damn widows."
John got inside the sleek black car. It was far more comfortable than he was expecting it be.
"Wait you think the widows are the killers?"
Sherlock sighed.
"As ever John you see but do not observe."
"Okay, hang on, we've known each other an hour."
"The widows John, they always know something." Sherlock said starting the car and pulling out of the parking lot. John laughed at the man beside him.
"What?" Sherlock asked.
"It's not just, widows mate, it's women."
X
Janine was wrapped in a wool shawl that Mrs. Hudson kept from falling off her shoulders. She would have preferred it be pinned closed, but sharp objects were out of the question. That didn't stop her from seeing every object around as a weapon; not to kill others, only herself.
I could ram my head into that pillar, make a good mess of things, Janine thought blandly.
"Here you go dearie, a nice cuppa for you." Mrs. Hudson said handing Janine the cup, the camomile tea steamed hot but made Janine sick to her stomach. The dark haired woman took it but let it rest in her lap. The afternoon was warm but there was still a chill in the air. She smelled the faintest hints of smoke in the distance.
Somewhere someone is burning, she though, in a queer amused sort of way.
Janine glanced down at her wrists. The bandages were fresh, but there tiny spots of blood that had begun to seep through, staining the whiteness.
Why couldn't they just let me do it? I'm no good. I'll never be any good to anyone. I'm not a woman, not a real woman...
"Did I ever tell you the story of how Mr. Holmes and I met?" Mrs. Hudson said. Janine didn't respond. "Well it was about fifteen years ago..." the old woman went on jabbering but Janine had stopped listening. She only stared. She glanced up at the flat room of the house.
Holmes Manor on Baker Street. She had been excited on the day of her ceremony. Overjoyed, over the moon, ecstatic, head over heels! A good husband, a noble family, a promising future.
The Elders had promised her she would be pregnant within a month. Then six months went by, then two years and as more time went on the more Janine felt her internal clock beginning to wither.
Her womb felt like a rotting piece of flesh she was forced to carry around with her. All of the therapy in the world didn't help. The doctor would only sit there, reassuring her, giving her false hope.
For once Janine wished someone would tell her the truth. At least if she knew why she wasn't getting pregnant she could make preparations. Sherlock could divorce her and she could go and live as a Comforting Heart with the Sisters of Mercy. She could do her part for the uneducated and the poor.
But no, instead she wasted away; day in and day out.
"My Lady, I'm going to have a little rest. Molly will keep you company." Mrs. Hudson said, somewhere close and yet far away. Janine didn't reply.
Who was Molly? Janine thought.
It was only when she glanced up did she recognize the small maid who she had been in charge of for five years. Sherlock liked her father apparently or knew her father or... something with the father. It didn't matter to Janine.
The maid named Molly took Mrs. Hudson's seat. To Janine's surprise the maid didn't try to make silly conversation, didn't try to tell her some stupid story. She was more comforting in her silence than Mrs. Hudson was in her verbal communication.
It was then that Janine decided to speak,
"Pleasant day." She remarked. Molly nodded but didn't answer. Perhaps she wasn't sure if she could.
"Do you have any hobbies?" Janine asked looking to Molly. The girl shrugged. "Can you speak?" It was a genuine question, some maids couldn't.
"Oh- oh, yes, My Lady. It's just... well we've never really spoken much." Molly said, keeping her head low trying to appear invisible. Janine knew the feeling; except everyone wanted to look at her, appraise her. Find out what she was worth.
"Yes, well, we're talking now. Where did you grow up, which sector?" Janine asked, turning her body more towards Molly. She dumped the tea out onto the lawn.
"Sector Six." The girl replied, meekly but nicely.
"We would've almost been neighbors. I was Sector Eight." Janine said.
"Very grand, My Lady." Molly said kindly. Janine smiled sadly and shook her head.
"No, not grand. To outsiders yes, but looking back... well, we're not allowed to speak ill of our upbringing, are we?" Janine sighed. "Molly, can I ask you a personal question?"
Molly seemed to turn pale but nodded all the same.
"Do you ever... do you ever feel like you're not real?" Janine asked, she glanced into the bottom of the now empty tea cup, little bits of tea leaf milled about. The maid seemed quite baffled by the question. "Do you ever think that maybe you're not really, real?"
Molly shrugged and seemed at a loss for words.
"Oh, never mind," Janine huffed. The girl bowed her head once more, seemingly cowed by Janine. "I'm going to tell you something Molly and I don't want you to tell anyone. Not Mrs. Hudson or the butler or the staff and most importantly not Mr. Holmes," Janine said quite sternly. "I'm telling you because I need to tell someone. No offense, but someone who doesn't matter much."
Molly felt her heart baging away inside her breast and her mind raced. She felt like her limbs were on fire, her palms sweaty.
Does she know? I never told anyone! Oh no, he'll be shot-
"I want to die, Molly," Janine said simply. "Time is meaningless, I'm meaningless. I just wanted to tell someone. But you won't tell a soul, will you Molly?"
Molly gaped at the other woman, she was shaking all over and yet Janine seemed as still as a tree.
"But... but you can't want to do such a thing. Mr. Holmes he would- he would be most unhappy." Molly said, forcing the words out.
Molly didn't know what else to say but she had to say something. She had never heard of such thing! Molly was accustomed to death, she had grown up around it. Her father had been a Watcher, he had explained to her from an early age what death was.
And Molly's father had also told her that if one is thinking of taking their life, they need help and you mustn't let them ever feel alone.
Breaking many rules and boundaries, Molly risked lifting her hand and placing it on top of Janine's. It either broke the woman or relieved her, Molly couldn't quite tell, but her Lady began weeping. Her mask of nothingness fell away and her true face was shown.
"Please don't say such things, My Lady. You're so kind and good and... and you would be missed terribly." Molly said sweetly.
"By whom?" Janine said sadly.
"By me and I mean nothing." Molly replied.
They sat there like that for a while, until Mrs. Hudson had had her rest. Molly returned to her work inside the great house feeling worse than she had all week.
Molly felt like a traitor. How could she befriend her Lady when she was doing such illicit things with Mr. Holmes? She felt like she was a lie come to life. She felt like a horrible contradiction.
When she was allowed her break she returned to her little room and laid down on her bed weeping and wishing Mr. Holmes was near and hating him all at once. Molly had heard of heartbreak, she had also felt it when her father died, and she had heard of love.
Not the love she had felt for her father, but love between two people who weren't related. The phrase was "true love". No one seemed to be able to give her a direct answer as to what it really meant. Not even her father had been able to.
"When you love someone Molly you'll know, but you won't need to worry about that." He had said to her.
Probably because she had been declared infertile from a young age. When a young girl first gets their menstrual cycle they're taken in and seen by a doctor.
In a strange way her father had been pleased she couldn't bare children. It meant she would stay at home and not be taken away to the Citadel. Her father gave her many books to read, some with a love story, but it was nothing she could really understand. It always seemed to so sad and confusing to her.
Molly had nothing to compare it to. And none of the books had ever described what she felt for Mr. Holmes.
And now, with everything happening with Mr. Holmes, she had a terrible feeling this was love.
Were the things he did to her a way of showing her that he loved her? And if that were true, he must love his wife as well. Molly had heard them together in their marital bed.
Were you allowed to love two people?
If love was such a happy thing why did she hurt?
Is it supposed to hurt?
And the most frightening question of all, did he love her? She could ask him, next time when they were alone. But she felt she was betraying her Lady. And the more time she spent with Mr. Holmes the more dangerous it got.
They were playing with fire, they both knew it too well.
But the idea of stopping broke Molly even more.