Chapter Notes: Dialogue heavy chapters are some of the hardest to write. I have read books before where the reveal scene makes you want to drive a steel stake through your right eye! (Okay...yeah...I need therapy) There is a delicate balance to maintain.
First you have to break up all the dialogue somehow to where there is some secondary action or energy taking place that helps give the scene some life outside of the words. Secondly, you MUST make sure that there is subtext within the dialogue sometimes it is what you don't say that matters.
I have to say writing one of the most important personages in world history was INTIMIDATING, but Vickie turned out to be a sweet old girl, this is set roughly in 1894 so she would have been nearing eighty, however when writing her the other characters defer to her presence and sometimes that means that they are going to say things differently because there is the freeking Queen herself over there! Sherlock Holmes, however was the character that deferred to her the least...interesting!
I hope that this plugs all the remaining holes and make some semblance of sense. If it doesn't...I'm sure you'll let me know! ;)
Bart
Doctor John Watson, Police Surgeon: Scotland Yard 5
One Last War
Chapter Eight
I am not immune to embarrassment. Many times over the years, I have not portrayed myself in the best light. My dear long-suffering wife has become quite familiar with the eye roll and sighs; she loves me regardless, and in some ways maybe even more. However, even now all these years later I have to say that nothing brings the red to my cheeks and the shame to my heart than that moment when in front of the most powerful monarch the world has ever known I wilted like an overwrought wedding day bride. I would bury this memory and forget that it occurred except that my dear friend Watson still enjoys referencing it on occasion. My only consolation is that the contents of that meeting will never be related to anyone else.
Many words have been spoken about our beloved Victoria in my presence, her strength, her definitive rule, her expansion of the empire, but the quality I will always choose to remember is that she was above all else, kind.
I know this because she was thus to me...
---
Lestrade came to; his first feeling when he swam back the surface of consciousness was that of mortification.
Watson was tending to him, his collar, loosened and his friend was holding his wrist checking his pulse, hazel eyes went from quiet concern to a mischievous twinkle.
"There's my lad, are you rejoining us, Lestrade?" he asked.
"If you ever mention this to anyone, I promise you pain, most severe," Lestrade growled just loud enough for the doctor to hear. The insufferable man just chuckled.
"What did he say, is he ready to proceed?" said a very cultured female German accented voice.
"Yes, Mum, he just was telling me that he is feeling better," Watson informed her with a sly wink to Lestrade.
Holmes was hovering over them; to Lestrade's surprise, the man appeared concerned. "Are you sure you can continue?" he inquired in an urgent low voice.
Lestrade nodded and they helped him up.
The Home Secretary looked disgusted, Gladstone indifferent, but the Queens blue eyes were amused.
"I apologize for Lestrade's unseemly behaviour," Asquith began, bristling with anger.
The Queen interrupted him with a raised hand. "Do you honestly think I have never had someone faint in my presence? I rule over 500 million persons and a kingdom that controls nearly a third of the world and have done so for his entire lifetime, now here he is in my presence unexpectedly, this is more than enough to cause even the strongest man to become faint."
Victoria, when Lestrade got a longer look turned out to be a small woman dressed in simple black, shoulders bent by the years, her hair gray and coiffed, but she had an aura of vitality, strength and humour. "Let us begin."
She turned to the other two personages. "William, Henry, I would like to take late tea, my own Darjeeling would suffice, on the jubilee silver, you will need to journey to Buckingham to procure it."
Gladstone looked amused, as if he was used to such requests, but the Home Secretary looked on the verge of insubordination. The Prime Minister of England stopped his protestation with a hand. "As my Queen wishes," he replied headed to the door with a glowering Asquith in tow.
As soon as the doors closed behind them, Lestrade noticed that the guards relaxed their stances almost imperceptivity.
"Now, we can forgo all the formalities, asking for tea is a code that Gladstone and I have worked out when I need him to be elsewhere. Not having Henry in the room will expedite matters somewhat," she informed them in a more friendly voice. Mycroft waved off a Guardsman and pulled out a seat for her himself. She settled into it gracefully and the others followed suit.
She turned to the younger Holmes. "I am relieved that you have returned to us, Mister Holmes, I hope the hardships you suffered have not impacted your health?"
Holmes inclined his head. "I am no worse for the wear, thank you for your concern."
"Very Well," she concluded, "I will await your explanation of your activities; I believe that the incident at the Falls would be a prudent place to begin."
Holmes bowed and started his account.
"This entire sequence of events began with a boast from Moriarty's own lips," Holmes began. "The man believed that I was a dead man so he had no concerns about what he would reveal. I engaged in some rhetoric myself, informing him that his vile influence was ending. He replied that I knew nothing of influence; too small minded and narrow to understand the true implication, or to conceive of the power that was his to command. I thought his words mere braggadocio, so I responded, "Power? You were merely a common criminal." He scoffed and responded that I was a fool, that his criminal enterprises were just avenues in which to funnel funds into his true master work as the head of an organization that secretly held sway over the largest empire the world has ever known."
Holmes paused. Then he looked up with haunted eyes. "He said that no one was safe from their authority, from the lowest peasant to the Royal family itself. He told me to ask Prince Albert about influence when I met him in hell."
He inclined his head to his monarch once more. "My apologies, your Majesty."
"None necessary, those were not your words," she responded in a kind voice.
There was silence in the room as the implications of those last words sunk in.
"Prince Albert died of Typhoid Fever, everyone knows that, Holmes, he was just having you on," Lestrade blurted out.
Holmes's eyes twinkled as he took the familiar role of Lestrade's antagonist; the Chief Inspector suddenly realized that he had missed it dearly.
"Ah, Lestrade, there is the rub, Moriarty wished me to know how superior he was to me before I died, his ego was colossal, since he was recruited very young, his words were not mere idle boast, if he stated that he had something to do with the Prince Consort's death, then he most assuredly did. Please try to withhold your conclusions until all the facts are revealed or we will be here for the entire night."
Lestrade seethed at the tone, but he noticed that Holmes's eyes twinkled with mirth, revealing that maybe he had missed rankling Lestrade as well.
"Gentlemen," Mycroft stated in his most strident tone.
Watson just sat there with a big smile on his face basking in the nostalgia.
"Your Majesty, would you share the information which you related to us once you became aware of our inquiries?" Mycroft inquired in a subservient tone.
"Very well, my Albert was a robust man of health and vitality," she began her fondness clear, "he was never able to leave things as they were if they could be improved upon, he loved his adopted country with all his heart." She paused, collecting her thoughts. Even after this time, her sorrow was a palpable presence in the room. "My sweet Albert also had a malady of the mind, one that brought him much embarrassment, for one such as he, to have this glaring weakness was nearly unconscionable. He could not abide the thought of impurity; he washed his hand many times a day, sometimes leaving other activities to do so. He used gloves to shake hands when it was necessary then never wore them again. They said that he caught Typhoid from unsanitary conditions when he went to confront our son Albert about his activities, but he was so very careful to avoid any taint that I have always felt contracting a disease with those origins was unlikely. He had stomach trouble for nearly two years before he died, he nearly died when a horse shied and he had to jump from the carriage, all that misfortune on one man. I should have been suspicious." She sighed. "When Mycroft made his careful inquiries about my husband's demise, they were brought to my attention. Hearing his theories on the matter, I agreed to exhume Albert, and check him for arsenic."
"The Marsh Test no doubt," Holmes muttered to himself.
The Queen nodded her assent. "The tests were conducted in upmost secrecy using the Paris Institute of Forensic Science, the foremost laboratory in the world; they found a concentration of the poison in Albert that indicated years of careful administration, drop by drop. There was only one conclusion on which to draw."
"There was a conspirator in the Royal family itself," Watson remarked his voice thick with incredulity.
Her eyes flashed with anger. "Someone who sat at my table, ate off of my plates took my Albert from me. I contacted Mycroft, and we all had a nice chat."
Mycroft exchanged a meaningful look with his monarch getting her gracious nod to proceed.
"The Diogenes Club was founded to counteract another organization within the empire; this group never took a name which insured anonymity. They had not been active for one hundred years or more, or so we thought. When Sherlock brought news of Moriarty's last words back from Reichenbach our worst fears were confirmed, that not only did the "Nameless" still exist but they were extremely active and healthy."
"Where did they come from?" Lestrade inquired.
Mycroft seemed mildly surprised that the inspector would ask a question so astute, then he answered, "No one really knows, they could date as far back as medieval days, a secret group of knights collaborating for influence and land, there have been rumours of secret groups in cultures dating back in recorded history, the Illuminati for instance. The Roman's spoke of druidic and Briton and Celtic cults that undermined their efforts in these lands, there is much speculation but not much evidence."
"Once we knew the new leader, Colonel Moran, we used Diogenes agents to follow his hand carried missives to their locations all over the empire," the younger Holmes interjected, "the scope was not encouraging."
Mycroft nodded. "We discovered an organization whose numbers were many and reach was vast, the permutation of their members from the lowest peasantry to Royalty itself was staggering, there was only one way to extract it."
"You had to get a man on the inside, someone already familiar with Moriarty's mind and methods, a master actor and dramatist with an encyclopaedic memory and a vast repertoire of knowledge on which to draw," Watson remarked his eyes on Holmes. "As it happened you had a man who fit that description and who was already thought dead, the perfect secret agent."
Mycroft nodded. "We decoded the messages and determined that Moran was attempting a massive reorganization to a more military mindset with a chain of command."
Holmes suddenly sat up straight and his entire demeanour changed, there was a stranger seated in his place. "Enter Thorarinn Sigerson," Holmes remarked with a thick Norwegian accent, "a well educated ex soldier and explorer who Moran met on a big game hunt on the frozen plains of Greenland, the man who the Colonel was entrusting to handle the transition."
Mycroft nodded. "There was a Sigerson, he was indeed trusted by Moran, we abducted him and my brother spent days gleaning what he could, then he took Sigerson's place, and we shipped the real Norwegian to The Colony. That was before we found out there was a way to escape, of course."
Holmes gave his brother a questioning glance, the elder Holmes gave him a telling look and they moved on.
"When I left England, Watson, you were coping," Holmes informed his former flatmate his voice thick with regret. "You began accepting patients again and by all appearances you had begun the process of moving on. I saw no reason to prolong your healing process, the mission on which I was embarking was the most dangerous of my career, and I had no reasonable expectation of ever seeing London again. I could not let you know I was alive only to lose me once again. I actually believed that my presence was holding your marriage back from what it could be. That I was doing the best by you and Mary with my absence."
His tone became cold and angry as he said. "I trusted my brother to keep me informed."
Mycroft began to speak on his behalf but the forgotten personage in the room cleared her voice. "Your ire is seeking the wrong target, Mister Holmes."
Holmes turned to his Queen. "Whatever do you mean?"
She was speaking to Holmes but her eyes found Watson's. "I swore everyone involved in this affair to secrecy, we had no way of knowing just who was compromised. However, Mycroft brought it to my attention that Doctor Watson had suffered bereavement, one in which I had an immediate empathy. He asked that I lift the restriction because he believed that Watson was floundering dangerously, and that his brother would wish to know so he could help."
"I spent time on the decision I was asked to make." She stated turning to Watson. "The choices were clear, did I take out most important asset out of the field to come home and offer comfort to his friend, jeopardizing our activities at a delicate juncture, or would I withhold the information in the hope that Holmes made it back to English soil, and that you would still be there to greet him."
Her blue eyes were steady, but penitent. "As a fellow wearer of black, my sympathies lay completely with your plight, Doctor, but I had a duty to ensure that my kingdom was free of this taint once and for all. I ask that you forgive me my hypocrisy."
Watson's face was stricken with emotion; he stared down at his hands attempting to compose his features. After an interim, he looked up; he had a smile on his face. "Far be it from me to place my own needs before that of my country."
She read the sincerity in his eyes. Her expression became wistful. "Albert would have liked you, I am sure of it."
She steadied herself and cleared her voice of any tell tale emotion. "There are some matters in which to dispense, if you will tarry a bit longer."
She turned to Mycroft. "Mister Holmes, there will be no vote of confidence as long as you live, England needs you at the helm of the Diogenes for as long as you can manage." The large man nodded his thanks, completely cowed by her words.
"As for your brave brother," she turned to Holmes," You will never be required to take a case for the sake of monitory expense, for the rest of your days you will have the freedom in which to choose."
Holmes began to protest about his flat rate, but Watson shifted in his seat, there was a sound of a meaty thump under the table and Holmes answered in a strained pain filled voice, "Yes Mum."
She turned to Watson. "I can never replace all you've lost, Doctor, and I know you will not accept monetary compensation, so I will take care of the expenses that beset you and your practice only, giving you the freedom to move if you should so choose."
She made a pointed nod toward Holmes who was still rubbing his shin angrily.
She turned to Lestrade. The inspector felt the world get a little hazy once again, but he dug his nails into his palm letting the pain keep him cognisant. He would not faint before his Queen again if he could prevent it.
"I asked you here for an entirely unrelated matter," she began, "I know the FitzRoys. They are dangerous consummate politicians, and I am not particularly fond of the next in line who is promising to be the most odious yet. When he caught in scandal, I sent out an agent to ascertain how such a skilled manipulator could possibly be entangled. To my delight, my representative brought me a tale of how a lowly Metropolitan Police Inspector had out manoeuvred the man to the detriment of his future career prospects. I cannot help you directly that would compromise this meeting, however..." She held out a hand to one of the Royal Guards, the man slipped a ring off his finger and handed to her.
"This signet means that you are an agent of the crown, and you carry with you its authority. You will never be Superintendant as long as a FitzRoy sits in the House of Nobles; however, from this moment on you will never suffer intimidation from their ilk. When the time comes that the present Superintendant retires, I will ask that you be able to present a candidate for his replacement, a man of your choosing."
"I don't know w-what to say, y-your Majesty," Lestrade stammered as he accepted it from her hand.
Watson leaned forward. "Thank you, is the traditional response, Giles."
Lestrade glared at the smiling man. "Thank you, your Majesty."
She appeared to enjoy the interchange between the men. "I should thank you, Chief Inspector; Sir Charles FitzRoy should have that look of helplessness on his face more often. I find it suits him."
She held a hand up and the Royal Guard that handed her the ring helped her to her feet, all the men at the table stood in deference. "Good night all, you have earned your Queen's pleasure," she said. They all thanked her, with a swirl of guardians she departed.
"I cannot believe that just happened," Lestrade said as he collapsed back into his chair, he stared at the ring in his hand. Sherlock bent down and playfully pinched his arm.
"Ow! Holmes! Are you daft man?" he bellowed rubbing the sore spot.
Holmes smirked. "Just attempting to confirm to you that you are not dreaming as you are no doubt supposing."
"Don't bother waiting for me to thank you," Lestrade shot back.
"Gentlemen," Mycroft called out in exasperation, "I believe you know your way out?"
Holmes went to the door and opened it comically sweeping his arm in an arc for the other two to proceed. They obliged him and the trek back through the layers of security began.
After procuring their weaponry, they reached the outside air. The night was still relatively young, and Holmes was breathing the air appreciatively. "Do you smell that, gentlemen?"
Watson humoured him with a sniff. "A combination of animal dung, and layers of French cologne," he diagnosed.
Holmes nodded. "Politicians, shall we adjourn to more hospitable environs?"
Lestrade suddenly felt like a third, it was the feeling he got a lot around Holmes and Watson before, now he was feeling that sharp pang of envy again. This time it had an extra edge of nostalgia. He had occupied that position that Holmes was reacquiring with effortless ease. Now, Lestrade had no idea where he was going to fit into Watson's life. The wave of loss nearly took his breath.
"I will let you gentlemen go on without me, I must see to Clea, and see to the dispensation of Moran and his accomplices."
"Moran is in custody, and there were no other accomplices," Holmes informed with a sly smile.
Lestrade let the implications of those words sweep over him. "Oh, I see. Well I still need to let Clea know I survived, so I will see you gentlemen at some later time."
Watson stared at him curiously. "Are you sure, Giles?"
Lestrade tried to keep the bitterness off his face as he responded. "Go. You two have much to talk about; you know where I can be found."
Watson studied his face. "Very well, thank you for...everything."
Lestrade tried to not get let the emotion cloud his voice as he replied. "It has been the pleasure of my life, John."
He turned and walked toward Scotland Yard without another word or backward glance. It is never proper to let ones acquaintances to see you cry.
Fainting? Weeping? Maybe I should check for breasts. He berated himself angrily wiping the tears away with the back of his hand. He walked past the street that led down the Yard, opting to hail a cab.
He gave the address of the Rusty Anchor.
"Clea will wait, Bradstreet saw me at the Yard he'll tell her I am fine, I need a drink."
Story Notes: This is Not the last chapter! So no pitchforks and death threats outside my mill door about where I left Watson and Lestrade! I have at least one more chapter to go in the entire series...possibly two...dunno yet.
That information about Prince Albert is just mere speculation as far as I know no theories exist out in the mainstream about his death being anything other than Typhoid Fever or results from a long illness. Also the who bit about OCD has no proof other than he was extremely fastidious and detail oriented some thought cold, and some of his biggest reforms were in the area of sanitation. This is just for the sake of fiction...but who knows?
Thanks for the read I sincerely hope you'll review even if its to tell me I am full of what Watson was smelling.
thanks!
Bart
