I will confess, Watson, that I continue to experience a small amount of pride when I deduce something that you have not – despite your enhanced senses, sometimes you still see without truly observing! I had known from our first meeting that de Silva was most likely to be our wolf – there is something that makes you stand out amongst normal men that is as distinctive to me as a scent would be to you. It is in the way you walk, your posture, the way you speak and the look in your eyes.
You are ever the gentleman, Watson, but beneath all of that there is something else that lurks. It is less obvious in you than in any other wolf or vampire that we have encountered before or since your Change.
It is the feral nature of a beast.
Holmes and Watson made it back to Baker Street in the early hours of the morning, a couple of hours before the sun would rise. Holmes snatched up his pipe, filling and lighting it with fluid motions borne of practice. Watson dropped heavily into his armchair, feeling immensely tired, even as he picked up his forgotten brandy of earlier.
"Well, Watson?" Holmes said, with only the slightest trace of impatience, "What do you deduce from the body, beyond my own observations? The man was drunk, a beggar, had not been in a fight, and did some casual work down at the docklands, judging by the rope-burn calluses on his hands and the mud I observed on his shoes and trousers, along with the old mariner's tattoo on his neck."
"There were trace scents left upon the body," Watson confirmed, "He was killed in that bin yard, no doubt he was foraging for food, the poor soul. Something attacked him, slit his throat, and drained the blood from the body. As for the culprit, I could smell nothing particularly concrete; alcohol and blood were the most overpowering, certainly, but there was the vaguest trace of something else… Holmes, I am sure I detected a scent of death other than that upon the body. Very, very similar to Bryce's smell, but disguised somehow; either by perfume or cologne, certainly with some sort of musk…"
"You said 'something', not 'someone'," Holmes commented, with a dry smile, "Then there is, indeed, a vampire, as Gregson's men so fancifully suggested," Holmes sat down and leaned back in his chair, half-closing his eyes as he laced his fingers together and stared into the fire, "my suspicions grow deeper, Watson, ever deeper…"
Watson nodded, sleepily, barely able to keep his eyes open. He found that shifting between wolf form and human form was exhausting, and the longer he spent as a wolf, the more tired he was afterwards. Holmes favoured him with a smile, and rose slowly.
"I think it is high time that we both retired," the detective commented, "we did not find the Countess, but we found something far more intriguing… no less than two more werewolves in addition to our existing mystery lycanthrope, whom we now know to be the Count, and an unidentified vampire!"
"This city is beginning to resemble something out of a penny-dreadful horror novel," Watson yawned, "good night, Holmes – I'm sorry that we didn't have more success."
"Do not dwell on it, Watson," Holmes replied, softly, "I doubt that we have seen the last of the Count de Silva…"
Watson nodded already making his way up to his chambers. By the time he made it there, he was all but out on his feet. Pausing only to remove his shoes, collar and tie, he collapsed onto the bed, and was asleep before his aching head hit the pillow.
You tamed the beast within you, Watson – at first it nearly overwhelmed you, but you are the strongest man I have ever known. I had no doubts that you would survive it, just as you survived Maiwand, and of course our own multiple adventures together, none so testing as your ordeal with the Hound of the Baskervilles!
My poor Watson… what trials you faced, in those early days, and how hard we fought to keep your secret!
It seemed like no time at all when Watson suddenly found himself being awakened by an insistent knocking at the door. Levering himself up onto his elbow, he reached out for his new gold-plated pocket watch – his silver one now caused him too many difficulties, and he had been forced to give it to Holmes after burning his fingers on it one too many times. Retrieving the watch from his bedside table, he peered at it, sleepily. It was barely seven thirty in the morning; he reckoned that meant he'd had about three hours' sleep. He groaned, as someone knocked at the door again.
"Come in, Mrs Hudson," he called, suppressing another yawn. Holmes would not bother knocking; he would have simply stormed in. Besides, Watson had already recognised his landlady's scent.
"Good morning, doctor," the housekeeper and landlady swept in, a tray balanced against her hip, "Mr Holmes asked me to bring you some coffee, and asks that you join him as soon as you are able; we have just received a wire to say that the Count de Silva intends to visit at eight o'clock."
"A rather early hour to be visiting," Watson commented, sitting up a little more, suddenly aware that he was still wearing his clothes from the night before, "thank you, Mrs Hudson – I'll be down in a few minutes."
Mrs Hudson nodded and ducked out. Watson got up, washed, shaved, and changed into fresh clothes, donning a collar and tie even as he was drinking the coffee. Tired though he may be, his werewolf constitution was extremely tough, and, aided by the caffeine, he soon felt much improved. He made it down stairs in time to snatch a couple of crumpets from the plate on the table, even as Holmes drew his attention to the headlines in the newspapers.
"'Hell-Hound Haunts London'," Watson read aloud, "'Police and dog-catchers alike are on the lookout for a gigantic hound responsible for the death of a vagrant and suspected of having been involved in the murder of another…' Well, really!"
"Indeed," Holmes nodded, dryly, "so much for not causing a panic. Watson, you must be careful not to be seen in your wolf-form unaccompanied… I have no wish for you to be cornered by our erstwhile friends at the Yard or an over-enthusiastic dog catcher."
Watson was about to reply, but a knock on the front door signified the arrival of their visitor. He braced himself – he had no doubt that the Count had recognised his scent last night, and would now know his deepest secret; why he had chosen to come back to Baker Street was a mystery to Watson.
"Be on your guard, Watson," Holmes murmured, emerging from his chambers, adjusting his own tie quickly, "I cannot think that the Count brings us good tidings."
"Understood, Holmes," Watson nodded, even as he began to open several windows, "Good Lord, I can smell his aftershave from here; it's another completely different brand. He must use a bottle a day!"
"No doubt it is to hide the scent of his true nature from others," Holmes murmured, and Watson nodded in silent agreement.
Holmes made no further comment as Watson took up a standing position next to Holmes's chair, one hand tightly gripping the backrest. The sitting-room door opened, and Mrs Hudson announced the Count de Silva. Holmes felt Watson tense beside him, and held up a cautionary hand to his colleague as de Silva entered the room. Mrs Hudson ducked out, and there was a long moment of silence as the three men stared at each other appraisingly.
It was, of course, de Silva who spoke first; "My own colognes disguise my scent from those who wish me harm in this city, but they impair my sense of smell. I suspected the scent when I first came here, but I thought it merely a visitor to your chambers, one whose nature you did not know. I now realise better. Which of you is it?"
Holmes did not move a fraction of an inch as he spoke; "I see no reason to enlighten you. I am curious as to your… non-lethal attack last night."
The Count narrowed his eyes, and sniffed deeply.
"You stand too close, and my nose is too confused… I cannot distinguish your scents," he growled, "but you… the way you stand, the look in your eyes… ah, yes. The good doctor. Who would have thought one with such a humanitarian calling would be lycanthrope? Hah! Do you feed on your own patients?"
"I will never eat human flesh," Watson snapped, his revulsion clear, "such barbarism… never."
Holmes snapped up a hand between them, forestalling any argument; "Count de Silva…" he turned his steely, grey-eyed gaze upon the big man, who glared down at him in contempt, "We know your true nature, just as you know Watson's. You cannot threaten to make that knowledge public – you would be dismissed as a lunatic. So; that knowledge does you little use. If you have come here to threaten us, you will find us… difficult… to dissuade."
"I have not come to threaten," de Silva replied, gritting his teeth, as he produced a large purse from his pocket, "here is your promised fee, Mr Holmes – a king's ransom in notes and gold coin. You will take no further interest in my affairs… you, on the other hand…" de Silva turned his gaze on Watson, fixing him with a predatory grin, "You will assist me in locating my errant wife."
"I refuse," Watson replied, defiantly, "I suspect that you wish to kill her as much as she apparently wishes to kill you. I want no part in murder."
"You will not have a choice," de Silva told him, turning his back, "if you value the life of your human friend and landlady, you will go out tonight and locate my wife. I will haunt your steps until you do…"
Holmes remained seating, but his eyes blazed with fury, as he snapped; "I care not the reason why you desire each other dead, but mark this; you will not carry out such a nefarious deed in my city, and Watson will not assist you in your endeavour!"
"Your city?" the Count's eyes narrowed as he glared at Holmes, with a disdainful sniff, "Ha! You are pathetic, Holmes. A human can claim no territory over that of a wolf. Do not attempt to get in my way, or I will tear out your throat!"
"I think it is time that you left, Count de Silva," Holmes answered, coldly, "pray, sir, leave my lodgings and do not return – we will have no part in the murder of either party!"
Count de Silva gave a wordless snarl of anger, and stormed out, slamming the door behind him. Holmes was on his feet as soon as the front door slammed, hard enough to rattle the whole house.
"Your hat and coat, Watson, quickly," Holmes told him, "We must find the elusive Countess before the Count does. I fear we must keep them from killing each other, and I doubt that you are safe from the Count either…"
Holmes paused at the threshold of the front door, his eyes shining with anticipation.
"I suspect, my dear fellow, that this may be one of our most challenging cases to date!"
I was correct, Watson, as I profess I usually am. Had I realised, however, the truth of that statement, I might not have been quite so flippant. If my enthusiasm for a case ever outweighed my sense of self-preservation, never was it more obvious than in this particular matter. But it was you that suffered as a consequence, not I.
For that, above all else, I am sorry.
"I am satisfied that we shall be able to locate the Countess as soon as we need to," Holmes said, conversationally, as they donned their coats and left their lodgings quickly, "however, I am certain that the Count now also knows where she is staying – he attempts to dismiss my services and press-gang yours…"
"Why me, Holmes? He has made it clear he feels no pack mentality… he would rather see me dead."
"I think that is what he plans. I suspect that the Countess has discovered her husband's… unusual nature, and this is the reason she plans to kill him. No doubt she has armed herself appropriately, and will shoot on sight…"
"On sight of a werewolf," Watson realised, grimly, "ah. He plans to use me as a decoy."
"We shall not give him the opportunity," Holmes replied, with a brief smile of reassurance, "Now, my dear fellow – we are simply out for a morning stroll… nonchalance is key. Can you follow the Count's scent? I should like to follow him at a safe distance."
"Quite easily, Holmes," Watson assured him, "his cologne and cigar smoke do linger…"
Watson set an easy, relaxed pace, and the two of them walked together, appearing for all reasonable purposes as two gentlemen simply out for a stroll in the early morning sunshine, weak as it was. Watson led the way down Baker Street and then along several adjoining thoroughfares, pausing only momentarily on occasion to get his bearings.
"It occurs to me, Holmes," he said, eventually, in a quiet voice, "that the Count saw fit to disguise his scent… I had thought, at first, he was ensuring any local wolf would not be able to identify him in passing him in the street… but I think he was trying to conceal his scent from those other two we encountered."
"I quite agree," Holmes inclined his head, allowing Watson to lead the way down a narrow side-street, "Although I did glimpse those two briefly last night, and clearly they are no match for the Count at all. One wonders why they tried…"
"Wolf mentality, I'm afraid," Watson replied, airily, "from what I've seen, we're a fairly anti-social race when it comes to fellow wolves. Hemmingway would happily rip my throat out if he thought he was strong enough, and tells me so on a regular enough basis… I think he's scared I'll do the same to him one day! I don't know what makes me so different to other wolves, I really don't."
"One day, we may discover the reason, Watson. For now, let us simply be grateful for it."
My own investigations have leant me no little skill in making great deductive leaps despite a paucity of evidence. You are adept at following a trail, but without a scent you are somewhat lost. It is not a failing, Watson; I have always considered that you are a remarkable detective in your own right, and I should remove the beam from my own eye, so to speak, when it comes to the subject of addressing personal shortfalls.
Our trail was hot, Watson, I remember the thrill of the chase so well, as I always do when I am on a scent of my own. I am no wolf, but when I catch my prey's scent, I will hunt it to the ground.
I am ever grateful that you were by my side in such hunts. You lacked the lone-wolf mentality that so many other lycanthropes seem to possess.
Can our partnership be described as a pack? There were others, certainly; Mrs Hudson, the Irregulars, even the men at Scotland Yard…
Yes, my dear Watson; I think it is safe to say that we are your pack, and we are as loyal to you as you are to us.
They kept walking at their sedate pace for more than an hour, working their way through ever-narrowing side streets and back alleys. The Count seemed to be doing his level best to ensure that he was not being followed, and that he would not be seen. Watson began to pick up the pace.
"The trail is dissipating quickly – he's running now," Watson hissed, "come on, Holmes!"
Watson took off at a run; Holmes gamely matched the pace, realising that Watson was holding back for him to keep up. He did not comment; he knew that he could not face the Count on his own, and nor did he wish Watson to go it alone. Still, it was now slightly galling that he was the slower member of their partnership!
They ran together, Holmes only a pace or two behind Watson, coats flapping in behind them as they pounded down the slick cobbled streets, narrowly avoiding collisions with other pedestrians, receiving angry shouts to mark their passing. Watson dived into a narrow alley between two buildings, strewn with rubbish and reeking of decay. Holmes followed him around a corner behind the building, and could not stop in time.
Holmes let out a surprised cry as Watson was suddenly thrown backwards, colliding with him and sending them both sprawling into the dirt. Holmes scrambled up just in time to see Count de Silva leap over Watson, and set off at a run down the narrow alleyway. Holmes observed, even as he launched himself after the Count, that despite his lycanthropic enhancements, the Count was a much slower runner than himself or Watson – no doubt because of his size and heavier build. So! At least they had the advantage of speed…
The Count disappeared around a corner, keeping between the buildings. Holmes slowed his pace accordingly; he might not have heightened senses, but he could no longer hear running footsteps… no doubt the Count had stopped, and was lying in wait for him. Holmes would not run blindly into a trap. He glanced quickly behind him. He could see no sign of Watson, and muttered a curse. He hoped that the doctor had not been incapacitated, and mentally berated himself for not stopping to check. He had seen the damage a wolf could do to another… he shook the thoughts from his mind, focussing on the task at hand.
Holmes paused as a cat, scared by something, mewled and ran past him, fur sticking out on end, tail bushed out, eyes wide with terror. He noted the animal's reaction, knowing immediately what had terrified it so. When he looked up and saw what was prowling towards him, his grim conclusion was confirmed.
"Ah," he said, backing up slowly, assessing his options, "Count de Silva, I presume?"
The massive wolf-hound stopped in its tracks, and gave a low growl. The Count threw back his head and gave a sharp bark followed by a brief howl; before he cocked his head to one side, listening for a full minute.
"There is no answer," he told Holmes, at last, "No one claims you for their own; there are none willing to fight for your life. Your friend has left you and your throat is mine, Holmes."
"Did you really expect an answer in daylight?" Holmes scoffed, "The wolves in this city are respectable men with decent jobs; they couldn't respond to you now even if they wanted to. What did you do to Watson?"
"Wolves? Plural? I knew of no packs in England… the odd partnership, perhaps, but I did not realise that there was more than one wolf in London."
"There are," Holmes confirmed; "Now, answer my question – what have you done to Watson? Where is he?"
"I doubt he will wake up any time soon," de Silva replied, baring his sharp teeth in a hideous approximation of a smile, "Were it not for the fact that I have need of him, I would have killed him on sight. We are fairly solitary creatures by nature, unlike our pack-wolf cousins," de Silva paused, sniffing the air cautiously, "I was expecting to be attacked by the two mongrel half-lings… I knew of their presence. I did not realise that there were others."
"At least one more, other than Watson, to my knowledge," Holmes tempted him towards conversation, even as his mind desperately searched for a way out of the situation, "And now that you have announced yourself to him, he will be very keen to meet you…"
Holmes did not think for one minute that Hemmingway would venture out of the Diogenes to face up to this monster – the elderly wolf was terrified enough of poor Watson!
"You prevaricate, Holmes. I can smell it on you."
Holmes backed up slowly, but de Silva's wordless snarl stopped him. Holmes mentally cursed himself; if he even reached for the special revolver in his pocket, the Count could cut him down before his hand was even half-way there. He took the opportunity to observe the creature before him by the light of day, even as he continued to back away slowly, trying to put enough distance between them that he might, somehow, escape…
The wolf-form of de Silva was much bigger than Watson's; much heavier and more muscular, with yellowish eyes and shaggy brown fur. It was amazing how much the characteristics of the human body translated into the wolf-form; Holmes could see the Count's arrogant swagger even in the way the wolf walked.
The Count bared his teeth, fur bristling, as he crouched for the pounce.
"I shall enjoy the taste of your blood on my tongue, Holmes!"
O, Watson – those teeth, and the malice in his eyes! However did you face down that terrible Hound all alone on that fateful night in Dartmoor?
A/N: Okay, it's sort of a cliff-hanger... Holmes's journal makes it kind of obvious what happens next... I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I'm enjoying writing it! Might be able to update again later today, if not it will be Sunday. Sorry, life gets in the way sometimes...