Hey everyone! Here is the second chapter! Hopefully, my writing hasn't slowly died the more I write... Sorry it takes so long to update these chapters!
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Chapter Two: Scotch
"John. John. John." A hand softly shook his shoulder. "John." The soothing voice started to grow irritated. "John!" The addressed body rolled to the other side of the creaking bed, dangerously teetering near the edge.
Mary sighed.
It was still rather dark outside. Clouds skewed the sun from its daily job and it threatened to rain. Drizzle, at least. The room was spotless, not a speck of dirt, not a crumb on the floor. The pictures on the wall were perfectly placed, artistically straightened, pencils were in their proper place. Clothes were folded or hung to dry outside, although Mary knew she would need to take them down soon, by the looks of the weather. Her properly fashioned blond hair was held in a tight bun, the governess absent-mindedly played with the gold band and the giant jewel that was on her finger, a courtesy of Holmes' surprising donation.
She scowled a little at the thought of Sherlock Holmes. At first, she was intrigued; he had the façade of a charming, although a little eccentric, man. His brown locks smoothed and gelled back, he looked intelligent, refined, and courteous at least. She, unfortunately, had judged wrong. The moment he had opened his mouth and began to guess her past, she knew he was the opposite of her Dear John.
Complete, complete opposite. He had no manners, rude in public, unrefined, arrogant, had an ego bigger than Great Britain, and most of all, he was childish. Mary could easily tell that he refused to let Watson leave his side, whether in business or in personal matters. Watson, on the other hand seemed ready to let go… well, she hoped he was. The governess' sight swept to her sleeping and unaware husband that was about to fall of the bed. John had been so distracted lately. Mary wrinkled her forehead in thought. Staring out the window, she placed a dainty hand on her cheek. John was so unresponsive after the first two weeks.
At first, he was exuberant; he would smile in that genuine way that made her heart skip a beat. He would take her around the American shops, asking for sweets, buying her beautiful trinkets, the sun would shine brightly on the two happy newlyweds. She would lock her arms with his, happily leaning on him as they strolled through the busy sidewalks. Despite the anti-immigration tendencies that America was going through, the couple remained relatively unharmed, and she was grateful for that when John had held her hand firmly, protectively.
The Gilded Age, was what they called it. Despite the indescribable poverty in some parts of the country, others were prosperous and filled with wonderful riches and discoveries. Modern industry was blooming rapidly and the new innovation and inspiration flowed through the rich air. The couple had taken their time to explore the nooks and crannies of the city and they had a grand time. Yet.
Yet.
After the first two weeks, she began to notice that he lacked luster in his steps. He would often stare off into the distance, wringing his hands in a nervous fashion. She would notice his forced smiles and he was often distracted, having her trapped in one-sided conversations. She could tell there was something bothering him. Yet, whenever she attempted to ask, he would brush it away, cheerfully changing the subject to anything but his problems.
THUMP. CRACK.
Groan. Watson's palms flew to his nose, trying to stem the steady flow of blood, his face scrunched up in pain after the initial greeting with the hard wood floor.
"Good morning John." The normally refined doctor raised his hand in hello before jerking the cartilage back into place. Emitting another painful groan and another sickening crack. Watson, now awake, turned toward Mary with a ridiculous amount of cloth covering his face and smiled lightly towards her, well, tried to over all of the blood stained fabric.
"mphornin phlov." Morning Love, his greeting muffled by the cloth. His wife chuckled at him, a tiny grin on her face. He looked absurd with his disheveled chocolate hair, twisted night shirt that was almost on backwards, a bundle of white covering his attempted smile, and blue eyes hazy from pain, sleep, and some confusion.
He stumbled slightly and dropped back onto the creaking bed.
As John tended to his nose, he noticed the tension that began to build in the air, radiating a pregnant, awkward pause from Mary. He pointedly avoided her eyes, beginning to feel the starting symptoms of nervousness fluttering in his stomach. What did he manage to do wrong?
She waited for his nose to stop bleeding before she addressed him lightly,
"John."
"Yes Dear?"
"I think that we need to discuss something."
Oh No.
"Go on." The doctor shifted positions anxiously on the bed; eyes roaming everywhere except for her face.
"You've been so distracted lately, I'm beginning to worry about you. It's been three weeks since we've left England, and at first you were quite pleasant, delighted even."
The governess paced back and forth, her dress sweeping the floor as she moved,
"And yet now, you can't even pay attention to your own wedded wife. Don't you understand John? We are family now. You must understand that we need to start thinking of our future together. Yet, we haven't spoken about any plans past this holiday we're on, we haven't spoken on matters on some of the most important things. Your heirs to the family. In fact, I believe most couples dutifully begin discussing, and rather happily I might add, after the first week of their marriage. Two Months John, Two Months!" She resisted the urge to throw her hands up in the hair, and settled at wringing her hands as much as humanly possible. A lady must always keep her poise, and anger was neither elegant nor lady-like.
Watson bored holes into the floor, his movements dead still, almost a serene relaxed. If not for his eyes panicking, thinking, Mary would not be able to tell he was panicking or anxious at all.
Despite her husband's often emotion filled expressions, sometimes he got the most blank and cold facade that scared her, almost hurt her, he reminded her of the heartless detective.
However, she knew him well enough and at the moment she could see the gears in his brain lurching for an answer, possibly a lie, to satisfy her. She sighed.
"Well dear? What is the matter?" Inquiring, pressing.
"The weather seems very cloudy today, doesn't it?"
"Don't avoid the subject"
"Have I told you how lovely you are today?"
"Diverting from the question will not help you."
"Where do you want to go today?"
"John."
"Should I bring the umbrella? It looks like it will rain."
"John."
"Let me go and fix myself up."
"John."
"I must really tend to my nose."
"John!" Mary narrowed her eyes into a dangerous glare, immediately quieting her husband with murderous intent. He withered at the simmering stare she was giving him, and immediately bowed his head in a sigh. There had been so much sighing lately.
"John… What is wrong? Is it something I did? Tell me and I'll try my best to fix it. Just tell me what is the problem." She gently sat down next to him, placing a smooth hand over his nimble doctor fingers.
"Holmes." Watson mumbled. Plain and simple. He was worried about Holmes. Mary narrowed her eyes once more, cringing inwardly at the mention of his name.
"What about Holmes honey? Aren't you having a grand time here? In America? Away from dangerous business and the constant persistence of deadly criminals?" She pressed. Especially Him.
"Holmes can't take care of himself without me. He'll starve himself when he's solving cases, he doesn't care to keep his room straight at all. He doesn't bother going outside for fresh air. His windows are never open. And if he's gone on another case and he somehow gets into trouble, like he always does, without his revolver, then I won't be there to deliver it to him. What if he leaves the stove on again? I can't just leave him locked in his room, under the influence of who knows what drug, unshaven, unwashed, and most likely lying on the floor depressed because of our little trifle. I hadn't even said a farewell and left him drugged on his bed because I knew he would follow us."
Watson rubbed the bridge of his nose in frustration, settling himself further into the mattress. He couldn't look at her now, he know she was glaring down at him like the sun in the summer. Heated. Unmerciful.
"John, Holmes is a hopeless case! You just said so yourself. He needs to grow and learn on his own two feet that you cannot be there at his beck and call, serving his every whim like some kind of servant! Why does he not hire one himself? My God he has enough money to supply himself with all of the poor women and young maids he needs-"
The doctor coldly rose to his feet, a forced twitch of the lips.
She had said too much.
His stoic countenance silenced her immediately, indeed he was a refined gentlemen; the flick of his graceful fingers and a slightly raised eyebrow sent a chill down her spine. Icy eyes pierced her. The war veteran was angry, but his expression was nonexistent, a perfect façade. The mask of someone heartless, steeled to the countless deaths of his comrades. She wished she hadn't said anything.
His hand pondered on his cane that was lying to the side of the wooden carved frame holding up the bed. Snatching it sharply, Watson rose and walked swiftly away from his crumpling wife.
"I need a little walk, care to join me my dear?" Mary shook her head as she looked to the floor, she could detect the false cheerfulness in his voice.
"Alright then." And the door slammed shut behind him, shaking the walls and a couple of paintings.
The governess reached to her tight bun and undid the clean knot she had put it in, letting the blond hair loose to her below her shoulders. She tucked a strand of lock behind her ear and sighed, sitting timidly on the bed.
Maybe it was time she tried a different method of approach.
Weeks. It had been weeks without a sign of Holmes. Irene knew she should not worry. He was Sherlock Holmes after all. Yet she couldn't help it. He had a pernicious tendency for dangerous cases, anything that required some form of shooting his revolver, fighting his way through trouble, and exercising his genius was a case he would no doubt take. Lying on the luxurious bed, she rolled until she faced one of the overly decorated, gold-laced walls.
She had spent a lot of time on her hotel bed, their room, lately. Although it was her own decision to call it "their room" she hoped that Holmes would agree to the title. Yet sometimes she could not decipher his emotions from his face. In fact, most of the time the seemingly cold-hearted bastard was just that, a cold-hearted bastard.
"Stop talking to yourself." She mumbled. She did that too often anyways.
A knock on the door pulled her out of her swimming thoughts and she rose lazily from the soft blankets.
"Come in." She brushed herself off to look presentable. Despite her ex-opera star status, she still had the habits of a high society woman.
The door creaked open and a deranged Lestrade, disheveled beyond sober, stumbled into the room. He hiccupped half way before rolling his eyes towards the silently amused woman.
"Miss Adler. We might have found a clue to Holmes' disappearance." Irene stood immediately, wary of the tipping inspector that was leaning on one of the decorated walls.
"We found a document in his room, it was stuck behind one of the shelves, the medicine and alcohol cabinet to be exact. We have reason to believe that Holmes may have left it for us to find, as it was very cleverly hidden." He hiccupped again, sliding down to the carpeted floor. Irene smiled at the good news and moved over to shake the inspector awake.
"Inspector Lestrade, Lestrade. Why are you currently intoxicated?" The man blinked before trying to focus on her.
"We were…celebrating."
"With what exactly?"
"Found a nice… bottle, filled with scotch… felt a little strange. Only had one drink…"
"Strange, only one?" She knitted her eyebrows together. Strange?
"What was strange about it?" she continued to press.
"…"
"Inspector?"
"…"
"Inspector!" She shook him gently. He didn't respond, and so she took him by the shoulders and shook him as vigorously as possible. Even slapped his cheeks a bit. But it would not do. He had gone to the land of the dreams far too quickly. Irene propped the inspector up on the wall and decided to get to 221B quickly, excited by the discovery of a clue that would help lead the desperate team to Holmes. She quickly made herself presentable, dawning her favorite silken red dress, she pattered out of the room and into the crowded streets of London.
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A dark figure crept into the lavished room. Dodging the table full of assorted bottles of wine, the shadow stepped over the unconscious inspector on the floor.
"Must have had too much to drink," it thought.
Moving and weaving through the darkness in the room, careful that nothing heard its steps while it crept towards her bed.
A small pouch full of arsenic powder was enough for this task. The figure opened the brown bag, pulling out one of it's vials of water, he mixed the powder in, careful that it did not touch his skin. He poured the mixture into the needle he carried in his pocket, filling it until it was ready, he stole one of her unopened favorite wines, he was sure she would drink it. Injecting the arsenic mixture into the bottle, he placed everything back where it was.
Suddenly, he remembered something, reaching into his jacket, he pulled out a silver chain holding a beautiful dark green emerald, shining even in the dull light, embedded in the center of two snakes entwined. Placing it on her pillow, his dark eyes scanned over the room, making sure there were no traces of his presence.
He snuck back out of the room, giving Lestrade a good pat on the head when he walked by.
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Step step step. She ran.
Mrs. Hudson ran, chasing after the unidentifiable man in a black overcoat, a peculiar hat on his head who had just turned the corner in an alleyway off Baker Street.
Her narrow and pointed heels clicking on the dirty streets she pounded on. Despite her old age, Mrs. Hudson had always retained a healthy physique, enough to run after a thief who had snuck into 221B and made off with their first clue to Holmes' disappearance. She did not recognize him, merely because she did not get the chance to see his face; he fled from the room the moment she saw him, jumping from the window Holmes' often used to escape, she had no choice but follow him. Not that she was incapable of doing so.
The clouds above her swollen and threatened to rain, ruining her dress, but she didn't care. This thief was not getting away. She narrowed her eyes, one hand holding up her skirt to keep it from getting dirty and make sure she didn't trip. Another hand was propelling her forward as she yelled at the man to stop.
He paid her no attention. His run smooth, collected, graceful. Not like any man who was running away from an angry landlady and possibly the Scotland Yard, if they got out of their drunken stupor.
He leapt over a couple of crates and Mrs. Hudson nimbly followed him, not skipping a beat as the assailant gracefully landed on the dusty pavement.
Turn. Turn. Left. Into the alleyway. Steps. Leap. Right.
The man flew across the streets, like he had wings on his feet but Mrs. Hudson was persistent. She could almost hear his scowl in annoyance as she pursued him, never letting up. The wind whipping their faces as they dodged startled citizens.
Holmes, she needed to get this document for Holmes. In fact, none of the officers were sober enough to think of reading the old sheet of paper before they had passed out. They found it while drinking on the job, the fools. They can't do anything right without proper guidance from Holmes.
"Stop! Thief!" She called, panting and slightly hoarse.
The figure in front of her unrelenting his pace and turned one last corner, stepping onto a heap of barrels, using them as steps. The man wearing the black overcoat and peculiar hat jumped to reach a pipe above him, easily pulling himself up and then ran along the tiles of the house like a feline cleverly escaping rabid dogs.
He jumped from roof to roof, making sure to loosen the already dangerous tiles from their place; he flew away, leaping in bounds with the cloak flying behind him almost like a cape, his peculiar hat staying snug on his head, she watched him jump away, she watched him steal the very first clue they had to Holmes, she watched and as she looked on, she noticed a flash of slightly dirty white from underneath his lengthy coat.
Familiar... but before she could collect her thoughts. She was interrupted.
"Mrs. Hudson?" The landlady swerved about in her spot to face behind her, panting hard and feeling faint, she encountered the worried face of Miss Adler.
"Miss Adler! Why are you here?"
"I heard from the Inspector that he found a document hidden in Holmes' room?"
"A thief just made off with the document! I pursued him thus far, but I'm afraid I lost him when he began to climb the rooftops."
A pregnant pause awkwardly filled the conversation, as Irene stood in shock, too quick for disappointment to sink in just yet. Mrs. Hudson panted more, still catching her breath, she really was feeling quite faint.
"Stolen?"
"Stolen…"
"Did you manage to see his face?"
"No, by the time I found him, he was already in flight."
"Anything particular that you can remember about him?"
"Nothing but that he was wearing a black overcoat, and a peculiar black cap."
"Is that all?" Irene paced slightly, back and forth.
"Yes, yes that's all that comes to mind—wait…" Mrs. Hudson's eyes lit up, "I remember a familiar piece of white clothing that he was wearing, although I can't place it. It was slightly dirty from what looked like the soot from the chimneys."
"Can you remember more about this clothing?"
Mrs. Hudson paused to think, attempting to recollect her slowly blurring thoughts.
"Nothing at this particular moment." She sighed a bit, but held back when she saw Irene's sharp eyes inquisitively scoping the area.
"Where is the Scotland Yard? I would assume that they would have immediately attempted to capture the thief."
"As drunk as the beggars near the Opium dens." She scowled.
"Inspector was drunk as well, however, I recall he said that there was something strange about the alcohol he was drinking…"
"Something strange? As in what?"
"I'm not particularly sure, to be truthful. However, he did state that he only had one drink before he started to feel the intoxication invade his person."
"Peculiar." Mrs. Hudson tapped her arms in annoyance, still disappointed by the unfortunate escape of the thief.
Irene began to think back to the façade of the inspector. Pale face, drunken state, a wobbled gait, tinges of white on the fingertips, a quick celebratory drink and only one, scotch, dilated pupils.
Irene stopped to a halt, grabbing the attention of the landlady standing beside her. There was a high possibility that someone, possibly the thief had slipped a sedative drug into the bottle of scotch they had been celebrating with, which would explain the severe drunkenness of the entire Scotland Yard that was currently occupying 221B in piles of sleeping bodies.
But why would some thief make off with a document left by Holmes? It could possibly lead as a clue to his disappearance, the document could have had important information about those who were targeting him. He did write that she and Watson were "in trouble." There were endless possibilities to the thief's motives, and she knew not where to start.
Irene furrowed her eyebrows, worried, thinking, but most of all wishing albeit quietly in her heart, that Holmes was still alive somehow.
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And the plot twists seem to never end! :) The story might be a little lost in the beginning, but it will take shape later on.
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The more you review, instead of alerting or favorite-ing, the more popular this story be. Which increases not only my eagerness to write the story, but the need to please my audiences. And so, in turn, I would write longer chapters and have less writer's block.
SO............
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