Author's Note: Hi guys. I've been really thrilled with the response I've got so far, so a MASSIVE thank you to everyone who's read, reviewed and enjoyed! :) I hope chapter 2 makes up length-wise for the shortness of the first, and that the writing is up to scratch...please do let me know if not because I'm always looking to improve, as you know. Aside from that, enjoy - we end with a letter once again, just like in Dangerous Liaisons...
3 weeks earlier...
Some seven months after they had returned from India and the search for the famed Queen's Sapphire had been abated (its location far closer to home than first suspected and in the hands of someone who had been and remained very important to Sherlock Holmes), Watson had had his nose broken by his best friend. In time the wound had healed -though it still twinged occasionally, especially in the cold weather- and for a while it seemed that the doctor would make a full recovery with very little in the way of an ugly bump on the bridge of his nose to show for the injury. And this would almost certainly have been the case, had not a series of incidents so analogous it was almost impossible to dismiss them as mere coincidence hampered his progress considerably:
The first was during a case: he and Holmes were chasing through the backstreets of Whitechapel when they were ambushed by one of the three assailants they'd been trying so hard to apprehend. A hefty blow had caught Watson straight around the head, knocking him to the ground. The assailant had then stomped on his nose, breaking it for the second time in as many months, and knocking him unconscious. By the time he awoke, the first thing he saw was Holmes' smug grin; the second, the assailants strewn around him in the dirt, all groaning softly and straining against their handcuffs.
The second had occurred not three weeks later, when the break was just beginning to heal once more. Watson had been out drinking with a friend from his old surgery and they'd chosen a bar with a low-hanging ceiling: not too low, but apparently low enough for Watson to bump straight into and undo all the good work of the physician who had stitched him up the last time, he being in no position to do it himself.
The third had been during his first rugby game of the new season in September. The final time it happened had been a mere three weeks before at the very beginning of November. Little Esme had learned what fun it was to throw her bowl and cutlery from the highchair - a trick both of her parents suspected she had been taught by her Godfather- and of course when she hurled her silver plated Christening mug, the target body had been her Father's face.
That had been just under a month ago and the pain was still fairly considerable. So Watson was not especially impressed to be awoken, one cold winter's morning, by his dog -Gladstone- pawing repeatedly at his nose with a hind leg.
"Mary...?" Watson swatted absent-mindedly in the air before him, on the very brink between sleep and wakefulness. He sniffed, drew in a deep breath, and recoiled. He would know Mary's scent anywhere and that was not it! Doctor Watson's wife smelt of rosewater, milk powder and peppermint; not of Thames water, raw meat and mud.
Lifting his head swiftly, it took Watson a few seconds to gather his thoughts, look around him and remember where he was: his study. He looked down at the report he'd spent most of the evening working on, now illegible beneath inkblots, and groaned. He'd fallen asleep at his desk again. Why did he keep allowing this to happen?
"Gladstone, get down!" The dog was standing on the desk; goodness knows how he had gotten up there. "Down!" Gladstone gave an objectionable bark but did not move, so Watson swiped at him and he scrabbled hurriedly to the floor, scattering the papers left, right and centre across the study floor.
Now with a crick in his neck to balance out the pain in his nose, Watson struggled out of his chair and up the stairs to the drawing room where his family was waiting for him. Mary was seated between Tilly and Rose who were tucking into slices of buttered toast. Two identical faces glanced up in perfect unison as the doctor entered.
"Daddy!"
"Good morning, my darlings." Watson made his journey around the room, kissing each of his girls in turn. He saved his best and last kiss for Mary, who beamed up at him as they broke apart.
"Good morning, John."
"And how are you today, Mrs Watson?"
"Very well, thank you." Mary smiled as she spooned steaming porridge into her own mouth. "How did you sleep?" There was a tremor in her lip, as though she were trying hard not to giggle.
Watson smiled and took his seat on Tilly's right. "Do you have the morning paper?"
Mary looked around her. "Not yet," she said. "Perhaps you could pick one up on your way to Baker Street this morning..."
"What makes you think I'm going to see Holmes?" Watson asked, surprised.
"I had an inkling." Mary smiled. "How long has it been now?"
Watson knew instantly she was referring to the amount of time it had been since he and Holmes had collaborated on a case; the answer being somewhere between four and five months. There had been suppers, operas and impromptu visits by the score, but not a single case to whet their shared appetite for investigation.
It had not been the first time Watson had been close to wishing the criminal classes would stir up a little mischief, for no other reason than to give his friend something to do with himself. Watson knew from experience that a Holmes left alone to his own devices had a tendency to cause more trouble than he solved...
And so Watson did indeed set off for Baker Street after breakfast. He had an hour or two to spare before his first appointment of the day, and besides, he had an unconscious feeling that Holmes would be in need of some company, if only to keep him from shooting at the walls.
It mattered little that there hadn't been a gap this long between stimulating cases for all the time he and Holmes had been associated - the fundamental principle remained the same: Sherlock Holmes was bored, and when Sherlock Holmes was bored, things got broken.
When Watson arrived on the threshold of 221b, it was to discover that -in his usual work-starved fashion- Holmes had begun tearing his humble abode apart piece by piece: there was a chunk taken out of the stone of the top step before the front door, almost as if something had been thrown from the upper-storey window...
Watson still had his old key (which he kept with him at all times in case a medical emergency arose and Holmes himself was too intoxicated to let the doctor inside), but he rang the doorbell anyway. Within seconds it swung open, laying before him the hallway and all of the familiar furnishings which had once been his as well as Holmes'.
Mrs Hudson, the landlady, had opened the door for him and she stood back to grant him entry.
"Mrs Hudson." Watson smiled warmly, but his former landlady did not reciprocate. The doctor would have sworn her hair had turned further to grey since he'd last seen her; in fact it was his professional opinion that she should have retired years ago, before caring for her troublesome tenant finally sent her around the bend into total insanity.
An uncomfortable silence followed, and before Watson could break it by enquiring tentatively after her health, Mrs Hudson seized him by the collar and hissed frenziedly into his ear.
"I haven't slept in a week and a half..." Mrs Hudson's voice trembled as she spoke. "He's worse than ever, Doctor; you simply can't imagine the chaos." She gestured to the hall dresser, the top of which had been home to a handsome crockery set the last time Watson had visited. Now it was empty, save for a single chipped teacup. "Last night it was clay-pigeon shooting with my wedding china. The night before, I ask Graham to bring the tub in and find that it's in his," she pointed upstairs to indicate Holmes, "front room, filled to the brim with Prussic acid!"
"Prussic acid?" Watson raised an eyebrow.
"Oh that's not all," Mrs Hudson lamented, shaking her head. "Oh no... Opiates, Doctor."
"Really?"
She nodded.
"Exactly what I say. Opiates among all manner of wicked, poisonous chemicals..." She pointed up the stairs with a trembling finger. "He's brewing them up there, doctor, the Lord alone knows how. And then I come home from the market to find he's keeping his 'products' in my pantry - this morning I found cocaine..." Mrs Hudson lowered her voice, as if the mere mention of such evils out loud would incite a holy firestorm upon Baker Street and pull the entire West End of London down into the deepest pits of a fiery Hell. "...in my sugar bowl. I had company this morning, Doctor - it was a lucky escape!"
Watson had to grit his teeth with the effort of keeping from laughing, so amusing was the image of Mrs Hudson explaining to her guests that they had to hand back the tea because what they had just stirred into it was anything but sugar! He tried desperately to stop his lip from trembling, but it was too late - Mrs Hudson had seen.
"I'm glad you seem to find this so amusing!"
"No, no, Mrs Hudson..." Watson straightened his face. "Really, I'm sorry." He cleared his throat, trying to regain composure.
"I am telling you now, Doctor..." Mrs Hudson had began to pace up and down the corridor. "...I am at the end of my tether. I don't know how much more of him I can take. It's got worse, you know - far worse since you left, and the last month especially has been a nightmare..." She was working herself up into a state and so Watson took her arm, steering her towards the hall chair which she collapsed into, legs shaking.
"Mrs Hudson, I want you to come and see me later in the week." Watson pulled an appointment card from his portmanteau, scribbled a time and date, and handed it back to her. "I'm proscribing a strong dose of sedatives and two weeks rest and recuperation."
Mrs Hudson shook her head distractedly.
"And come back to find the house mown down to its foundations?"
"I'll take care of it."
"And who's to say he'll stop with just the house?" Evidently Mrs Hudson hadn't heard a word Watson had said. "Leave Sherlock Holmes alone in my house for two weeks? They may as well wipe Baker Street off the map altogether!" She let out a bark of laughter that would have been carefree if not for the hysterical expression on her face. "England itself would fall to that man, Doctor."
"You don't need to worry about any of that," Watson wheedled. "Please, Mrs Hudson, let me help you."
Mrs Hudson still seemed unconvinced, so Watson tried a different tactic. "At least let me take him off your hands for a fortnight. I guarantee by the time you return, it will be to a far happier home."
"I wish you luck with him, Doctor." Mrs Hudson shook her head. "Today more than usual - he's especially erratic."
Watson took this to be his cue and he began to head towards the stairs. He paused on the bottom step and looked back. "Come upstairs in ten minutes, and I promise I will have Holmes in a more than fit state to apologise for his behaviour."
The smell of gunpowder and liquor hung heavy in the air as Watson wended his way up the corridor towards his friend's study. He pressed his ear to the door, listening for gunshots, but heard nothing, so he knocked twice and waited five seconds before pushing the door open.
It was so dark inside Holmes' rooms that if Watson had not lived at 221b Baker Street himself for many years, he would never have been able to find his way past the threshold without bumping the furniture. That was the one outstanding quality Holmes possessed, separate from his normally volatile personality - the furniture inside his rooms rarely moved.
"Holmes?" Watson screwed up his nose, trying hard not to breathe too deeply. "Holmes, where are you?"
"Ah, Watson," came a languid voice from within the gloom. "Sleeping at your desk again, the second time this week?" The face of Sherlock Holmes appeared - only his face for he appeared to be floating in midair. "Did Mary throw you out of bed?"
Watson avoided the question with skill born of long practice, reaching out and yanking open the curtains to shed a little light. He edged a little closer to his friend who, if he hadn't known better, Watson would have sworn had managed to lay waste to his body and master the art of levitation. He was standing side-on to Watson, but turned his head, eyebrows raised comically.
"How are you doing that?" Watson asked, curious despite himself.
"That, my dear Watson," Holmes said, eyes shining, "is remarkably simple. You see..." He reached down and began to tweak at what appeared to be a black curtain which was obscuring his body from view. "Watson, if you would be so kind...?"
Watson obediently drew back the sheet, exposing Holmes' body. His friend was standing inside what appeared me be a large, perfectly square wooden box with an open front and one of his knees was bent; 'standing' used loosely as both of Holmes' feet appeared to be levitating several inches above the ground.
"I don't understand..."
"Bend over," Holmes said bluntly. "Put your hands inside and have a feel."
With a roll of his eyes, Watson did so. He put his hands inside the box and grabbed hold of Holmes' foot, satisfying himself that it really was hanging above the ground. He then made to grab the other, but found that he was unable to do so - he reached out, puzzled as his fist repeatedly against a hard, shiny surface. It took Watson longer than it should to work it out - A looking-glass.
"I see." Watson straightened up. "One foot really is raised off the ground - the second foot is merely a reflection of the first, giving the impression that you're floating. Very clever."
"Smoke and mirrors," Holmes said with a flourish. "Or in this case, rather, just mirrors."
"A little beneath you, don't you think, Holmes - magic tricks?"
"Many things are beneath me, Watson, but this does not leave me any less exposed to appreciation of their beauty and you never know when they might come in handy. However..." Holmes looked up, colouring slightly. "I have encountered a small...problem...if you will with my experiment." He placed his bent leg back on the floor and began to wiggle the other furiously.
"Let me guess," Watson said with a smile. "You're stuck."
"It was a tight fit," Holmes admitted. "But there could be no margin for error."
"Well you certainly fooled me, old boy." Watson set his walking cane down and shrugged off his jacket. "Though might I suggest the curtain was unnecessary?"
"The effect was better in the dark," Holmes conceded.
"Indeed. Now, let's get you out of there..."
Watson began to tug on the shoddily-nailed wooden planks which encased Holmes, finding that many of them gave way with relative ease; all except one right at the front.
Watson tugged hard, with much encouragement from Holmes, and it finally gave way with a loud 'CRACK' and the tinkle of shattered glass. He looked up at Holmes with a raised eyebrow.
"That's seven years bad luck, you know."
"It wasn't I who broke it!" Holmes stepped out of the debris with as much dignity as he could possibly muster and flopped down into his armchair. "Here's hoping you don't cross the path of a black cat on your way home tonight - it could mean the end of you..."
A knock at the door cut off all chance Watson might have had at a comeback. The detective stretched and yawned before calling out:
"Enter..."
The white face and tired eyes of Mrs Hudson appeared around the doorframe. Watson glanced briefly at his pocket-watch - had it been ten minutes already?
"Ah, Nanny..." Holmes smiled glibly, which did little or nothing to disguise his contempt, but perhaps that had been his intention. "Mrs Hudson...I thought perhaps you had forgotten me."
Mrs Hudson sniffed. "If I live a thousand years, Mr Holmes," she said icily, "I fear that the good Lord will never grant me the sweet mercy of being able to forget you!"
Holmes smiled again, but it seemed somewhat fixed, and far, far more dangerous. He broke his gaze with her and looked instead towards Watson. "I shall not be apologizing for anything."
Watson sighed. "How did you know?"
"You will notice that Mrs Hudson is not carrying a tray."
"I hadn't noticed."
"Of course not, you never do. As I say, she is not carrying a tray, begging the question: 'Why has she come if her intention was not to deliver or collect to or from my rooms?'" Holmes leaned back in his armchair, hands clasped behind his head. "I heard your hansom arrive at Baker Street some six minutes before you knocked on my study door," he continued. "An unusual time lapse, don't you think, considering the hallway and stairs should take you some 45 seconds at most..? You were waylaid then, but by whom? Not outside the house because you rang the doorbell. Inside, then, and with the only other occupant of this address - the landlady, Mrs Hudson."
"We could have been discussing the weather for all you knew," said Mrs Hudson snippily.
Holmes smiled. "And waste time informing the Doctor of all my wrongdoings? No, no, a negative conversation, is statistically more likely - the customary enquires after wife and family would unlikely extend to 5 minutes of conversation." He nodded to indicate Watson, and the doctor felt a sudden stab of apprehension for what was to follow. "You, Watson, are a man of honour; and you, my dear sweet Nanny, are a woman wronged." He held his hands wide. "Any respectable man would be most compelled to apologise for behaviour such as mine these past few weeks, especially under the good doctor's recommendation." He smiled. "I highly doubt it has escaped your notice, though, that I am not a respectable man!"
"Very good," Watson said. "I knew we'd get there in the end. You will be apologizing to Mrs Hudson, though, Holmes...most sincerely."
"I shall not."
"Oh I beg to differ." Watson placed his hands on the arms of Holmes' armchair, arms braced, and leaned in close to show he was very serious indeed. "The money to replace Mrs Hudson's wedding china," Watson said. "Now, Holmes."
Holmes flicked ash from his pipe and shook his head slowly. "Regrettably I find myself lacking in funds at present," he said. "Even if I had any wish at all to carry out the gesture..."
"Now," Watson repeated.
"Was I unclear before?"
"Holmes, you had me cash a cheque to your account just last week," Watson said, exasperated. "And what about your deposit box on the Strand?"
"Inaccessible until further notice."
"Holmes!"
"Doctor?" Watson looked towards Mrs Hudson, for it was she who had spoken. "As much as I appreciate you trying, there will really be no need."
"Really, Mrs Hudson, I must insist that..."
"The insurance will cover the cost, I am sure," said Mrs Hudson heavily. "As much as I would enjoy seeing him pay every last penny..."
"Very well." Watson gritted his teeth. "Thank you, Mrs Hudson. Remember your appointment - later this week."
"Yes, doctor." She nodded and, pausing only to shoot another virulent glare in Holmes' direction, backed out of the door.
As soon as she was out of earshot, Watson wondered where he should begin.
"Holmes..."
"You know how I hate apologies."
"Unsurprising, considering you owe so very many," Watson quipped. "In that case, maybe stop doing things to apologize for. Holmes, you are driving the poor woman to distraction!"
Holmes said nothing; merely lit up his pipe and began to smoke. Watson sighed. He sensed the subject would be unapproachable for now - Holmes would only ignore him completely if he continued speaking, and Watson wasn't one for wasting his breath.
"How are you, Holmes?"
"Uninspired."
"No cases?"
"Plenty," Holmes answered. "None of any interest whatsoever."
"Where?" Watson looked where Holmes pointed - towards a stack of letters on the mantelpiece. He shook his head as he gathered them up: there were more letters in this pile for Holmes than he and Mary received in six months.
"Theft..." Watson stated, skimming through the scribbled content and reading the odd word aloud. "Apparent murder...kidnap...another theft...diamond heist..." He looked up at Holmes, tutting with disbelief. "Really? There is nothing in this pile that interests you at all?"
"Not in the slightest."
"You are taking one of these cases," Watson said firmly. "You get worse as each moon rises."
"I fail to see how my behaviour deviates from its usual standard when I am between cases," Holmes said sulkily.
"You would," Watson said, as dryly as he thought possible. "Come on Holmes, you surely can't miss the signs - prussic acid in the bathtub? Now even you have to admit that falls in a new category of insanity!"
"There is in fact a case which has my attention already," Holmes told him, ignoring all accusations of unsound mind Watson could throw, and he could easily have thrown plenty.
"Oh?" Watson was suspicious and unmoved. "Tell me."
"On that table," Holmes pointed, "you will find a copy of yesterday's paper."
Watson took the news rag up. "What am I looking for?" Holmes said nothing, and Watson's eye was caught by the headline: 'POLICE BAFFLED AS SEARCH FOR MINISTER CONTINUES'.
"This one?" Watson asked. "The Lowerly case?"
"Indeed," said Holmes. "Sir Francis Lowerly, of the Lord Chancellor's Office, was declared missing two months ago last Saturday, and so far all attempts to trace his whereabouts have proved fruitless. Any surmising as to why that may be, Watson?"
"Because he or whoever else might have been involved covered their tracks well and these investigations take time?" Watson guessed.
"No," Holmes said. "Rather because the police are incompetent; Lestrade is a fool; and because they have yet to appoint their best man to the case."
"You?" Watson guessed.
"Me." Holmes was re-stuffing his pipe. He seemed frustrated. "But as the situation stands, they have made it clear thus far that they can manage well enough without me."
"You've been down there to ask." Watson stated the claim more than enquired, and was somewhat surprised to see Holmes shaking his head.
"On the contrary," Holmes said sternly. "I will not be demeaned by lowering myself to such a level as to ask if I may do my job."
Watson looked around the filthy room with raised eyebrows, taking in the piles of mess and pungent odour, and thinking that as levels were, there wasn't any lower to which Holmes was capable of sinking. But he did not say so. Instead he folded his arms across his chest and surmised what he had learned.
"Lestrade won't let you on the case," Watson said, "so you're reacting by throwing a tantrum and boycotting work altogether?"
"There will come a time not so long from now where Lestrade finds that he is quite unable to manage this case without me," Holmes said haughtily. "When that time comes, I should not like to be engaged with another conundrum: investigating two simultaneous cases is not a challenge I have undertaken in some time, and I fear may be somewhat outside of my capabilities at present. However..." He was toying with his pipe now, spinning it between all five of his fingers like some sort of baton. "...if a singularly unique and intriguing case were to call my attentions between now and then, I could be persuaded to reconsider."
"Then allow me to 'persuade' you," Watson said, taking a chair and beginning to sort through the piles of letters from Holmes' hopeful clientele. "Here, how about this: missing groom-to-be, vanished from before the altar in front of 200 friends and relatives, leaving both suit and cravat behind him."
"No."
"Cravat AND suit, Holmes," Watson pressed. "Vanished into thin air... Is that not even the least bit exciting to you?"
"Cold feet," Holmes said swiftly. "Vanishing on the brink of matrimony? That was probably the most sensible decision he ever made and who indeed am I to question it?"
"A Mr Tullock of the Great Portland Street," Watson pressed on, ignoring Holmes, "requests help in recovering..."
"No."
"I haven't told you what it is yet!"
"The client is suffering with senile dementia; his pocket-watch is at the menders, where he left it last week."
"I..." Watson broke off, setting the letter down without another word. The next letter he turned to was different - the envelope remained unopened. Watson picked it up and waved it under Holmes' nose. "This morning's post? You must have missed one."
Holmes held out a hand, palm flat. "Give it to me."
Watson smiled grimly. "Choose one of the cases."
"Give me the letter."
"Choose."
"The letter."
"A case."
"Now."
"First."
"Watson."
"Holmes."
"With every day that passes," Holmes said, "you become more and more like your wife."
Holmes was alone again within half an hour, having dispatched Watson to his surgery and the ready list of patients which awaited him. Negotiations over which of the duo would give in first to the other's demands had not lasted long once Holmes had tackled the Doctor. Holmes had both the letter and the promise of no forthcoming cases by the time Watson had departed, with a severely bruised ego to match his steadily-blackening left eye.
Alone and a bottle of scotch in hand to ease the pain of his own severely squashed kidneys, Holmes settled into his armchair and tore into the letter. The sweet smell of perfume wafted out from between the paper folds and Holmes took in a deep, sustaining breath. Parisian. Nothing changes...
He leant forwards in his chair and began to read:
'To my Dear Mr Sherlock Holmes...'
For any of you who are interested, Holmes' little trick is explained in the link below far better than in my description! Replace dots and slashes with relevant punctuation to get around the 'anti-link filter' FanFiction seems to have with external URLs :')
www (DOT) freemagictricks4u (DOT) com (SLASH) levitation (DOT) html