Irene found Watson in the other bedroom. The drapes were partially drawn, but the red light of the sunset pouring from the gap inbetween illuminated the room, allowing Irene to see the doctor; standing with his back to her, arms braced on either side of his head which was resting on the wall. He must have heard the door open, for he spoke although did not look 'round.
"Holmes. Go away. Now is not the time..." His teeth were tightly; voice thick with ill-concealed emotion.
"It's me."
At the sound of Irene's voice, Watson turned slowly and dropped his hands to his sides. Tears were still welling in his eyes, but they spilled over and began to leak down his cheeks at the sight of her -the woman who, against the odds placed down by both decency and society, had become his friend. There was a sob building deep in his chest; all of the terror and sorrow he felt for Mary finally manifesting itself in a form other than sleepless nights and loss of appetite. He had been fighting the almost overwhelming urge to break down for days, but now as Irene held her arms wide and embraced him, he found himself unable to hold it in any longer.
"There now, it's OK..." Irene was crying too as she rubbed Watson's back soothingly. She had never seen the doctor lose control before, and it was most unnerving; as if she had stumbled upon something private or unnatural. Though she knew it was in no way relative to the doctor's torment, Irene found herself thinking of her own sadness at being rejected yet again by Sherlock Holmes. Her tears mingled with Watson's splashed onto the floorboards as they held each other in the ever-increasing darkness.
"There wasn't anything you could have done differently..." Irene and Watson had finally got 'round to their earlier-discussed drink and were sitting side-by-side in the two armchairs, both clutching glasses of golden brandy.
"I could have been there." Watson apparently disagreed with Irene's most recent claim. "If I'd been at home, perhaps I could have diagnosed her sooner."
"And then gone down with TB yourself." Irene sipped from her brandy glass, anxious to purge Watson of his unnecessary guilt and self-loathing, but at the same time aware that the doctor was in an unimaginably difficult place and that preaching to him would do very little good.
Watson still looked troubled, although he was no longer emotional. Indeed, now that the moment had passed and his feelings were not immediately threatening to burst forth from inside his chest, he felt somewhat ashamed of his outburst.
"Just remember you came out here for a reason," Irene advised. "Even if you hate him right now, you're here for Holmes, and I think you made the right choice coming with him."
"I know he doesn't mean to offend," Watson said gruffly. "Perhaps this whole business could have been avoided if I'd just been honest with him from the start; told him about the situation with Mary..." Though it took an extraordinary amount of effort, he managed a wry smile. "Ah, the gift of hindsight!"
"To change the past would be wonderful, wouldn't it..?" Irene said wistfully, swishing the remaining brandy around the inside of the glass. In the silence that followed, she found her eyes wandering towards the bed where she and Holmes had spent the hours of the previous night in each other's arms. Thinking back on it all, Irene found she had to look away again. Even being in the room was beginning to constrict her windpipe. There was a roaring in her ears which just wouldn't quieten down, and her heart was hammering so hard she was sure it was about to burst into flames. Her distress must have been evident, for Watson set down his brandy glass and leaned towards her concernedly.
"Irene, are you alright?" It was an example of the man's unequalled selflessness that he was able to worry about others when so much heartbreak was present in his own life.
Irene thought momentarily of lying, but Watson was no idiot. In fact, she was surprised he had not already worked out the truth for himself...
"It's just...Holmes," she said finally, flatly. "He's...He's really something, isn't he?"
Watson nodded, understanding, as he always did, the full extent of what had been said and also of what had not. "He can be a difficult man to deal with."
"I've never met anyone like him," Irene whispered, as though she believed speaking too loudly would add further magnitude to the words she was already afraid to say. "My former husband and I – we married out of convenience, nothing more. I suppose I've never experienced real..." Her nerve failed before she could spell out the final word, but it hung in the air nevertheless.
"Well I would suggest a civilised conversation," said Watson, "Though with Holmes, that is often an impossibility." He sighed deeply. "I think we're both in a mess here, Irene..."
"Of all the private detectives in the world..."
"Holmes is a fairly special breed." Watson nodded his agreement and swigged the final mouthfuls of his brandy. The warmth of the liquor seared the back of his throat, providing a fleeting yet welcome relief to his troubles. "If it helps at all, I'm sorry Holmes has let you down so terribly."
"And I'm sorry your wife is so ill..." Another moment passed before Irene shifted in her chair far enough to wrap her arms around Watson and hug him tightly. He coughed uncomfortably, but nonetheless gave her a quick, comforting squeeze in return. Irene wished she could have said more, but really, there was nothing more she could say. The truth was that not even the words of Britain or America's greatest poets could help Mary, and Irene was suddenly able to empathise with how useless Watson must be feeling. His entire world -not to mention those of his two daughters- was falling apart around him, and he could do nothing to help. What must have made matters worse was his considerable medical knowledge – still not extensive enough to save the love of his life from a slow and undignified death.
"You don't have to apologise for him, you know," Irene said as they broke apart. "If this is anyone's fault, it's my own..."
"Apologising on behalf of Holmes has become a necessary habit," Watson said, "Especially since he seems incapable of doing it himself when it is most definitely called for." He shook his head, a slight smile creeping to his lips. "No, I think it is society to blame for Holmes' behaviour rather than your actions..."
"How do you mean?"
"The expectations of marriage, responsibility, children, family, work..." Watson smiled for definite now. "Do you honestly see Sherlock Holmes committing to that lot anytime soon?"
"I never asked him to marry me," Irene said, the ghost of her familiar merry laugh escaping from her lips.
"Luckily enough," Watson said, raising a sardonic eyebrow. "A few carriages short of a train-wreck that would have been!"
"In what way?"
"Blameless though you might be for the way Holmes has treated you of late, you, Irene, are no more compatible with marriage than Holmes is." He shook his head, smiling again. "Goodness only knows what you'd be like married to each other!"
There was a moment's further silence as the gravity of Watson's statement sank in. And then, though there had possibly never been a less appropriate moment to do so, both Irene and Watson looked at each other before beginning to laugh. They laughed until the tears began to fall once again, though this time out of mirth rather than sadness. They laughed because they did not know what else to do or say; whether to laugh or whether to cry still remained a mystery. But in such a time of emotional turmoil, it was a comfort, however small, to know that they did at least have each other to lean on.
The desolate chiming of the bell in the castle clock tower signified midnight – four whole hours since Holmes had made his departure from the rooms. A now empty bottle of brandy between them on the table, Irene and Watson were both drifting comfortably in and out of an alcohol-infused slumber, the troubles and tumult of the recent hours forgotten for the time being.
Unaware of just what had awoken her, Irene jolted suddenly to life in her armchair. She glanced in Watson's direction to see that he too was wide awake and fully alert; much more so than Irene herself who was still groggy from liquor and disturbed sleep.
"Did you hear something?" Watson's tone was unusually sharp, and Irene was put instantly on edge. Before she could answer, however, there came a strange noise from somewhere nearby – a sort of rhythmic banging, loud enough, clearly, to have waken both of the room's slumbering occupants.
Irene went to the bedroom door and pulled it open, but nobody stood outside wanting to come in. The banging was coming from somewhere else then; from the sounds of it, somewhere inside the room.
While Irene was puzzling over the source of the mysterious banging, Watson's instinct and experience told him to immediately infer sinister circumstances. Thus, he stepped swiftly past Irene and out of the room, down the corridor and into his own sleeping quarters, returning mere seconds later with his walking cane under one arm. At this moment more than any other wishing his revolver had not been confiscated by the British Guard upon their arrival, Watson took up a defensive stance and began to approach the fireplace – from behind which he was sure now the noise was coming from.
"Get a weapon or get behind me." Watson's orders were issued in the steely voice of a born soldier.
Though not originally concerned by the noise, Watson's attitude sent immediate shivers of fear up Irene's spine. If the banger –whoever he or she might be- was the same person responsible for the death of Jamal and the shooting of their window, then maybe there was cause to worry after all...
Watson knelt down next to the fireplace and hesitantly placed his ear near to the grate. He jumped back when an especially loud bang resounded from the brickwork which formed the back of the hearth. From the brickwork?
"There's someone trying to get through," Irene muttered, aware that she was stating the obvious.
Nodding, but not taking his eyes from the fireplace, Watson drew the blade from inside the walking cane. He was preparing to have another look into the hearth when a great creaking came from deep inside the bowels of the fireplace, as if the entire structure was about to fall forwards into the room.
Instinctively, Watson raised his blade high above his head ready to strike as, bizarrely, the back of the hearth began to slide backwards into the wall. And then, with another enormous groan, it swung inwards like a door in a frame to reveal a shadowy figure just inside.
"Show yourself," Watson barked, "Put your hands in the air, we are armed!"
"Now, now, Watson, there's no need for drastic measures..."
The lower jaws of both Watson and Irene hit the floor at the sight which beheld them: a grubby and scruffy-looking Sherlock Holmes clambering on all fours out of the fireplace.
"Good God, Holmes!" Watson lowered his blade with a guttural breath. "I nearly ran you through!"
"What were you doing?" Irene demanded, momentarily forgetting her qualms with Holmes and fetching a damp towel from the sideboard with which he could wash some of the soot stains from his face.
"I have, through original conjecture and then theological deduction, discovered the way in which the assailant entered our rooms earlier this evening," Holmes announced, straightening up and accepting the cloth from Irene. He tapped a foot against the seemingly simple brickwork of the fireplace and was rewarded by a tinny 'clang'. "What appeared at first to be a simple fireplace has in fact declared itself to be a masterpiece of modern engineering." Holmes swung the fireplace-door forward fully so that the still-bemused Irene and Watson could see past him into the gaping black space which lay behind. "The brickwork is in fact mounted upon a hinged metal casing, forming the exit to what I can only assume to be a hidden passageway in and out of the guest quarters."
"How did you know it was there?" Watson, being more than a few inches taller than Holmes, had to kneel down yet further than his friend in order to look into the yawning hole in the fireplace. He could see nothing but blackness.
"My suspicions were first aroused by the mystery behind the manner in which our rooms were entered from behind locked doors," Holmes began, and it was clear to all that he was enjoying himself immensely. "The locks were neither picked nor smashed, and the only key lies safely with Irene." He gave a courteous nod in her direction. "Consequently, it seems fair to infer that the assailant entered the rooms by another means; thus, the existence of a secret passageway first presented itself." He knelt down by the bed and beckoned to his companions.
"Once aware of the problem I was tackling, I began to search for further evidence. My hunt nevertheless proved to be entirely fruitless until I discovered this – the tiniest smudge of black soot on the bedclothes; leading me to the conclusion that the assailant entered through the fireplace..." Upon closer inspection, Watson and Irene could both see that there were indeed sooty marks on the white sheets of the bed.
"Where does the passageway lead?" Irene asked as she straightened up. She was clearly enthused by the breakthrough, for her eyes were shining in a way which they had not done for days.
"I'm glad you ask." Holmes stepped back and gestured to the fireplace. "Ladies first, Miss Adler..."
Irene looked down at her fine attire, and then back at Holmes with an expression of utmost disbelief.
"Like hell, Sherlock! In this dress?"
"Change first, if you must." Holmes waved a hand dismissively. "But make it quick. Every second we waste could see our mark sprinting yet further from our clutches..."
Irene collected several more sensible garments from her armoire and, upon seeing that neither of the men was going to vacate and allow her to change, she made her way out of the room. As the door clicked shut behind her, Watson and Holmes were left totally alone.
The silence that followed was nothing less than unbearably uncomfortable for all involved. Holmes stared at Watson, and Watson stared back at him, his grey eyes burning little holes in the middle of his companion's forehead. They had seldom argued before, and when they had, it had only ever been minor discrepancies.
For all his bravado, Holmes knew full well he had upset Watson, and now he knew the reason behind his friend's downcast behaviour, he felt indescribably guilty for all the hurt he had caused; particularly with the realisation that Watson was only here and away from his family because of Holmes himself and his most recent case.
However, knowing he owed Watson a most sincere apology and actually putting that apology into words were two very different kettles of fish. In the end, he settled for directing his eyes away from the unsmiling doctor and muttering the beginnings of an explanation of his actions.
"Watson, I... Words cannot even begin to describe how... I am so very... Your dear wife and the girls... I have no way of saying this, but..." He looked pleadingly in Watson's direction, and was overwhelmed with relief when the doctor conceded a thin-lipped smile.
"Holmes, was that supposed to be an apology?"
"That was the general idea, yes." Holmes ran a hand through his hair and looked Watson in the eye. "As I said before, I am so very..." His voice died to a low, awkward rumble, and Watson could no longer hear his words.
"Think nothing of it, old boy." Watson raised a hand, discomfited, and patted his old friend on the arm. "I suppose, in a sense, there's blame to share..."
Holmes would no doubt have had something more to say, but this was the moment in which Irene chose to re-enter the room – dressed prudently (but unfortunately for Holmes, elegantly) in her fitted suit trousers, hobnailed boots and what was this time a blue silk blouse with a simply-cut neckline.
"Am I interrupting anything?" Irene raised an eyebrow and grinned, noticing the air of awkward gratification which had descended upon the room in her absence.
"No, no, of course not. We were just waiting for you," said Watson, but his denial was spoilt by the renewed jauntiness in his step as he and his two comrades gathered around the open fireplace.
"How far is it to the other end?" Irene asked, using a jade clip to pin her hair up out of her eyes.
"Not more than three-hundred yards," Holmes answered, bending slightly at the knee to duck under the rim of the fireplace and into the tunnel. "Not a long journey, but progress will be seriously hampered by the lack of light inside the tunnel itself..."
"A lamp..?" Watson glanced fleetingly around the room, but the oil burners around the room were screwed indefinitely to the wall with no chance of moving them. He sighed. "Right, no lamp, perfect. Holmes, you lead the way."
"Be sure to close the passage door behind us," Holmes called back as he began to move away down the dark corridor. "Should our mark return to the scene of the crime and find us hot on the trail, the consequences could be severe..."
They entered the passageway slowly and one behind the other – Holmes (who already knew his way) led with Irene just behind him. Watson, with his blade still unsheathed and defensively-positioned, followed at the back having obediently closed the door in their wake.
"One thing you have yet to explain to us, Holmes," Watson said as they inched through the pitch blackness. "How exactly did you get into this tunnel in the first place?"
"Through the trapdoor shutter at the opposite end." Even though it was too dark for him to see Holmes, Watson knew the detective's face would be a mask of condescending mockery.
"Don't push your luck Holmes," Watson said warningly. "What I mean is, how did you even know where to look for it?"
"My suspicions were first aroused when I noticed the stool underneath where pictures had been torn from the walls of our rooms." Holmes voice came from out of the darkness, made all the more eerie by the fact that Watson could not see where it was coming from. "Tell me, what does the need for an extra twelve inches to reach the paintings say about our assailant?"
"He was below average height." Watson answered almost immediately.
"Very good, Watson..."
"But surely a man of that height should be easier to find than most?" Watson speculated. "A stature that small is a fairly distinctive characteristic, Holmes..."
"In a man, certainly..." Holmes slowed the pace of the group as they turned a sharp corner of the tunnel. Watson bumped his head against the low ceiling and let out a peal of hushed curses.
Irene had not spoken at all throughout the men's exchange, but she had been listening carefully. In truth, she did not enjoy being in the dark. The gloomy shadows of a room at night was different somehow – here, the blackness was so overpowering that it obscured all else. She was aware of the passive rise and fall of her chest, but still felt as though the darkness was crushing every mouthful of oxygen from her lungs. She forced herself to stay calm; to not panic even though she swore she could sense the narrow walls of the passageway closing in around them.
It seemed to Irene like an age had passed since they'd began their journey down the passageway, but at last Holmes called the group to a stop.
"Ladies and Gentlemen, we have reached our destination!"
It was lighter here, Irene noticed. An ominous yellow glow seemed to be creeping through a crack in the ceiling directly above their heads – what she assumed to be the trapdoor exit Holmes had described earlier.
Using the added light to his advantage, Holmes signalled silently to his companions that they were to make no noise whatsoever. Then, with a skill born of long practice, he slid one finger under the trapdoor, lifting it no more than half an inch. Irene saw him level his eyes with the crack for just a second and scan the area outside. Apparently satisfied that the coast was clear, he pushed up on the trapdoor so that it fell open completely.
"If you would all care to follow me..." Holmes poked his head out of the trapdoor and pushed up with both arms.
Irene's heart was hammering with excitement as she followed suit. All the fibres of the mystery; all the evidence they had worked so hard to gather – it had all led up to this moment. And so she was initially disappointed when she exited the trapdoor to find that she did not immediately recognise her surroundings.
The chamber in which they now stood was flooded with the light of five oil lamps, and Irene found she had to squint briefly and allow her eyes to adjust to the change before she could focus properly on her vicinity. When her sight was fully restored, however, she saw that they were at the bottom of a spiral staircase which stretched up as far as the eye could see. More lamps lit the path all the way up to the top where Irene could only assume there was a room or dwelling of some kind. It was maybe two seconds more before Irene worked out for herself where they were standing.
"Oh God, of course!" Irene smashed a balled fist into the palm of her other hand, the pieces suddenly slotting together all at once. "It's so obvious, isn't it? Why did I not see it before..?"
"'Below average height'," Watson repeated as he too clambered out of the trapdoor and surveyed the scene. "You were spot-on there, Holmes..."
All three stood still and looked straight up towards the top of the staircase, faced with the sudden and disturbing reality that the secret passageway previously taken by a dangerous assailant had led them directly to the private tower of Princess Jhasmine...
Author's Note: Am really hoping that this more frequent updating will become a habit now exams are over til May (GCSEs *sobs*), so will do my best :D I'm sure many of you had already anticipated where this was going, but I promise there will be a proper explanation of events next chapter. Please let me know what you think...I know Watson's emotional moments at the beginning could possibly be seen as OOC, but I'm hoping you'll overlook it. He's only human, and his wife IS dying after all.. :P