Author's Note: A LOT of chopping and changing went into this to get the finished chapter out to you guys ASAFP - the original finished version ran to over 9,000 words, so I thought I'd split it into two separate chapters just to prolong the tension and actually make it readable! :P I can't BELIEVE this story has over 300 reviews now! :D You guys have made me a really happy authour with all your lovely comments, so THANK YOU! Much love to everyone who's taken the time to leave a review since the story start! :D Right, chapter 23...Enjoy! :)
There was no way of knowing whether Jhasmine was in or out, so naturally Holmes, Watson and Irene headed straight for the top of the tower to find out.
"Jhasmine has been in a position of misgiving ever since the shooting of the window," Holmes stated as they climbed, one behind the other, up the narrow spiral staircase, "Especially when you, Watson, indentified her to be a startlingly able marksman."
"I agree with you that the evidence indicates Jhasmine's involvement in the case," Watson said diplomatically, "But what possible motive could she have for the theft of the Sapphire?"
"And Jamal's death," Irene put in. "Jhasmine may be cosseted and egocentric, but there's no way she'd have just sat back and let her brother come to harm..."
"As to a motive for murder, I have a theory in place which will require further evidence for confirmation," Holmes said offhandedly. He was clearly deep in thought – Irene could almost hear the cogs and wheels of his mind whirring nineteen to the dozen.
"Allow me," Watson said, not without an air of superiority. "Captain Alcott has had his designs on the Sapphire since the British takeover, and finally managed to seize it at the beginning of last autumn, forcing Jhasmine to aid him by shooting the Kashmir guards through the window. With the Sapphire gone and the authorities alerted, he chose Irene as his scapegoat in order to purge himself of suspicion."
"What about Jamal?" Irene asked. It was an area of the case she was most anxious to unravel, though she was unsure of just how she would react if and when she was facing his killer...
"Perhaps he discovered the truth," Watson suggested. "We very nearly met a similar fate ourselves for the crime of knowledge. If Alcott had a hold over Jhasmine, he could easily have utilised her skills in order to finish us off, in much the same way as he used her to steal the Sapphire."
Holmes, who had said nothing throughout this exchange, had to admit there was some weight behind Watson's argument. However there was one area which still plagued him -the nature of the hold Alcott had over the young princess. The Tale of Nahali (as it had become known) had been a disturbing yet intriguing one. Had Alcott violated the young princess in a similar way? Or perhaps he had just threatened to... Either way, there was a significant intention behind Jhasmine's actions, but could it really be as simple as fear?
By now they were close to reaching the top of the tower, and Holmes, still leading the group, deliberately slowed the pace. There was a very real chance that Jhasmine was asleep in her room, and if this was the case, it was essential that she did not wake and discover intruders in her private quarters.
Rounding a final bend in the staircase, they came face-to-face with a hardwood door, behind which lay Jhasmine's rooms. Holmes crouched and peered through the gaping keyhole, before standing again, satisfied that there was nobody in the room. He tried the handle, but the door was locked fast.
Watson asked Irene watched impatiently as Holmes pulled a set of metal implements from his jacket pocket and began to work on picking the lock. When five minutes later he had made almost no headway, Watson handed his cane to Irene for safekeeping and began to roll up his shirtsleeves.
"Jhasmine could be back at any minute, you know..."
Holmes straightened up, slipping his tools back into his pocket with an air of reluctance. "Indeed. If you would, Watson...?"
With a grin, the doctor stepped up to the plate. A single well-aimed kick had the door swinging on its hinges, the lock smashed to pieces, and a triumphant Watson standing in the doorway. He led the way into the tower cautiously, aware that the noise they had made in breaking down the door could easily have alerted anyone nearby to their presence.
Jhasmine's room was illuminated by the soft light of several oil lamps fastened precariously to the rounded walls. The room itself was unmistakeably inhabited by a princess, for finery was present on all sides. Sheets of purest silk lay on the four-poster bed, as did several colourful throw pillows. Every flat surface of the polished furniture set was littered with expensive trinkets; as was the handsome wooden dressing table with its gilt-framed looking glass shining unostentatiously. Two swords set in a gold hilt were crossed and set over the fireplace. Jhasmine clearly treasured her possessions – as he walked slowly around the room, Watson discovered an oak chest filled to the brim with children's toys kept from her childhood. Thinking suddenly of his own daughters back at home, he wished he could bring the chest back with him; knowing what joy it would bring them to play with such fine toys.
"What are we looking for?" Irene asked. Long shrouds of gold satin hung from the ceiling to form a dressing partition, and she was threading each strand through her fingers absent-mindedly as she spoke. The question had been aimed at Holmes, but the detective was apparently distracted – his head and shoulders buried under Jhasmine's bed. Irene exchanged an amused glance with Watson who folded his arms across his chest, happy to watch his friend at work whilst safe in the knowledge that he was hot on the scent of a clue.
Watson could not have been more correct – Holmes emerged a few seconds later from beneath the bed clutching a small wooden box in one hand. He placed it on the mattress without a word, signalling for his comrades to join him.
The box was locked, but Holmes made short work of it (smaller locks proving once again to be his forte). Watson had half-expected the mysterious box to contain the missing Sapphire, but the real contents was marginally less exciting – a pair of exquisite golden earrings and a small leather-bound book.
Irene glanced briefly upon the earrings, but it was clear that the book was what Holmes had been so interested in finding. She looked on as the detective flipped through the pages, eyes scanning the text within emotionlessly.
"Most engaging," he murmured. "Most engaging indeed..."
"What is it?" Watson leaned over to catch a glimpse of the pages. "Jhasmine's diary?" He frowned. "It's written in English..."
"She clearly did not want a member of her family stumbling upon her secrets," Holmes said. His eyes were alight with enthusiasm as he flicked to the page which corresponded to the events of the previous autumn – the time during which the Sapphire was stolen.
Watson, who had always found it difficult to take in information from a written page, began to read the entry out loud.
"'To My Dear Diary. I saw Bernard again today – we walked by the river and he told me of his life before we met. His life it must have been terrible, for he says I make him happier than anyone before has...'" Watson raised an eyebrow. "Her English is far from perfect, I see..." He cleared his throat before beginning a second entry. "'Dear Diary. Today, Bernard gave me a gift of earrings of gold. He knelt before me and wept for he wishes to give me better gifts than earrings. I know that he loves me, and I do love him too.'"
As he brought his eyes up from the page to glance at his companions, Watson's face was a mask of horrified realisation. "Bernard? As in..."
"Bernard Alcott," Irene finished grimly. "Yes."
"'Today, Bernard walked with me again. Later we lay together in the tower, and he promised me another gift. He said – "I will give you a gift of deepest blue; the value of which cannot be defined, and its beauty surpassed by only your own. Then, maybe, I shall al last feel worthy of your love..."'"
"What are you doing here?"
Watson and Irene were startled by the voice, and there was a dull thud as the doctor dropped the leather diary onto the floor in shock. Holmes, of course, was less surprised. He turned slowly on his heel to look the furious Princess Jhasmine -for it was she who had come upon them so suddenly- in the face.
"Your Highness." Watson found his voice. "Please forgive our intrusion..."
"What are you doing here?" Jhasmine repeated, "These are my rooms."
"As I said, we mean no offence by our presence." Watson had realised that the only possible way out of this mess was to effectively kiss Jhasmine's feet lest she saw fit to raise the alarm.
"You have no business here."
"Yes, but neither does your power-hungry Neanderthal of an illicit lover." Holmes apparently had his own plans, none of which involved buttering up the princess. He read the shock etched into Jhasmine's face with a gleam of triumph. "We English are rather more observant than your father, it would seem..."
"What are these lies?" Jhasmine's stare never faltered, but her hesitation had given her away.
"Just how did you react to Alcott's gift of your family's priceless Indian sapphire?" Watson had his arms folded across his chest and was fixing upon the defenceless princess a gaze which had in the past caused many courageous soldiers to tremble at the knee. "A generous gift from your lover, but at a price. Technically speaking, the Sapphire belongs to each new Maharaja of the province, does it not? I suppose you jumped at the chance to take possession of the beautiful stone that would one day become your brother's as opposed to your own..?"
Jhasmine appeared thunderstruck, and Watson almost expected her to burst into tears. And so he was extraordinarily surprised when her countenance broke forth into a calculating smile, almost as though she was proud to have prompted such accusations by her actions.
"You guess correctly that Captain Alcott is my lover," she said smoothly, "But only one out of two, I am scared to say." She tossed her shimmering waterfall of ebony hair to one side, smiling beguilingly around at the three intruders. "I do not have the Sapphire – It was taken by another, long before My Love could take it for me."
"But you helped him, didn't you?" Watson said sharply, ignoring her frank denial of his accusations. "You shot and killed the guards from through the window of the lock-up; using the same technique last week to attempt to assassinate us while we investigated the murder of your brother."
"Perhaps I did help," Jhasmine said defiantly. "But I hold with my truth – I have no Sapphire."
"The motive behind your brother's death remained a mystery until very recently," Holmes said to Jhasmine, and Watson noticed that the detective had made no attempt to either confirm or deny his the allegations he had aimed at the princess. "Right up until, in fact, we discovered your memoirs recorded in this book." He snapped the leather diary shut and waved it back and forth to emphasise his point. "Just how did your brother react when he discovered you were sharing a bed with the enemy? Aggressively enough to warrant his termination, it would appear..."
"I did not kill my brother." Jhasmine's voice had taken on a steely edge. "How dare you suggest I would do something like that?"
"We know it was Alcott." Irene spoke for the first time, her gaze boring through Jhasmine's forehead as the two women stared each other down. "You might not have killed Jamal, but you were involved just the same."
"No." Jhasmine shook her head. "No, Bernard has already told me. It did not happen; it was not as you say it."
"Do you believe everything dear 'Bernard' tells you?" Irene's voice was simply dripping with contempt, and Watson listened with a sudden sense of unease. "You say you love him, but I wonder if you'd love him if you knew what he truly was...If you knew what he'd done..."
"Do not you talk about him in that way," Jhasmine exploded, waving a foreboding finger in Irene's face. "He...He loves me like no man has –more than my father who so longed for another son. More even than my brother, Jamal. And no one has loved Bernard the way I love him now. Tell me what you want, Mrs Holmes, but mark on my words – I will not betray My Love. Never in a thousand years; not if you hurt and torture me; not anything you do, Mrs Irene, because I promise you, I will die first. Die like my brother died for me..." Coming to the end of her heartfelt speech, Jhasmine let out a rasping breath and began to sob openly.
Watson sighed deeply. "And there I was, thinking she'd come quietly!"
"There is hope yet, Watson." Holmes was not fooled in the slightest by Jhasmine's sorrowful display, believing them to be crocodile tears and nothing more.
Watson was about to reply, but the words never left his lips. There came from just below the sound all three intruders had been dreading – the noise of a heavy step on the stairs and then, the voice to which the foot belonged.
"Jhasmine? Jhasmine who is up there with you?" Footsteps thundered up the staircase, and not a moment later, the door flew open to reveal Captain Alcott himself - taller and wider in stature than either Holmes or Watson remembered; a truly terrifying spectre in the dim light. More terrifying still was the sudden realisation on the part of Watson that their latest visitor was blocking the only exit from the tower...
Alcott's face registered first great surprise, and then fury as he looked around the room and recognised the three trespassers.
"You! What is the meaning of this? Why are you here?"
Watson, struggling to find the words to answer Alcott, noticed that Jhasmine had stopped crying in the presence of her lover.
"You were right, Holmes," he said, not taking his eyes from the fuming Captain of the Guard, "It looks as though Jhasmine will come quietly..." He nodded in Alcott's direction. "Him, I'm not so sure about!"
"Good evening, Captain Alcott." Holmes was, as always, the picture of calm and control when addressing a potentially dangerous suspect. "So glad you could join us – we were just running over the few remaining details of the case in the hope of a confirmation of our suspicions." He took out his clay pipe and began to stuff the barrel with tobacco as he spoke. Watson could not help but smile at his nerve. "Your young lover here has been most helpful so far, though she would rather think otherwise." Holmes cocked his complacent half-smile in the fuming Alcott's direction. "Perhaps you would be so kind as to contribute?"
"You forget your place, Holmes," Alcott snapped. His face was defiant, but his eyes -almost childlike in their size and shade of light blue- were fixed meaningfully upon Jhasmine with more than a little concern apparent in his gaze. Holmes, of course, noticed at once and felt with a sense of triumph and accomplishment that his deductions on the murder of Jamal had been almost entirely correct.
"When Jamal discovered the nature of your and Jhasmine's relationship, he was less than pleased, I surmise." Holmes addressed the glaring Captain directly, oblivious to the immense difference in height, in which he himself was distinctly lacking. "Did he threaten to expose the pair of you to his father? You exchanged harsh words by the riverbank before you yourself began a struggle which ended in the young prince being held beneath the water until his breathing ceased. Realising the gravity of your actions, you made a hasty attempt to cover over your handprints in the mud of the bank before escaping from the scene, later keeping well out of the way when your own men arrived to investigate."
"But though you yourself were not present at the crime scene, somebody close to your heart was..." Holmes allowed his deep russet eyes to fall once again upon Jhasmine. "You had confessed to her previously, of course, and found that she not only sympathised with your actions, but felt indebted to you." He raised an eyebrow as he spoke now to Jhasmine. "Years of living in the shadow of your brother became a struggle, I daresay. It was you who saw Doctor Watson and myself by the riverbank on the day of your brother's death, was it not? Upon hearing our deductions, you knew the truth would soon come out, and so you acted upon your own will in attempting an assassination – shooting through the glass of our bedroom window in an attempt to remove us permanently from the case and ensuring your sweetheart would escape conviction."
"This is absurd," Alcott spluttered. He had gone very red in the face, and Holmes' elation grew by the second as he saw the Captain's irritation growing. "Your accusations have no grounds, and I am in half a mind to have you arrested immediately for libel, trespassing upon Royal premises and gross misconduct towards a member of Her Majesty's Guard!"
"The murder of a member of Indian Royalty should carry a fairly stiff penalty, wouldn't you agree, Watson?" Holmes seemed unperturbed by Alcott's brash warnings.
"Absolutely." The doctor nodded firmly, and it was clear to all present that he was enjoying himself immensely. "The Death Penalty, if I'm not mistaken..."
"And what about in the event of a full confession?"
"Life imprisonment perhaps, if you're lucky," Watson said carelessly. He was standing with his legs braced, holding his cane behind his neck with one hand at each end.
"There you have it, Captain," Holmes said. "Confess to the murder of the young prince as well as relinquish your tyrannical hold upon the people of Kashmir, and we will leave your violation of the young maid, Nahali, out of our testimony!"
"Nahali?" Alcott shook his head. "Who is Nahali?"
"There is no maid named Nahali," Jhasmine put in sulkily. She had edged her way closer to Alcott as Holmes had been speaking and now slipped her hand through his. Watson in response lowered his cane from his shoulder, fully prepared to draw his blade should consequences necessitate its use.
"Currently, no, there is not," Holmes said. "I daresay Captain Alcott could tell us why not, Your Highness..." Though his face carried no discernible expression, the hatred was clear in his eye as he stared down Alcott.
Hearing Holmes' words and knowing full well what his next accusations would be, Irene closed her eyes briefly, as if dreading the enquiry to come. Alcott, with greedy eyes trained on Irene, noticed her discomfort and smiled nastily.
"You would do well not to believe everything your wife tells you, Holmes; I'm sure you are aware just as I am of what a lying little slut she is!"
Holmes kept his cool magnificently, but Watson was rather less controlled. As the red mist descended, he made a move towards Alcott, but Irene grabbed his arm and held him back. If there was one thing the Doctor could not stand, it was disrespect and degeneracy towards women – in particular the women whom he was close to.
Alcott was clearly unaware of the weapon Watson had concealed inside his walking cane, for he took a step towards the doctor and stared down into his furious face with the same cruel smirk.
"Temper, temper, Doctor Watson..." Irene tightened her grip on Watson's arm, but was relieved when he did not react.
"The Sapphire," Watson said through gritted teeth, narrowed eyes not leaving Alcott's face. "We know you have it, Alcott – we have firm evidence to suggest you intended to steal it as a gift for Jhasmine."
"Very good." Alcott's immense sarcasm riled Watson yet further, but he was admittedly surprised to hear what seemed to be a confession to theft. "And so I would have taken it, if your American whore hadn't gotten there first!"
Holmes was inwardly incensed by Alcott's words, but he managed to hold back his anger in time to catch hold of Watson and restrain him as the doctor once again made a grab for the strapping Captain.
"Now is not the time, Watson..." Holmes increased the severity of his grip, subliminally reminding the doctor that if it came down to brute strength, there would be no contest.
"The doctor is right, though Alcott, your days here are numbered," Holmes said. "When the evidence goes to court, you'll have little alternative than to confess to Jamal's murder."
"And the theft," Watson growled.
"Murder alone, Watson, will be good enough for Sergeant Hawthorne," Holmes assured him. He turned to Alcott once more. "Not that the gaolers will be at all pleased to see you; I hear England's prisons are riddled with enough filth as it is without the likes of you taking up valuable cell-space!"
Just as Holmes had hoped it would, Alcott's face switched briskly from its scarlet hue to a brilliant shade of plum.
"You would do well," Alcott roared, "To learn some respect for your superiors!"
Holmes had a cutting retort on the tip of his tongue, but Irene beat him to the mark.
"'Superiors'?" She gave an incredulous bark of laughter. "I really hope you don't mean yourself, you lowdown pig!"
Alcott froze. The corner of his mouth twitched as if he were about to laugh, but then his hand swept forwards and caught Irene hard across the face. The slap echoed in the quiet of Jhasmine's tower room, but Irene did not cry out. She was more than capable of defending herself, even against such a formidable opponent as Alcott, but it would appear that Holmes was having none of it. Verbal abuse could be easily brushed aside, but he was determined that he would not stand by and watch whilst Irene was slapped around by anybody – much less a man three times her size. Confessions and justice served could wait; making Alcott pay for striking Irene most certainly could not!
In one surging, unexpected movement, Holmes used his entire bodyweight to tackle Alcott around the waist and send him hurtling backwards into Jhasmine's polished oak bookshelf. Books and ornaments toppled willy-nilly to the floor as violence exploded in the small tower room.
No sooner had Holmes bundled into Alcott, Jhasmine made a move towards the tower door, but was stopped in her tracks by Watson who drew his blade and held it to her throat.
"Don't you move," he said harshly. Jhasmine, however, had another trick up her sleeve. Ducking the blade with the grace and fluidity of a ballet dancer, she brought a satin slipper-clad foot up from below and thrust it hard between the doctor's legs. He crumpled with a groan, and the princess seized her chance; leaping lightly towards the fireplace, she snatched the crossed swords from the wall and pulled one of the shining blades free of its hilt. Watson was just beginning to recover himself, when he looked up to find a sword at his own gullet.
"En garde, Doctor Watson."
Holmes, meanwhile, had realised his disadvantage in dealing with a man who outranked him in height, weight, and apparently in strength as well. It had taken the combined force of both himself and Watson to take down Dredger -Blackwood's man- two years previously, and Holmes was beginning to doubt whether or not he was capable of overpowering Alcott alone; especially as the subsequent two blows he pounded into the other man's face after his tackle had little effect. But he needn't have worried – Just as Alcott recovered his balance and lifted Holmes from the ground by his collar, Irene rounded and took a flying leap onto the Captain's back. Holding on tightly, she grabbed a handful of his hair and pulled his head sharply backwards.
"Give him hell, Sherlock!"
Holmes took advantage of his enemy's momentary distraction to deliver two stinging slaps to his cheeks, followed up with a hard blow to the ribs. With a baleful roar, Alcott spun on the spot in an attempt to shake Irene off his back. One of her heels caught Holmes off the side of his head, tearing the skin open as the detective toppled off-balance. He tried to aim for a landing on the bed, but missed and landed on the floorboards with a sickening crunch.
Watson stepped backwards and over Holmes' sprawled figure with a slight smile down at his friend. Unfortunately enough, Jhasmine had proved herself to be as competent with a sword as she was with a shotgun!
"How are you holding out, Watson?" Holmes called out to his friend as he scrambled up off the floor.
"Never better, Holmes!" Watson had his hands full dealing with Jhasmine. The swords of both parties were cutting and slashing the air, crashing against one another in a vicious fight from which there could only be one victor. The two fighters were fairly evenly-matched, but when one flourish of his blade almost took her hand off at the wrist, Jhasmine realised with sickness of heart that the Englishman had the edge as far as fighting skill was concerned. Searching for a new tactic, she struck out wide with her blade so the doctor was forced to duck out of the way. Her sword caught one of the room's lamps and smashed it to pieces, coating the floorboards in thick flammable oil. With her free hand, she took hold of a vase which sat on the sideboard and swung it across her body, aiming for the unsuspecting Watson. The terracotta smashed loudly as it hit the doctor's skull, but he was not quite knocked out. Nevertheless, he was badly dazed and lost his balance, feeling his right knee wrench and pop as he fell. The agony was instantaneous – Watson could not hold back a cry as pain gripped him in its unrelenting talons and left him gasping for breath.
As Jhasmine stepped up to her victim and raised her sword, Watson was thinking of Mary – the way she smiled; the fresh flowery smell of her hair; the feel of her soft skin beneath his fingers... The pain was all-consuming, and Watson could feel himself slipping slowly out of consciousness. Perhaps he would be lucky enough to pass out before he was run through...
A smash and a thud brought Watson suddenly back to full awareness. He raised his head as much as he dared, if only to see what was prolonging his certain death. To his immense shock and surprise, Jhasmine was laying face-down on the floorboards, apparently unconscious, amidst hundreds of tiny glass shards. Irene stood over her, cheeks flushed, and clutching the empty gilt frame of what had once been Jhasmine's own antique looking glass.
"You saved my life." Watson's face was contorted with pain, but he managed to look up at his Knight in Shining Armour and give her a smile.
"Too bad I couldn't save your leg." Irene bent at the knee and tapped Watson's injury, drawing hastily back when he howled in protest. "Sorry, Doc!"
"Old injury," Watson managed with a groan, "I doubt it will ever heal completely. Where's Holmes?"
Irene and Watson looked 'round and winced simultaneously, watching as the detective was punched repeatedly in the face, ribs and stomach by Alcott. The Captain had apparently witnessed Irene's assault of Jhasmine, and was taking out his frustration on the only member of the trio he could lay his hands on. Managing to block a particularly nasty jab with his elbow, Holmes turned his neck to stare incredulously at his two companions.
"Woman!" Another punch was thrown which Holmes expertly dodged with seconds to spare. "Now would be as good a time as any to step in!"
"What do you want me to do?" Irene scrambled up from the floor, unwilling to approach until there was a gap in the onslaught.
"Think of something!" Holmes was fortunate enough to have found one area in which he was superior to Alcott – boxing practice had left him quick on his feet, whilst the Captain of The Guard had roughly the speed of a two-legged donkey.
Irene stopped still for a moment to consider her options. It was beginning to dawn on her that she and Holmes had little chance of defeating Alcott by brute force alone; thus it was time to employ a new approach. Underneath the surface of Jhasmine's dressing table there was a high-backed carved wooden chair, and Irene felt sure it would pack a punch; even against a powerful opponent such as Alcott.
"Get yourself out of the way," Irene shouted to Watson as she stepped neatly over Jhasmine and began to haul the heavy chair across the room. It took all her strength to lift it to a sufficient height, but found that in balancing it on her shoulder, she had all the means necessary to form a decent battering-ram. Starting off at a run, Irene used the weight of their chair to add momentum to her stride, and Holmes ducked neatly out of the way just in time. Alcott barely had time to look up before the brunt of a heavy wooden chair hit him square in the stomach, knocking him backwards to the floor. He hit the ground and lay still. It was over.
"Are you alright?" Irene dropped the chair with a groan and hurried to Holmes' side. The detective was a mess – blood dripped from the cut on his head where Irene's boot had hit him; his face was a mass of already-forming bruises from the punches and slaps rained down upon him by Alcott, and the legs of his trousers were soaked in oil from the many lamps which had been smashed during the fight. Holmes, however, appeared not to have noticed. He ran a hand through his hair and raised an eyebrow when his hand came down red and bloody.
"What of the doctor?"
"He's very badly hurt!" Holmes smiled at Watson's disgruntled answer to the question he'd aimed at Irene. He was about to reply when a small 'click' made him look 'round.
Far from being knocked out, Alcott was sitting up in a pool of oil and blood. He was holding an apparently loaded revolver which was trained directly in Irene's direction.
"Down on your knees and put your hands behind your head," he snapped. "Now, Holmes, or I swear to God I will shoot her!"
Holmes looked at Irene. Irene looked at Holmes. Both of them looked over at Watson, who was eyeing the now stirring body of Jhasmine with ever-growing concern for their safety. Without a second thought, Holmes lowered himself slowly to his knees and placed his hands on his head.
As soon as Holmes was in a less threatening position, Alcott grabbed Irene by the arm and pulled her roughly to one side. He jabbed the barrel of the revolver up into her throat. Far be it for Irene Adler to whimper with fear, she merely stared him out as if all the fear and misery in the world were not enough to make her show Alcott she was scared of him.
"I did so easily, you know," he whispered so only Irene could hear him. "You're a beautiful woman, though I can smell the filth on you. I could do it again right now, and this time I'd make your husband watch..."
"Burn in hell!" Irene spat readily into his face, and was rewarded by Alcott grabbing a handful of her hair and wrenching it tightly around his fist until she cried out in agony. Holmes could only watch with anguish and fury, knowing that one false move now could cost him Irene's life.
"Feisty as ever, Irene," Alcott sneered, adjusting his grip on the revolver. "You never could do as you were told, could you? And you know what happens to naughty girls like yourself, don't you?" He threw her to one side, turning the revolver this time upon Holmes. "I think I'll shoot you first," he said. "It would give me great pleasure to make that bitch watch you die..."
Seemingly oblivious to Irene's gulping sobs in the background, Holmes looked up at Alcott and said, with alarming calmness – "Very good, Captain. You have beaten me, and I concede victory to my great shame and dishonour." A light flashed briefly in his eye which all but Alcott recognised as a distinct danger sign. "Perhaps you could grant me a dying man's last wish?"
Alcott laughed. "Pathetic. I expected more of the great Sherlock Holmes..." He waved a hand carelessly. "Very well, name your terms."
"You were responsible for the death of Jamal, were you not?"
"Indeed I was." Alcott smiled briefly. "He stuck his nose in once too often, I'm afraid. You see, this is what happens when we meddle where we are not wanted, Holmes. Jamal met his maker at my hands, and now it seems only fitting that you should be next - you, your whore, and your crippled friend over there, all following that filthy dog to the grave..."
Alcott was stepping steadily backwards now towards the window of the tower. "Jhasmine?" he called. "Are you alright, my sweet love?"
"Yes." She lifted her head dazedly, blinking and disorientated.
"Look on now, my sweetheart," Alcott said, grinning. "I would not want you to miss this – the death of Sherlock Holmes, London's Greatest Detective..."
Jhasmine foresaw what was about to happen long before Alcott himself did, and she cried out a warning. As the Captain took a final step back towards the window, he stumbled over the figure of Doctor Watson who had dragged himself to a slumped position beneath the sill whilst Alcott and Holmes had been talking. Now and only now did he -with the last of his remaining strength- push up with his uninjured knee just in time to catch Alcott off-balance.
Already unsteady, the back of Alcott's knee caught the window ledge and sent him toppling backwards, arms and legs flailing. It would even have been remotely comical if the situation had not been so serious – Alcott let go of his revolver and made to grab onto something to steady himself, but found that there was nothing for him to grab onto. With a terrible scream, Captain Alcott tumbled through the window frame backwards and out of sight, his revolver falling to the floor inside the tower with a thud.