Disclaimer: I don't own "Sherlock Holmes" or any of its characters. That all belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Guy Ritchie, etc.
Inspired by: "Truth Hides" by Asian Dub Foundation.
May 31st, 1891
The clocks in the nearby house chimed three times, the hour of reckoning.
Or at least the hour in which Lawrence St. James' home would be vacated. Sherlock loitered through the square beyond the house disguised as a dustman, ignoring and being ignored by the other people milling about. Leaning casually against the brick wall surrounding the lot of Lewisham housing, he kept his eyes riveted on Lawrence's door and reviewed the plan once more in his head.
After much deliberation with his partner and client, they reached an agreement upon a plan that morning. Madeline was to pen two notes, one which would be sent off as a telegram and the other hand-delivered. The first would beg Lawrence to meet her for afternoon tea at Claridge's promptly at 3:15. Millie would be asked to come along as well as a chaperone. Watson would be there, waiting in the shadows until 3:45 or when the brother-in-law decided to let his impatience to get the better of him. Then the doctor would exchange the second note, lamenting her inability to meet him as originally planned. John would further delay him with an update on the case and a second interview with Lawrence.
"An hour's time is all I need," Holmes murmured, applying a false beard and gray hair grease to his scalp. Watson had gone ahead to send off the telegram, and to wait for the brother-in-law to arrive at the hotel with the other letter.
"For what?" Madeline asked curiously, hobbling over to watch him apply the makeup. It was a fascinating process, seeing him transform into somebody unrecognizable.
A few moments passed as he exchanged his clean jacket with a tattered and coal-stained one. Upon further reflection, he rubbed the dirty cloth against his face.
"For investigating the premises while the pair is out."
Intending to leave the conversation where it was, he barely paused on his way out to listen to her snickering.
"And what, my good lady, is so amusing?" Holmes questioned, turning back to her.
She shook her head, her lips clenched between her teeth to hold back chuckles.
"I implore you, what is so funny?"
The giggles tore out of her completely, and were her only feasible response. Grunting in annoyance, he surveyed himself in a nearby mirror. His eyes shut in mortification at what he saw in the glass. One of his many scarves was hanging out of his trousers like a multicolored tail, swinging to and fro as he twisted to get a better look at it. Altogether, the dusty disguise would have been perfect, were it not for the decorative sash.
"You…you see now, Mr. Holmes?" Madeline chortled, expelling the devastating events of last night and the serious conspiring of the morning from her mind through laughter. Most likely it was her way of coping with all the circumstances.
Pulling the sash out and determinedly tying it around his neck, Sherlock shook his head and barely concealed a smirk at his own foolish appearance.
And so they glossed over the severity of the situation with hilarity. It was good to see his friend in high spirits, even if he'd made a complete idiot out of himself…for the second time within the space of ten hours.
'It's odd, to think of her thusly instead of as a simple client' he thought, crossing his arms over his chest. With last night's events blotching his mind, he remembered her oath and how she declared none of his friends would let him be destroyed again. With opened eyes and an expanded mind, he did understand that somehow they'd reached the realm of companionship. Were he a gambling man, he would wager that the event that specifically caused them to bridge the gap between acquaintance and more-than was…he didn't know, to be honest. Yes, they were bonded in blood literally weeks ago, but the other bond could not have occurred then. No doubt they'd spent a good deal of time off-case together, and not all of it was wasteful. She was no Oxford scholar, but to call her stupid would be far off the mark as well; her company wasn't entirely unsatisfactory, despite her little disagreements with him.
'Well, perhaps it is a good occurrence, then. Watson's so insistent upon me socializing, and she's not the worst candidate for such a thing,' he mused, crouching down as the front door of Lawrence's house flew open. The burly fellow clutched a walking stick in his left hand, and a few banknotes were clenched in his right. A bowler was angled rakishly on his head, and his face was creased with concern. The maid followed quickly behind him after locking the door, her black dress and white bonnet both looking disheveled. Her piercing eyes raked the street avidly before she climbed behind her master into the carriage he'd hailed. The two appeared to be speaking heatedly over some topic, judging by the driver's uncomfortable shifting and the furious finger pointed in Millie's face. He had an idea that the maid was trying to dissuade him from going, but Lawrence was adamant. Tapping the side of the coach, he commanded it to move, cutting off the debate.
As the cab went bouncing down the cobblestoned street with its duped passengers, Holmes stood up warily. Glancing to his left and then right, he proceeded across the street, his gaze flicking over the stoop and yard pieces in front of the domicile. Taking mental notes, he then scaled the low fence between it and the other home to the left, landing softly on a pile of trash. Ineffectually brushing himself off, Sherlock made his way to the back door, only to find it locked as well. Furtively he surveyed his surroundings again; it seemed he was totally alone and unwatched, but he couldn't be too certain. Pulling open the detective kit on his waist, he fished out his lock-picks. Sizing up the keyhole, he placed the correctly sized metal prop within the hole and dug around with the actual picking device. Within seconds the tumblers yielded and the door swung inward.
"Spectacular," he breathed, pocketing the picks and slipping into the kitchen unnoticed. Shutting it firmly behind him, he turned his attention to the layout of the room he was in. An oven, cupboards, cans, and a large firepit were scattered to the sides, all of them spotless. There were three other doors, one which was warped slightly. The cheap wood panels suggested that the portal led to the basement.
"The primary place to peruse for proof," Sherlock alliterated, shaking his head violently after doing so. "I will never do that again."
All wordplay aside, it was now time to get to work.
xXxXxXx
"This is utterly exasperating," exclaimed the consulting detective, throwing yet another door shut.
There were no traces of evidence to be found in the cellar, the office upstairs, or even in the waste bins nestled in a corner of the kitchen. Considering the bareness of the place as a whole (minimal furniture, no literature and few family mementos), Holmes should've found something out of the ordinary, anything, but no. In the front entryway were scrub-brush marks, recently made by a subservient Millie's efforts, hardly admissible as a clue. A few minor documents were lying about Lawrence's desk, but they were of no import. Taking a peek in his armoire, the detective found that there were no clothes or boots out of place. Milling in the hall, he ground his teeth in aggravation. As his time had dwindled down to five minutes, he knew a repeat investigation of any room would lead to his getting caught and a possible fight between him and the big brother-in-law. This scenario, of course, barring a summons of the police.
Striding forward, his ear caught an almost imperceptible squeak. Applying pressure on his right foot, he felt the floorboard beneath give way. Immediately he dropped down, thumping the boards again to hear where the hollowness was and prying away the wood when he had his answer. Lifting up three boards, he gasped in gratitude to the powers-that-be.
Residing low in the dark compartment was a bundle, a worn suit wrapped around a pair of equally shabby shoes. An older-looking top hat was mashed flat and tucked into the suit's jacket. Underneath that, papers were stuffed into an old portfolio. Concluding that there was no time to decipher all the materials then, Sherlock grabbed up all the items and hurriedly replaced the floorboards. Tucking the bundle and case under one arm, he deftly maneuvered down the stairs in time to see the front door's knob begin to turn. Caution was thrown to the wind as he bolted out the back, an echo of shocked hollers pelting his hearing as he ran out into the backyard and vaulted the fence.
Vaguely he recalled a police officer's whistle trilling, but he didn't bother with stopping. Ducking through several back alleys, he shed parts of his disguise. The false beard dangled off a sleeping beggar's face, the gray grease wiped onto an old lady's shawl. The last thing to go was the tattered coat, with it wrapped around a poor lad who was unfortunate enough to be in his path.
"Cabbie!" he screeched, forcing a hansom to stop in its tracks. The perplexed driver looked at him strangely, taken aback by Sherlock's red face and lack of a proper jacket. He wheezed slightly, not giving a damn what he looked like at that moment. "To Baker Street, 211B, with all haste!"
xXxXxXx
Madeline roamed around the upper rooms of the detective's home, anxious about the entire scheme. Not that she didn't trust Holmes to come through; it was just that she had no idea how long the endeavor could truly take. Nervous sweat rolled down the sides of her face and neck, joining with the perspiration brought on by the fire Holmes insisted on starting that morning.
"He said an hour, but how can he be sure?" she asked herself, before answering, "Oh, he's obviously been in tight and high-risk situations before, he's told me so himself…but why isn't he back yet?"
Stumbling over a haphazard pile of dishes, she glared alternately at the crutch and the wide skirt she was in. She was grateful that Mary and Mrs. Hudson had been kind enough to lend her clothing throughout her stay at the Baker Street residence, but it made walking so much harder than it had to be. The cast and crutch already worked against her, but throwing in normal clothing ruined any effort to step forward.
"Wonder what it would be like in trousers…" she mumbled, readjusting the blue cloth. Taking a look at the high-necked blouse and its bunching around her arms, she continued, "Perhaps a man's shirt wouldn't be bad, either."
Her thoughts inevitably turned back to its original course. What was worse than Sherlock still being gone, Watson had not come back, either. She didn't relish the duty he'd undertaken. Lawrence could be downright intimidating externally, as he was over six feet tall and had the girth to go with the height. Telling him that she would not be coming as she pledged would infuriate the man. She'd warned both Holmes and John that things were liable to be broken if she didn't follow through. But then the duo fobbed her off with promises to be quick and concise, and to use the "doctor's orders" excuse, and she wasn't allowed to argue further.
One thing she privately noted was that the doctor slipped a revolver into his pocket before leaving. That indicated that he was realistically expecting trouble and was going out prepared. Whereas Holmes just donned his costume and bid her farewell, totally unarmed.
"He should've brought a gun, or something," Madeline told Gladstone, who was sleeping contentedly by the fireplace. It was far too hot to have a fire going, but the dog didn't mind the heat one bit. "He could've been shot, or captured—"
Suddenly the door burst open, causing her to scream and jump in astonishment. Landing squarely on her behind, she growled slightly when she saw Sherlock standing in the frame, breathing heavily and his arms loaded with things.
"—Or he could be just fine, breaking down doors and scaring the wits out of me!"
"Hullo, Mrs. St. James! I have procured the necessary data that will bring your case to a close," he said, jogging in and dumping the bundle on the floor. Frowning, he tugged at his collar. "Good heavens, why is it ungodly hot in here?"
"You started the fire during a blazing May day, you tell me," she muttered, rubbing her backside to alleviate the pain. Picking up a half-full teapot, he dumped the remains of the beverage onto the flames and doused them fully.
"It was quite a bit chillier this morning…"
"I'll take your word for it, Holmes," she replied, craning her neck to see the bundle better. "So what is all that?"
Sherlock grinned. "The missing pieces to the puzzle."
Clearing a space on the floor, the detective spread the battered suit out on the carpet. A large number of pins poked through the tweed material, and mud splattered the hems of the pants. The shoes insoles were meticulously cut out and laid next to the clothes, and the top hat's brim was removed as well. Sheets of papers involving a great number of figures were placed alongside the notes taken from Madeline's house, the letterings matching up perfectly. One even went into full detail of the plot to kill her, making her stomach turn with revulsion. Lastly, the sample taken from the lady's destroyed dress was placed up a glass plate and set down beside the dirty hems.
Crawling over and taking a closer look at all the letters, Madeline's jaw dropped open.
"These…" she croaked.
"Match exactly," he supplied for her, plunging his hands into the suit's pockets. He found nothing, and so he settled back on his haunches.
"And the mud-"
"Same as the letters."
Her face contorted in repulsion, her shoulders slumping almost in defeat.
"And it wasn't-"
"No," Sherlock answered truthfully, sitting cross-legged beside her. Now that he had the proof, he could share his discoveries with her. It appeared, though, she'd found out the truth herself. However, it would be useless to reiterate a story without the police present.
"My assumptions, drawn while observing your house and listening to your story, and confirmed by the cab driver and this evidence on the floor before us, are correct. Now we shall call in Lestrade, and explain to him exactly why a maid named Millie Donaldson must be arrested on charges of attempted murder."
Author's note: Ahh, another chapter out. It makes me happy…does it make you guys happy? I hope so…and finally Holmes discloses the identity of the would-be killer. Did you guys think it was Millie? I did...but then again, I am the author, so...Next time he will explain how he deduced it all!
If anyone has song suggestions, let me know in a review. I have a list that I'd like to do, but if any of you think of one that might fit in this story, let me know in a review. Well, with that said, thanks for reading, review and all that jazz, and see ya next week!
By the way, this fic is nowhere near over yet, no matter what this chapter suggests. Alright, I'll be back soon, so good night/day/afternoon (depending on your time zone)!