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: "Last Call" by Dave Van Ronk.
August 24th, 1891: 9:04 PM
Hastily Holmes complied with Madeline's request, ordering the carriage driver to pull off on the nearest side street so she could change clothes. Conveniently they had passed by a closed milliner's shop, and with a quick lock pick, Madeline was inside and tugging at the rosy fabric clinging steadfastly to her body. The detective waylaid the driver, convincing him that it was his shop and that they just needed to pause for the "little lady" to get something from the office for him.
"Damn, damn, damn," she cursed under her breath, fighting against her layers and the evil contraption called a corset for a good twenty minutes in the dark. A regular dress would hardly be a problem, but a ball gown was at minimum a two to three person struggle, when one also had decent lighting as well. The sound of cloth ripping rang out abruptly, and she found herself blanching in horror. "Oh no…"
"Not to rush or anything, but I would like to keep to my schedule somewhat," Sherlock's voice hissed on the other side of the door. "Especially since I'm toeing the line of legality just for your dressing."
"Hush up," she groused irritably, muttering incoherently about the stupidity of the entire situation and just tearing the gown off completely. It was already somewhat destroyed, she reasoned to herself. Shedding the hoop cage, underskirt, and bustle were a walk in the park compared to the earlier work. Eventually she was dressed in the navy-colored frock, and then gathered up all her articles from the pitch-black floor.
"That took entirely too long," Holmes remarked tiredly, still leaning against the door frame after she'd exited the building. "Even with the layers, it should not have taken you nearly twenty-five minutes to get it off."
"How would you know? Have you ever removed a ball gown all on your own, Holmes?" she snorted, brushing past him and throwing the clothes in the cab. A pregnant pause followed, and Madeline turned widening eyes onto her friend who was looking at her hairline rather than her face. "…You have, haven't you?"
"Time to press on," he murmured, ignoring her not-entirely-inaccurate accusation. As he strode forward, she got a better look at his ensemble in the lamplight. He'd dirtied his trousers since she'd gone in to change, and exchanged his patent leather shoes for some scuffed workman's boots. The pressed shirt was ruffled underneath the tattered waistcoat, and the brown overcoat was frayed and had patches all over. Brandishing a knife, presumably after pulling it out of thin air, Holmes grabbed her skirt and made a cut on the hem.
"What on Earth?" she gasped, shrieking when he tugged the fabric and split it, ending the rip at her kneecap. Sheathing the knife, his hands tore into her hair, mussing it up further and knocking the decorative rose from its perch. Deftly she caught it, tucking it into her pocket for safekeeping. "Stop it! Get away from my hair!"
Not heeding her words, he only stopped when she gave him a harsh shove backwards. Being the stronger of the two, he didn't go very far, but he got the hint finally. Bending down, he ran his fingers across the dirt-encrusted cobblestones and darkened his face with the stuff. When he finished, he seemed to mull over something, and then he reached out towards her face. Lightly, he traced a smudge over her left cheekbone and then stepped back to admire his work.
"You look wretched," he announced, placing his hands on his hips. Madeline's green eyes flared in annoyance.
"Thank you for the compliment," she growled sarcastically, pushing her tangled tresses out of her face.
"It's the best I could do," Holmes replied wearily, motioning her back into the cab. "After all, we've got a short amount of time to work with, and a disguise is somewhat necessary for where we're going."
"You're not even disguise. You donned ratty clothes and put dirt on your face, but that's nothing new."
"Ah, but I have more tricks up my sleeve."
Her eyes glanced at the seat across from her. "More like in your carpet bag."
"Quite right." With that, he climbed into the carriage and they set off down the streets of London once more. Fishing out a needle and thread, he passed them on to his perturbed companion to sew up her skirt. He certainly didn't intend on her walking through the slums with a slit; he wanted her to look poor, but certainly not like a woman of ill repute. For his part, he pulled out a jar of reddish paste.
Glimpsing the jumbled contents of the bag with some interest, Madeline wondered, "What else is in there, Holmes? A complete tea service, perhaps?"
"Not yet," he responded, dipping his hands in the jar and lathering the red paste through his hair. "Once I evacuate the horse stables, there shall be room enough for one, though."
"Certainly smells like there are horses within," she whispered, catching a whiff when she leaned closer to look at everything. The sewing was slow-going, especially since she was not inclined towards needlework in general. But that was precisely what was needed: a homemade repair that was obviously not done by a professional.
"Stop! Stop the cab!" Holmes yelled a few minutes later, his hair flaming red and flying in the wind when he stuck his head out the cab's window. Immediately the driver halted the horses, no doubt grumbling about the strange people he was servicing that night. The detective, upon helping the lady out once more, tipped him extra to take the bag and dress back to 221B. Then the man seemed a bit more chipper as he clattered away.
Surveying her surroundings, Madeline could see that they were dumped out a stone's throw away from the East End. Automatically she latched onto Holmes' arm, clenching him in a death grip. She only prayed that they weren't in Whitechapel; the heinous murders done by Jack the Ripper were only three years ago, after all.
"Why didn't you tell me we'd end up here?" she demanded her companion to explain. Placing his hand against the small of her back to get her to move, he realized quickly she wouldn't budge until he spoke.
"Would you have come had I told you?"
"That is not the bloody point!" she swore, digging her nails into his arm. He winced slightly as the pressure increased.
"It's quite obvious, is it not? I was hired to find a criminal, and my singular suspect happens to be someone from Bethnal Green. But the only way I can apprehend him is if we get moving. It should not be too difficult, and require no great effort on your part. You will be perfectly safe with me."
She glared, but started walking. "Fine, but if I'm murdered by a devil named Jack, I'll come back as a ghost and haunt you for the remainder of your days."
"A frightening prospect indeed," Holmes rejoined, pleased that she was going along with it. Watching her out of the corner of his eye, he continued, "Slouch. You'll be spotted at once as high society if you keep your back ramrod straight."
Her shoulders automatically slumped. "Very well."
"Don't speak properly, either. Where we're going, they are not fully educated in phonetics."
"Aye, gov, whoteva you say," she tried, the words grating on her ears. Sherlock scowled at her sentence.
"Perhaps you should speak minimally. And one more fing, m'dear," he said, adopting Cockney tones. "Don' be too bleedin' 'oity-toity wif ev'ryun we meet down 'ere. Jus' keep yer 'ead down, and yer oyes open."
Her brow creased as confusion spread on her features, but she just nodded and kept walking. He further explained that she was part of his cover. For the last three weeks, he'd been staking out the suspect's most frequented haunt under the guise of a dock worker. The crime went unnamed, but she inferred by the hints Holmes laced into the conversation that the man had done something monstrous. During those three weeks the man had not shown up, but Sherlock deduced that once the hullabaloo around the case died down, he would go back to his daily routine and seek out the place once again. And so he had, three days ago.
"And what exactly is this place, Holmes?" Madeline asked softly, hoping the tottering couple that just passed them didn't hear her.
xXxXxXx
10:37 PM
The place, it turned out, was a pub and gambling den. Card tables were set up all over the room, littered with every imaginable sort of ruffian one could find on London's pathways. Broken, beaten bodies were sprawled upon all available surface, each one having quaffed a pint too many.
Here, Holmes was known as "Tommy Flanders", a man with a personality as on fire as his hair. He was a firecracker, bouncing around and carousing with anybody and everybody that tumbled in from the streets. He was an annoyance to the barmaids for his boisterous shouting and pounding on tables, but he treated them slightly better than the other males in the pub so they didn't pay him much mind. Far be it from Madeline to disillusion these people about this seemingly happy nitwit.
"Oi, look Rosie, got a girl of me own to show off 'round 'ere now!" he'd cried to the old woman manning the bar when they first came in, and so St. James' role was established yet again: pretend to be his lady and thus deflect attention from him in that manner. The women in the pub had hard faces, pain and sorrow etched permanently into the lines around their eyes and mouths. They glanced at her suspiciously when she went to gather up the two pints Holmes had ordered upon walking through the front door, but once she rolled up her sleeves and displayed the stitch scars, the women didn't bother her with queer looks any longer.
"Couldn't you have done this on your own?" she prodded him in hushed tones once she'd brought back the drinks. "I hardly think that it would be implausible for a man to be alone in this establishment.
"Stuart-the suspect-knows I've taken his case. His accomplice, a man named Bishop, had come to me to track him down in exchange for immunity, but he turned and confessed to Stuart what he'd done afterward. His body was dredged from the Thames early last week, if you recall," he began, speaking so low as to not be heard over the crowd. "The body with multiple stab wounds and five gold fillings missing from his teeth."
She nodded gravely, staring down into her pint. "Oh yes, I remember reading about that in the papers. Sickening."
"Absolutely. I do not doubt that before he killed Bishop, Stuart extracted everything his measly accomplice could tell about me. I've taken care of the physical attributes, but he also knows I work alone, and so he looks for that now. As he's started making his rounds again, the man is apprehensive of all the others coming in here. Have you not noticed that all the men are escorting some type of female here?"
Taking in the crowd once more, it was apparent that everyone had a partner sitting on his lap or standing behind him to watch the poker game being played. Underneath the false frivolity, she realized that fear was playing on every man and woman's nerves in the place.
"Nobody can be alone, because he suspects everyone of being Sherlock Holmes," she supplied aloud, "and so they shield themselves behind women. These people fear him."
"Exactly. He's utterly heartless and disgusting."
Holmes swigged some of his ale, grimacing either from the sourness of the drink, or the bitterness of the truth spoken. The front door of the establishment burst open, another wave of people crushing inside. The interminable rains had started again, judging by the dampness of their sodden clothing. Chairs were disappearing left and right, and from out of nowhere another couple had appeared by their sides. The girl had scraggly blonde hair, and sweetness in her deep blue eyes. Her escort had black hair, nearly black eyes, and a somewhat swarthy complexion, but he was smiling broadly.
"Oi, Tommy, good ta be seein' ya agin!" the young man shouted, gripping Holmes' free hand in his. Winking at Madeline, he went on, "Brought yesself a lady finally, didja?"
"Yessir, Ralph, this is me gal, Lily," Holmes pronounced proudly, his hand sliding around Madeline's waist. Her nerves, once again on edge, nearly got the better of her when she felt the five individual digits shift around her hip. "She don't talk much, but she's the light of me life, she is."
"Great ta meet ya, Lily," Ralph murmured kindly before sliding into what had previously been Madeline's chair. The young woman who was on his arm dropped into his lap, her mouth muttering something in his ear. Flushing, he spluttered, "Oh yeah, this beauty is me Helena."
"H-h-hello," Madeline stuttered, unsure of what to do now that her seat was taken. Holmes shifted in his chair, dropping his feet from off the table to the floor. Staring at her expectantly, he even patted his own lap for effect. Rolling her eyes discreetly, she hesitantly lowered her bottom onto his lap, the proper side of her brain screaming at her for the sordid behavior.
"Only because you're on a case and need cover will I stoop to this level," she whispered angrily, offsetting her words with a charming smile. Sherlock shot one back at her before gripping her legs and spinning her around so she was facing him rather than facing the pub.
"Play the part, my dear," he chided gently. "Be an actress…every woman is born to be one. Use your imagination."
Sighing, she just stared at him boredly; she didn't want to play pretend anymore. He retaliated by poking her in the ribs and tickling her mercilessly. It made her laugh and kick, and brought a real smile to her face. At one point he paused, catching her flailing wrists and chuckling along with her. As she began to calm down, she found her forehead was resting against his, and murmured that he'd won the battle. His expression was completely unreadable, and Madeline found herself losing track of the time, of the people surrounding them. She could only see dark brown irises, and only hear her breath coming in sharply.
The front door banged open again, this time a single man escaping from the rain. The duo jumped apart, and a hush fell over the crowd. After a brief stare-down between the man and the pubgoers, the chatter rose uneasily again. Looking back down at Holmes, Madeline could see the detective taking over the man, and so she adjusted to being the pretty prop on his lap. She watched the strange man, who was soaked to the bone, set himself at the first open playing table and shuffling the cards accordingly. His nose was angled like a crow's beak, his teeth grimy and rotting. His greasy brown hair was tied back, and his clothing was the nondescript togs of one of the many men from the poor districts. The only distinct feature he had was the chain hanging around his neck with five large golden lumps attached to it; the man was, of course, Stuart.
"Bishop's teeth?" she plied Holmes, who nodded slowly. She was shocked at the gruesome use of the fillings, but said no more. A few minutes went by, with tense conversation being shared with Ralph and Helena, before Sherlock patted her knee. Swiftly she rose from his lap, quirking up an eyebrow at him.
"I feel loik playin' some cards. Come along, me darlin'," he said, complete calm in his voice and face. Ralph was bug-eyed at the suggestion, and Helena only looked sadly when he dragged "Lily" to Stuart's table. Tossing a few bank notes on the table, the sleuth gestured in greeting at the murderer-suspect and sat himself down. " 'Ello, mate."
Stuart merely grunted, dealing out the card lazily. His shoulders were coiled beneath his heavy overcoat as if he was expecting to strike someone, and his gaze flitted from one end of the room to the other. Taking up his hand, Holmes lips turned down into a frown.
"Bloody awful storm outside?" he wondered, idly tossing away two cards.
"Getting' ta be," Stuart's gravelly voice crawled out of his mouth. Holmes grunted, running a hand through his hair and wiping the red residue that come off onto his trousers.
"Mischief night," the detective muttered. Upon seeing the suspect's inquisitive countenance, he continued, "Just somefin' me ma used ta say about stormy nights. Perfect time for ta wors' of ta wors' ta happen. Loik evil spirits wanderin' 'round town…or a thief bein' hired by a profess'r to take out a squealer."
Freezing in his chair, Stuart gulped audibly. Holmes leaned forward in his seat, setting the cards aside and glaring at the man.
"Moriarty hired you, first as an informant on the streets, and now he's using you as an assassin. However, whatever faith he had in you was misguided; you thought you were clever enough to cover your tracks the night Bolton dropped dead," he said, dropping his accent. Madeline listened in, as the new name had piqued her interest. "It certainly seemed that way: wait for a rainy night, track him down to his lounge, wait for him to come out drunk and disoriented, and then drag him into the back alley to do the deed. The rain was to have washed away all evidence, and the police wouldn't have cared; after all, having another connection of Moriarty's snipped would be of little consequence. Too bad you underestimated Greenwich; the mud samples from there differ greatly than ones from here, and so dropping East End mud on the victim was a tell-tale clue. I must admit it was Bishop who confirmed my suspicions, but I had long wondered when Moriarty would play you."
The thief-turned-murderer launched backwards out of his chair and made a beeline for the door. Snatching a nearby gin bottle, Holmes aimed and threw it, pegging the man on his shoulder. The shattering glass was nothing new to the patrons, but the now-bloodied Stuart was, and so everyone gaped as he hollered and slammed the door open with his good arm. Grabbing Madeline's arm, Holmes pulled her into a run, following him down the slippery stones of the Bethnal Green streets.
Somehow, she maneuvered ahead of him, legs stretching and pounding at their fullest potential. Hiking up her skirts, she felt empowered by her gait. Rounding a bend, she barely had time to duck as a wooden board swung towards her head. Going into a slide, she avoided Stuart's clumsy swing and managed to kick him in the back of the knee. Holmes leapt upon the man, taking him through the glass window that was positioned right behind them. Shrieks echoed from the upstairs, and the owners of the building started striking matches and lighting lamps. Thumps and crashes indicated hits and misses, but Madeline couldn't see what was going on in the downstairs. A man's voice from upstairs called out the window for a constable, and she felt her stomach drop.
"Oh, bloody hell," she hissed, just as Holmes came flying out the broken window, Stuart planted beneath him. The constable's whistle pierced the air, and indicated that the night was going to be much longer than she'd hoped.
xXxXxXx
2:45 AM
"I cannot believe we are being held here for the night!" Madeline screeched, sitting down on the flimsy wooden bench in the holding yard. The constable that had come to the landowner's aid had all three of them arrested: Stuart for his multiple crimes, Holmes from breaking and entering plus vandalism, and Madeline for being an accessory. Despite the detective's brave actions, the officer told him that he'd have to at least spend the rest of the night at Scotland Yard.
"I must say, this did not go entirely according to plan," Holmes concurred, plopping down beside her. She glared at him and slid to the far end of the bench. At that point, the other degenerates wandering in the yard were looking to be better companions. "But the important thing is that another of Moriarty's gang is off the streets, and I am ever closer to ensnaring the fiend."
Madeline was too exhausted and too furious to even ask about Moriarty's wide circle of informants. She crossed her arms and shivered, briefly tempted to commit homicide knowing that Lestrade might be convinced to look the other way as she did so.
"Twenty-seven years, not a bad mark on my reputation. Then, three months after meeting you, I have a record. I cannot believe it," she spat, refusing to look in Holmes' direction. "Bollocks. Damn dirty bollocks!"
"…It was in the name of justice, though."
"That hardly makes the situation any better, Sherlock!"
His head dipped down to his chest, as if he was actually acknowledging the point she was making. He moved towards her again, still looking contrite.
"Admit it, my dear, you enjoyed the thrill of the game."
Her astounded gaze fluttered around the muddy pit they were exiled to. Enjoyed it? She was pinched, prodded, poked, laced in, droned to, stalked, coerced, manhandled, attacked, and arrested! How could she possibly...
"Even if you won't admit it, I know the truth," Holmes smugly confided, stretching his arms above his head. Her bones ached as she sagged and put her head in her hands.
"Let's just hope that Watson comes to bail us out in the morning. Then I'll consider admitting to your asinine theory."
"That's all I ask for, madam."
Author's note: And so end that crazy night's adventure. One…freakin' long night. Sorry about the bad Cockney, just doing my best. It's been a busy week, what with me restarting at work. Anyway, hoped you enjoyed it, PLEASE REVIEW, and I'll be back in a week!