"Mister Holmes!"
What is that noise? And why the devil do I feel water on my face? Is that concrete...?
"Mister Holmes! Are you alright?"
I'm on the ground, aren't I?
I feel a hand squeeze my shoulder and give it a none-too-delicate shake. Upon finally opening my eyes to find out who the idiot working my arm out of its socket is, I am greeted with no face other than that of a somewhat disheveled Inspector Lestrade.
"Let go of me, you moron!"
"Well, ex-cuse me, Mister I-think-it-would-be-a-good-idea-to-scour-dark-alleys-in-the-east-district-and-get-myself-killed. By God, you're lucky I showed up when I did, because otherwise—"
"Stands. Where's Stands?"
"Nowhere to be found, unfortunately."
Did I just hear him correctly?
"What!? Lest-rade, how could you possibly bungle this up!? I had him, Lestrade! I had him right..."
Where had I had him? I need a moment to adjust my bearings. Where am I?
"Through that house, right there! On the other side of that flat, there!"
"I know, Mister Holmes, that entire house is swimming with my men as we speak. We found Bennett there not a few minutes ago, along with at least four strongboxes and possibly more. Among these was a tin lockbox that matches the police report of the Kolfsheim murder exactly. So it seems we have an accomplice of that crime thanks to you, Mister Holmes."
"Not good enough, Lestrade. Not good enough."
"As if there is much we can do about it! Look behind you, for God's sake!"
Why?
"Lestrade...? What exactly happened here within the last five minutes?"
"You came bursting out of that house like it was on fire, so I was preparing to get my cuffs out before I saw these huge monsters hot on your trail. Looks like one of 'em damn near got you, for you tripped... and took a blow to the head something awful. You're lucky I brought my pistol tonight."
I was, indeed. The carcasses had not even ceased to bleed yet.
"Half a moment, Lestrade! You say these animals were less than mere inches from me and you fired on them, anyway!?"
"Given the choice between the fairly low probability of a stray bullet and a more than likely rabid set of teeth—"
"Oh, stop. Just stop. This is useless. I'm going back to Montague Street."
"But, Mister Holmes, if you don't mind my saying so, that's a pretty deep gash you've got there on your palm."
"Your point being?"
"It'll need to get stitched up."
"I don't care."
"Now don't be foolish, Mister Holmes. If that's not treated properly—"
"Then I'll have a scar! That's just fine with me! Good evening!"
Why can't I do anything right?
I reach up and smear the now-useless makeup from my eye. It's beginning to run all over my face with the rainwater, anyway. I suppose the only thing I can do now is retreat home and try to find some lead on Stands after I try to figure out where I went wrong in my disguise. Neither is likely to come.
Lestrade was right. This cut is deep. But I don't care. I don't care if it needs stitches. I don't care if it becomes infected and they have to amputate my hand. I just don't care.
I have failed.
Amazing, is it not, how the events of a whole week, one hundred and sixty-eight hours, can replay itself in the mind's eye within the space of no more than a minute. Like some kind of twisted judgment. I suppose that will only be one more thing weighing on my mind to-night. Just what I need. It's not as though I even have Trevor anymore. Perhaps it's better that way.
I hate dogs.
END
We've reached it.
Thank you all so much for reading. This is my first Sherlock Holmes fic, so I would really appreciate reviews.
Oh, and the quote is "the more I see of man, the more I like dogs."