Chapter Notes: This is a very short chapter but it moves the plot and suspense along so beautifully that I felt it deserved its own moment. This chapter started all sorts of different places but then it became yet another treatise on just what a tough bastard John Watson is on it's own. I debated leaving it this short, but I saw some personality developments and a killer of an ending line and I said...here is chapter four!
I hope you enjoy it as much as I loved writing it.
This installment is going beyond five chapters folks!
Bart
Doctor John Watson, Police Surgeon: Scotland Yard 4
The Frozen Image
Chapter Four
If there was ever a time for barking orders, this was the moment.
"We need to divide our strength," Lestrade began,"this accomplice had to have passed someone last night, this is the East Side, she never truly sleeps."
Hopkins raised his hand. "We could canvas the neighbourhood that she would have travelled, if Mister Bisset would not mind giving us her normal itinerary."
Lestrade agreed with a curt nod. "There are two constables who walk the beat around Whitechapel who would know anyone up at that hour."
He handed Hopkins the notepad and his winnings. "Say hello to Tommy and Bobby for me," he said with a smile that hinted of evil deeds yet to come.
Lestrade heard Gregson galumphing in behind him, grumbling to himself in Swedish. "Take Gregson with you," he ordered.
Hopkins nodded with a weary sigh. Lestrade heard him inform Tobias of their task. "Now hold on a minute, Giles!" the man bellowed.
Lestrade turned to give him a tolerant stare. The man shot him a glower of the vilest nature before he followed Hopkins out.
"What did those two do to earn your ire?" Watson murmured.
"They bet on what Mayweather would do, when I approached."
"Serves them right, then," Watson remarked with a wry smile, "they did not ask me to join the book."
Lestrade gave the impertinent man a venomous look, but Watson was, as always, immune.
He turned to address the remaining men. "Bradstreet you and Jones need to go find John Patterson for me, see if he'll make a visit to the Yard, there's a file on my desk of a case that he investigated, and it may be another Eads victim. See if he recalls it; tell him I need his help."
Bradstreet nodded and Jones followed him out like a tall, strapping shadow.
"I need to meet Alister Eads," Watson remarked, breaking the silence.
Lestrade startled. "Dearest Lord Jesus, John, why?"
His ailing friend showed him a stack of pictures he had in his hand. From the short distance, Lestrade could see that they were Rollins's photographs of the confirmed Eads crime scenes.
"I need to see what message he was trying to convey. What was his twisted purpose for posing them this way, the symbolism? If I can separate his madness from the work of his accomplice, then I will be a step closer to finding the man," Watson concluded. There was a challenge in his eyes that informed Lestrade he was in for a fight if he refused.
Lestrade knew it was a losing proposition, but tried to dissuade the man regardless."I would not wish a healthy man to engage Alister Eads, he is cunning as a wolf, and is the most evil man I've ever met. He's tied me up in knots just interviewing him."
Watson sat there patiently. He cocked one eyebrow at Lestrade as if to ask if he was finished. The two tested their wills in a silent stare down, finally Lestrade sighed with exhausted resignation.
"Very well, you stubborn bastard," he acquiesced, fuming.
Watson smiled. "You are such a kind friend, Giles."
Doctor Watson stood gingerly, placing a hand on the desk in support. "Before we leave, I need a volunteer, someone who has no compunctions about causing me pain."
St. Cloud waved a hand. "Zis doez not zound disagreeable to me."
Watson smirked. "Why am I not surprised?"
Mayweather helped him back into a sterile, scrubbed, empty dissection bay, wordlessly bringing his medical bag; a ritual, he and Watson had evidently enacted before.
"You want me to change the drezzing, no?" St. Cloud inquired.
Watson nodded, showing the angry determination that he demonstrated when he was about to put himself in pain. It was almost as if he dealt with discomfort by attempting to cow it with his fury.
He sat on the low steel bier, and with a little help from Lestrade removed the apron, and his shirt and tie revealing the bandages swathing his chest.
St. Cloud glanced up for permission, and borrowed Watson's surgical scissors out of his bag to cut the bandages loose.
"Hold his left arm, mate, I'll hold his right," Mayweather instructed, "Make sure he does not move."
Watson winced as, with resignation, he gave Mayweather the arm indicated. Lestrade took the other arm as St. Cloud began to peel the bandage away.
Mayweather took a bit of folded cotton cloth out of Watson's bag and placed it in the man's mouth, giving him something to bite down on for the pain to come.
It was just in time as St. Cloud got to the wound. Watson hissed and winced.
"Very little zepesiz, negligible necropziz. Ze ztichez are very nize. Who did zem?" St. Cloud called out as he worked.
"He did them himself, I was there." Lestrade remarked.
St Cloud glanced up at Watson, there was a naked admiration that looked alien on his face."Very nize work, Doctuer."
Watson managed to nod.
"Zis is were it becomez uncomfortabule." St Cloud remarked, he pulled out a bottle of Surgical Spirits. He poured them onto a pad and began to clean the wound. Watson was obviously in extreme pain, his entire body rigid, his tendons and muscles standing out in relief, even then, he barely moaned, he just looked extremely irritated.
The torture was over in minutes, but felt longer to Lestrade. St. Cloud put the pad against the wound and began to wrap the bandages necessary to keep it in place. Watson slumped in relief.
Lestrade let go of his arm, feeling stiff from his own empathetic stress. After a few moments of letting Watson gather himself, he asked, "Are you well enough to continue, Doctor?"
Watson gave him a disgusted look rather than an answer, shrugging back into his shirt with a series of winces.
St. Cloud and Lestrade exchanged a gaze, one of the first times the two men had actually made eye contact in all their years working together, St. Cloud shook his head in disdain at Watson's obstinacy, but the look in his eyes bespoke if a growing fondness for his patient.
Earning the respect of his enemies as well as his friends.
The words came back to Lestrade like a distant peel of a steeple bell. Collins was right; Watson collected people by just being himself. He made no special effort to impress or cajole, he was simply the genuine article and even an egotistical sod like could see that.
"I will zee to ze writing of the notes on Missus Bisset," St. Cloud volunteered, "good luck."
Watson was sliding into the coat that Mayweather held out to him like a valet, he acknowledged his assent with a nod.
He slid off the table, starting for the door, stumbling when a sudden burst of weakness overtook him.
Lestrade managed to grab an arm. "Do try to keep your feet, Doctor, I do not enjoy the thought of squiring you around Newgate Street, people will begin to talk."
Watson scoffed, "That you would be so lucky."
---
The very sight of Newgate has always been enough to make Lestrade stifle a shudder.
They disembarked in front of the towering stone structure, with its Gothic spires and high tower walls. There seemed to be a hum of conversation around it at all times, either from the prisoners above, or the spectators and pedestrians beneath, Lestrade never bothered to find out.
"Chief Inspector Lestrade, a word?"
Lestrade tensed at the sound of that oh so cultured and reasonable voice.
He, Watson and Mayweather turned to see Agatha Weems making her way through the crowd.
"Very clever ploy, Inspector, PC Reynolds is quite the raconteur," she remarked as she crossed the common, "the most I could wheedle out of him was, not at this time, I considered it an achievement to get that much."
Lestrade turned to Watson, catching Mayweather's warning glance.
"Doctor John Watson, Miss Agatha Weems, reporter for the Times," he stated in way of introduction. Watson did not offer her his hand, a shocking breach of protocol for him, to be sure.
"We have met," he informed with a hint of anger.
Agatha did not show any sign of offense at his snub. "Doctor Watson and I are old friends, aren't we John?"
"You will address me as Doctor, or Watson, only my friends may call me John," Watson remarked, his shoulders stiff with resentment. (4)
"As I recall, did not Holmes refer to you as Watson? Does that mean you two were not the best of friends?" she needled pulling her always-present pad out, her poison pen at the ready.
Watson suddenly slumped; Mayweather steadied him and kept him upright.
"If you don't mind, Agatha, we need to get inside while his strength lasts," Lestrade said as Mayweather gave him a nod of agreement.
A suddenly concerned Agatha reached out and pressed her hand gently to Watson's forehead. "He's burning with fever, what is he doing out of bed, Giles?"
Mayweather was watching Agatha carefully, Lestrade was amazed he had let her touch Watson without some move to intercept, clearly acquiescing to move proceedings along.
"I'm afraid he is not willing to be on the sidelines in this affair, even if it is the wisest course." Lestrade remarked with a wry smile.
Watson glared at them both."I am standing here within earshot."
Agatha suddenly remembered she was a reporter. She turned to Mayweather. "We have not been introduced.
Mayweather guided Watson toward the building, "No we have not, you should get used to the disappointment," he called over his shoulder.
She smiled at that pronouncement.
Agatha returned to Lestrade. "I knew you would show up here sooner or later. Alister Eads is due to be hanged later on this week, suddenly the entire contingent of Central Met inspectors and the top Police Surgeon show up at an alleyway in known Eads stomping grounds. The group who have been paying for Eads's defence rushed into activity this morning filing for an immediate hearing, I can draw my conclusions."
"Trollop?"
"Still in the dark, he thinks it's a new serial starting up," she replied with no small satisfaction.
Lestrade knew that Agatha was relentless, and she was far too sharp for his liking, but then again he was up against the nobility, he needed every resource he could bring to bear. At present, he had no information about this mysterious group pushing for Eads's release, information Agatha clearly had access too.
"I propose a trade." Lestrade remarked, making his way to catch up with Doctor Watson and Mayweather.
She kept stride. "I am listening."
"Your information about the group defending Eads, for the chance to meet the man himself, then you can decide if he should be released, or if you want to help me make sure he swings later this week."
Agatha held out a delicate hand. "We have an accord, thank you, Giles."
Lestrade grasped her hand, making sure she saw his eyes. "Thank me after you've had your first nightmare."
Story Notes: Surgical Spirits is what we know as rubbing alcohol...in other words...OUCH!
I think this shows a turn in St. Cloud's relationship with Watson,when you consider were they started!
Before it is done Lestrade is going to need all of his considerable knowledge of the inner workings of London's middle and working class. The nobility have all the power and prestige...but there are far more persons in the classes beneath and Giles Lestrade knows them all. He might not come out of this with his career in tact however.
keep reading!
(4) If you love that pissed off Watson, check out this profile photo!
Bart