Mr Holmes searches the docks, making a more sinister discovery than he could have imagined. Danger, however, is not always discovered in dark places ... it can sometimes inhabit your very own sitting room.

Sign Two: Eros

Act I

"Desire rules over men, those half-gods vain,

And is the tyrant of their heart and brain. "

(FERNAND GREGH)

"Nought's had, all's spent,

Where our desire is got without content."

(SHAKESPEARE, Macbeth)

~x~

It is my third visit to the docks in as many days, and there appears little but a biting wind and a harshly pernicious scent of fish and sewage as reward for my pre-dawn exertions. And yet, my markers amongst the homeless and my trusted Baker Street Irregulars assure me that Shipwrights and Captains all leave the Inn eventually, and a merry song is always bought for an adequate shilling.

Watson and I shuffle along the quayside, collars upturned and caps pulled down snug. It would not do to exhibit too gentlemanly an appearance in such a climate, and we blend in adequately amongst the night shift dock workers and late night ne`er do wells emerging brash and raucous from dimly-lit alleyways. I have good reason to believe a ship, recently moored from Eastern climes, was currently docked in the Limehouse Wharf for only a day or two before departing for shores unknown. Our feet crunch harshly over frost-tipped gravel in the moonlit night, and our breath hangs cool and translucent in the emptiness of the foreday swell. At this hour, nothing seems real or cemented; all is changeable, volatile and uncertain. Nearing the mooring, I sigh inwardly as a gaggle of drinkers spew forth from a nearby tavern, scattering across the quay as a gaggle of squawking seagulls and cormorants. A combination of gin, opium and savoir faire buoys the group until they divide, bit by bit, into smaller groups of four, three, two, and a few singletons, shrieking farewells into the frosty calm of the early morning.

A hundred yards from our dock, I feel Watson's hand upon my shoulder and understand his message: I am near, I have your back, and I am more than glad of it. As we near the berth, masts of the boats loom up, dark and sonorous, bobbing gently in the early dawn, and I sense a shuffle and a breath from a reveller, passing us nearby. Despite the relatively generous width of the path and the more than adequate light caste by the gas lamps, the man staggers slightly and has cause to steady his descent by grasping the sleeve of my jacket. A slight and nimble fellow, he has no issue in righting his stature before mumbling several words of apology, tapping my elbow and disappearing into the encroaching morning. I hear the rhythm, but fail to catch the phonemes of his speech, which I determine should serve no more purpose than an apology.

Watson and I scramble down barnacle encrusted ladders onto the deck of a ship, late from Sumatra, and reeking of new paint and acrid bitumen, straight into the vice-like grasp of a broad, swarthy, white-haired man, so densely tattooed across the face as to make his eyes pop white in the semi-dark.

"Mr Jonathan Small," I gasp, with less than usual vigour, "as punctual as ever. Do we have high hopes for this vessel?"

Small loosens hold (allowing me to breathe in comfort) and smiles, stepping back and clapping my shoulder. I was indeed relieved I had briefed Watson as to the identity of this particular marker, otherwise his Browning would have created quite the show and announced us to the entire Thames.

"Ah, we do, Mr Holmes, sir, we do indeed. Follow me."

We take another ladder to the lower deck, where Small points upwards with one heavily inked arm and holds the lamp with the other. Watson and I peer at the name of the ship, displayed in red, foot high letters on her keel. If this was the SS Appledore, I would be a significant step closer to solving the puzzle of the giant rat and the mysterious death of the man who had brought it back to England with him.

"`Matilda Briggs`." Watson`s voice is heavy with despondency on my behalf. "Holmes, what a pity, I felt sure this was the ship! And after all your hard work – "

I hold up my hand to interrupt him and turn to our guide:

"Your knife, if you please, Small."

"Now, why would I be carrying a knife, Mr Holmes, after what the Magistrate said – "

"Now, if you please," I beckon impatiently, ignoring a glance from Watson, and Small sighs, pulling a sheathed four inch blade from his belt.

"You'll not be mentioning this to the Beak, then, Sir?"

"Let`s hope I have no need- now don't just stand there man, give me a leg up!"

Precarious as it sounds, I had no trouble resting my foot in Small`s grasp and my knee and shoulder against the rough hull as I took his knife to the painted letter `S` at the end of the name. Gently scraping with the sharpened edge of the knife (clearly not an instrument used to gut fish or cut nets; I should be having words with my well-travelled friend), I took pains in lifting just a little of the red to reveal a black slick of paint beneath.

"This paint is only five or six hours old. It still smells fresh. I have cause to think, Watson, that this is a more than a little repair."

More paint comes away on the blade of the knife, and although Small may well be feeling my weight, I cannot rush or I will scrape too deeply, and I cannot afford to do that. A little more: the `G`, then the other, then the `I`, and on, until I feel I have exposed more than enough. I tap Small and he drops me to the deck, as Watson hands me the lantern.

"No need to be concerned, Watson, it seems all ships must port at some point in their travels."

And we all look upwards to see the black letters`-LEDORE` beneath the red, revealed through morning mist for all to see.

~x~

That evening

Returning home

Holmes and I sit silent and morose in the cab, exhausted and seemingly unable to recap and delineate the findings of the day to each other, as was our usual habit. Truthfully, this case, which had begun as a light-hearted conundrum, a set of puzzle pieces a gentleman might put together for idle amusement, had taken a rather sinister, unpalatable, and repugnant turn, and we were certain that our journey of discovery would not end here.

Sherlock Holmes slouches down, arms folded, legs crossed and hat pulled down over his eyes; he could not have affected a more impenetrable barricade if he'd donned a suit of armour. The rhythmic jolt of the cab and clatter of hooves that usually serve to soothe now jar me unpleasantly, much as a tongue would probe a sore tooth, when I assemble the day's events in my mind.

Exploration of the SS Appledore had elicited an excited energy from my companion as we began. Below decks, he strode purposefully hither and thither, examining piles of dust and any marks, holes, and items he deemed of interest. He peered through his lens, sniffed at a range of objects to which I would not care for proximity, took samples in several envelopes, and even tasted several deposits until I could bear no more.

"What do you expect to find, Holmes?"

"Everything. Nothing. We shall see."

(After the tasting) "What is that?"

(Shrugging, then tasting again) "Most likely opium, of a very high grade. More analysis will be needed."

(Later still) "What do you think were the contents of the bottle?"

(Shaking his head) "Whisky, rum – unimportant. I am more interested in the bottle itself."

It was only when we reached the lowest decks upon the SS Appledore that events took a more sombre turn. Jonathan Small held up the lamp in the fetid, airless, filthy room. It stretched the length of the ship with the lowest of ceilings and was divided into linked sections, in the manner of stables. Innumerable stains and splashes coloured the walls, and I noticed even Holmes was more reticent to take samples by way of mouth. It was, however, the holes that took his attention the most. Every arm's length (perhaps less) there were two sets of holes set into the wooden struts running along the side of the ship. Holmes took time to examine them from every angle, even taking out a collapsible measuring stick and crouching very low to examine marks on the floor beneath each set of holes.

I had already noticed small sections of wood seemed to be marked with darkened etchings, low to the floor and almost out of sight. Holmes beckoned to me and we both crouched down whilst Small held the lamp.

"They seem as hieroglyphics, Holmes," I murmured as he swiftly noted them into his copybook. One consisted of four opposing curls, joined at the centre into a hollow cross; another was a more simple design, showing two interlocking diamond shapes. Another resembled a pointed spear with a curled tail, and one struck me as quite powerfully executed – a triangle resting atop a circle. Simple, yet striking.

"Not Egyptian," breathed my companion, peering closer into the fetid darkness. "Not Egyptian, but something … something I have seen before … something I have cause to know." He turned suddenly, looking intensely into my eyes, giving me a distinct air of unease and presentiment. Before he could speak, however, Small, whose short attention span had taken him further into the next section of the hold, shouted across to us:

"Mr Holmes! Dr Watson! Come over here and see this."

In the next bay all we saw were carved numbers, a foot apart, above each set of holes as far as the eye could see.

Back in the cab now, a mere ten minutes from Baker Street, Holmes stirs from his stupor and breathes a lengthy sigh.

"Forgive me for my truculence, Watson," he says, surprising me with a rare and genuine apology.

"I quite understand," I reply, shoulders shaking as I release a shudder. "That ship filled me with misgivings also - intuition tells me that something terrible has happened there."

He gives me the same look he had proffered in the hold but a half hour earlier, this time with a steely edge in his clear eyes.

"Something terrible has happened there. Judging by the screw holds for manacles, the numbered compartments, the scratches on deck boards caused by chain links, the West African symbols scratched by a desperate hand and grievous atmosphere of despair emanating from every plank, the Matilda Briggs, lately the SS Appledore of Sumatra, has been very recently used as an illegal slave ship. I am going to find who has done this, Watson, and they will be made to pay."

As we pull to a gentle stop in front of 221B, I keep my counsel, since there is nothing more that needs to be said.

~x~

11 pm

Baker Street

Watson has retired early to bed but I am restless, caring little for Mrs Hudson`s tea and oatcakes, but preferring to ingest a poison more to my liking. My flatmate has outrageously conspired with the cunning and wily Molly Hooper to reduce my tobacco intake, since they insist both have seen too many autopsied lungs of heavy smokers to believe it could ever be of benefit to one's respiratory system. However true this may be, I am currently finding the lack of Finest Virginia (or even a solitary cigarette) a very tedious and irksome cross to bear, considering the long and rather appalling day we have spent at the Limehouse Wharf.

Thus, I find myself at the foot of my own stairs, fretfully searching my greatcoat pockets for an errant cigarette; such deep pockets must surely elicit an offering of some kind of solace.

And as I pull out the grubby envelope addressed in a well-educated female hand, I realise that indeed they have…

My dear Mr Sherlock Holmes,

Do forgive my rather irregular (and perhaps imprudent) delivery of this epistle. I have audaciously wished to take a look at `the Great Detective` before he had chance to bestow his all-seeing gaze upon me. I always like to make my judgements first, and I have heard how you can lay bare a man`s livelihood by a glance at his cuffs (or a woman`s for that matter).

You may or may not have heard my name mentioned in some quarters, depending how au fait you are with certain types of newspapers and certain types of gossip. I have enjoyed my time in the spotlight, Mr Holmes, and regret very little of the kind of life I have led - after all, a life half lived is barely a life at all. Perhaps a need to seek approval, however, induced me to make what has become the greatest mistake of my life – marrying my husband.

To remain within the bounds of genteel behaviour, I shall decline from listing the reasons that my husband must no longer be allowed to continue as such; suffice to say, I know you will find interest in my plight when I call upon you at twelve midday tomorrow. Whether you sympathise with my problem or not interests me little (as it is most likely that you do not), but I rather think you may find the intellectual exercise worth your while. Why? Because you are Sherlock Holmes, and it is your business to know what others do not.

I knew that if I was to employ an agent to find my solution, it would be you, the celebrated Sherlock Holmes, and if you happen to vacillate in your approval of my visit , be assured that I am more than familiar with the rat that deserts the ship which is sinking.

Until then,

Mrs Irene Norton (nee Adler)

The picture she encloses is really rather irrelevant, since even my own limited knowledge of popular arts and musical comedy has the name of Irene Adler cemented firmly in its firmament. Tall, elegantly clad and bejewelled, with just the correct amount of scandalous red tint across her mouth.

The youth who had jostled me at the wharf – goodness, I should really have had my wits about me (damn the single minded focus Watson insists I am enslaved to). To think, I have carried this epistle halfway across London without knowing it. If Watson does decide to recount this particular tale, I should perhaps insist on some editorial influence.

Irene Adler (certainly until her marriage to Mr Edward Norton, businessman and newspaper heir) had the headstrong and ridiculously privileged gentry in her thrall. During our early friendship, John Watson had followed her `adventures` with a rather avid interest which I determined I should discourage, when I had the time and inclination to do it. Needless to say, Watson grew bored and continued in his search for a mate without further recourse to Miss Adler and her ilk.

Perusing the image once more, I abandon my search for tobacco and decide to repair to my own bed. I suspect I shall most likely need my wits about me at midday tomorrow.

~x~

On the morrow

Four minutes past midday

221B Baker Street

"Madam, you are most punctual."

"Apparently, it is the politeness of kings… according to the ones of my acquaintance, anyway."

I am ridiculously pleased I could attempt a joke to jostle him a little, but Sherlock Holmes retains a blank impassivity that threatens to breach the boundaries of professional courtesy and spill over into imperiousness. He glances only occasionally my way from beneath hooded eyes, standing as he does by his chaotic mantelpiece whilst I sit in the armchair opposite. A perfectly gentlemanly arrangement, were it not for his subtle need for command of the situation.

I find it terribly attractive when a man who knows of my celebrity does his best not to acknowledge it, taking the higher moral ground and attempting to ignore my former standing as actress, entertainer, adventuress…

Wonderfully, he nods curtly, looking away and scanning the detritus of the mantel and then the rest of the room, and I know that hunted, slightly panicked look about the eyes. Of his eyes I scarcely dare tell, since their beauty had almost disarmed me as I was ushered into the room by a less than approving housekeeper (I am no stranger to those, I assure you).

Almost.

I reach into my bag, retrieving a slim, engraved case, and I am positive I have his full attention and his craven yearning –

"Cigarette?"

His eyelids lower fractionally, lips parting in infinitesimal longing as he draws in my offer, then despairingly (I would imagine) rejects it.

(Shaking his head) "I have been told my lungs would not thank me."

But I do not yield so easily, and hold aloft my own cigarette.

"If you would be so kind?"

And I enjoy the darkening of the light above me as he leans forward with a taper, discomfort overcoming disdain, and I enjoy the heat of his proximity almost as much as the first, delicious inhalation. In the next instance, my grip has loosened, my cigarette case skitters across the satin expanse of my skirts, and I notice with admiration his lightning reaction in arresting its fall before handing it back to me.

"Thank you, Mr Holmes."

A second later, he has returned to the safety of his mantel where he remarks:

"Your maid has not been incapacitated too long, I see."

I arch my brow, enjoying him, breathing him in.

"Oh, Sarah is quite the drama queen; one sniffle and it`s typhoid fever. She has barely been off one day and already I find the silence irritating."

"Indeed. Your poorly-laced bodice is so out of keeping with the remainder of your apparel that I imagine she has suddenly been taken ill, not allowing you time to draft in a temporary replacement. The buff of your boots and hat and immaculacy of your jewellery attest to her usual standards being second to none. You would rather lace your own corsets than call upon a less reliable attendant. You clearly hold some affection for her and are reluctant to trust another. The clay adhering to your instep has the unusual blue-grey tinge peculiar to West London (Belgravia in particular), where my Irregulars tell me there has been an outbreak of typhus amongst the waiting staff of several large houses."

He stops suddenly, and I am so impressed that I almost forget my own mask of seductive flirtation before I recover enough to comment. He is everything I have been told (and more).

"You had me at bodice," I smile.

~x~

At The Marylebone Dispensary

At that very moment

Mr Collins looks at me, but I know the glassy stare of the uncomprehending and feel a hot flush of helplessness sweep across my face.

"She isn't moving. At all."

"Mr Collins – "

"She was moving a mere moment ago… moving and smiling, and saying my name."

"Sir, you need to sit down here, and let me – "

"She was thirsty, and she said, `Robert, my mouth is so dry, like peppery twigs,' and I thought, wasn't that an odd turn of phrase? `Peppery twigs'…?" He actually turns to me now (rather than staring through me), saying:

"My dear, my wife needs a glass of water. Would you be so kind?"

I hold his elbow and attempt to draw him from the bedside. Starched white sheets are tainted lightly with ink, from his fingertips. He is a printer and has rushed away from work to see his wife, who had been recovering so well from a burst appendix…

"It was the sepsis, Mr Collins. It struck so quickly, and she was already so weak from the surgery."

I attempt to steer him away once more, but he appears to shake off both my hand and my attempts at explaining why his twenty seven year old wife lies white and cold and still, in the last bed she would ever lie in. The clock ticks steadily above the door of the ward, measuring time pointlessly as I stand in front of a man being savagely assaulted with what being human really means.

"Your wife is dead, Mr Collins," I hear a small, far away voice say. "She could not survive the infection and she has died. We tried all we could. I am very sorry." It appears it is my voice.

He stares again at me, and I feel I might prefer the blank incomprehension.

"Fetch me a doctor," he whispers, employing a quiet savagery I had hitherto not seen.

"Mr Collins, I am – "

"Girl – " his voice but a venomous whisper. "It is more than insupportable to stand in front of a man and tell him such atrocities. I need a medical man and you must fetch one immediately, or Lord help me, I shall not be responsible for my actions."

Silly Molly Hooper, heart pounding and cheeks flaming, running from the furious grief of a man who has lost all he loved, and wishing she had never wanted to become a physician to begin with. Medicine is all very well, you see, until it involves the people.

~x~

In Baker Street

Half past twelve

Mrs Irene Norton (nee Adler) is seemingly no different to the approximately sixty-four percent of the lone females who inhabit the client's chair in that she too has been wounded by an affair of the heart. Watson decries my laconic and often openly distrustful attitude towards the fairer sex, but (with small exception) I have seen little in my line of work to dissuade me from such an opinion. Expectations are most often impossibly high and romantic love seems doomed to fail, since humanity can do nought but sink to its natural level of selfishness and mistrust.

Perhaps unfortunately for myself, I am keenly aware of a person's disposition and history within moments of first meeting them. I observe, they request my observations (or not), and the degree of intimacy that then exists due to my knowledge of them creates some degree of discomfort for us both, which usually precludes that gradual intimacy that friendship or `love' requires. Watson occasionally deems this my `curse', but I mostly find it liberating, knowing what I have noted regarding the sixty-four percent. Statistics do not lie, and there is nothing more vengeful than a thwarted spouse.

"He gambles, he drinks to excess, he whores regularly, indiscriminately and most indiscreetly, and worse than all that, Mr Holmes …"

I temple my fingers beneath my lips, since her eyes constantly return there as if appraising their design, and wait.

"He bores me. What was once a thrilling diversion from a life I had tired of now sets me yearning for the stage and the cobbles of Drury Lane."

"Then leave him," I reply, also quite bored. Her instep is brutishly high and overly stretched; I would certainly have deduced dancer had I not already known.

She arches fine brows across feline green eyes as her fingers twitch towards her bag. I ardently hope she will not smoke in front of me again; the longing for tobacco has made mockery of any strength of character I imagined I had. It would not do to inhale too near a client, as Watson has deemed it less than professional.

"I am significantly more wealthy than Mr Edward Norton and do not wish to share one more penny of my hard-won fortune with the opium-smuggling buffoon who insists upon dragging me into the mire alongside him. I would immediately divorce him had he not suddenly and inconveniently disappeared without trace. I need you to find him, Mr Holmes, and drag him back from whichever hell-hole he as climbed into."

"You imagine him to know of your plans and to be in hiding?"

"Oh no, Edward has very little insight and absolutely no deductive reasoning skills. It seems that broad shoulders and an excellent seat in the hunting saddle does not a husband make, sir. It would seem acumen and wit are my new seducers. My husband, Mr Holmes, is most definitely in hiding, but I suspect his simple ways have made him subject to homespun superstition and primitive fear."

She reaches into her valise, but not for the cigarette case that had caught my attention earlier.

"Three days after he returned from his latest voyage, my husband packed a few basic items from his wardrobe and made good his escape. One day later, this parcel arrived for him - it intrigued me, and caused my maid to collapse into a faint and take to her bed with imagined ailments. Tell me, Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective – what do you think dear Eddie has been up to this time?"

The cloying and familiar waft of formaldehyde catches my throat as I peer down to see a dozen poppy heads, three mummified finger tips (complete with blackened nails) and a primitively minted coin showing the two interlinked diamonds I had seen upon the slave ship SS Appledore.

"I am so glad you like them," she speaks softly, with odd intonation and cadence. "Although I am afraid we had to throw away the rat they arrived in."

~x~

Eighteen minutes after one …

221B Baker Street

I alight into the cab, gathering claret satin skirts and furs, velvet mufflers, kid leather gloves and valise. Truthfully, I am wealthy, assured and replete, yet at this moment my heart holds an inner emptiness, a mild yet distinct yearning for emotions I had not known I lacked. How irritating it is now (particularly in my current frame of mind) to witness the rarest and most singular of phenomena – unexpected love.

I had delighted in watching the rather splendid reaction of Sherlock Holmes to my domestic conundrum. Clearly, he had cause to be excited at such a repugnant assortment of goods, and assured me that he would have very little trouble in retrieving my reluctant divorcee-in-waiting. He was confident in restoring my status quo, however, I now sharply feel the loss of his attentions. The cut of his coat, the curve of his cheekbone, the light in his eye and the indifference that poured from every fibre of his being served only to draw me to him and ensure that my interest never waned. From many sources I have heard word of his cerebral machinations and successful solvings within the criminal quarters of this great city (as well as his rather undiluted opinions regarding women). Sherlock Holmes is the name which all mothers of master criminals bandy about at bedtime; he is the cautionary tale told to all potential law breakers at their coming of age. He is cocksure, he is vainglorious, he is conceited, and I absolutely adored him. And more than that – I wanted him.

After picking my way through the artful chaos of his Baker Street sitting room, I had taken my leave and allowed him a nod in my direction. The housekeeper (mercifully) was otherwise engaged as I made my own way down the staircase towards my waiting carriage. Sherlock Holmes is so famed and cherished amongst the intelligentsia of London that I was not surprised to see a client ascending the same stair I walked down, indeed I was thrilled to see his consultation so sought after.

The woman coming towards me was small -tiny, even- and her hair had a deeply auburn tint which could only hint at Celtic, or some similar heritage. She was poor, I could see. Her clothing, shoes and luggage gave this girl an air of optimism, while still settling for what she might hold on to.

"Excuse me, good afternoon." her mouth was meagre, but shaped as perfectly as any pre-Raphaelite could have envisioned. Deepest brown eyes (so unusual, with the hair) and freckled of cheek, she held her skirts as a lady would, even though a lady would never hold those skirts.

A door(the door) creaked open and a shadow fell across the landing.

The auburn-haired girl nodded to me as she passed, and I was close enough to see the shine cast across her eye as she glanced upwards.

I was on the fourteenth stair down as I felt the creak of her ascension to the top landing. The page held the door ajar, but time allowed a final afflictive glance upwards.

I could do nought but stop and listen.

"Sherlock."

"Miss Hooper… Molly."

"My word …"

"I am atrocious. Please attribute my appalling behaviour to the lack of yourself. You have only yourself to blame, Molly Hooper."

(At this juncture there was a pause; it rather appalled me.)

Then:

"Someone has died."

"People die every minute of every day."

"Yes. I hate it."

"Yes."

"I may wish to be a doctor of those who are already dead - a Persephone in the underworld."

"Admirable."

"How was your day?"

"Mmm… unpredicted."

"Really?"

"No. Your hair is incandescent. It is bewitching, malfeasant. There may be need of a by-law…"

"You are truly ridiculous."

"I attribute all to the owner of the hair."

"Then all is as it should be."

There were the low murmurings of laughter as the door closed.

Thus, I settled into my carriage contemplating a bittersweet arrangement. To love is a flaw, a failing; it is an all-encompassing panoramic viewpoint of the world. It is nothing and it is everything, and I adore it to its very being. He loves – and so he is weak.

He is not invulnerable. He may yet fall.

~x~

A/N: Thank you to my guest for the kind review. I hope this chapter retains that Victorian tone. :)