"Holmes, this is ridiculous," I exclaimed. "You can't really expect me to believe it!"
Holmes stared for a long minute into the fire, the light of the flames dancing on the sharp planes and angles of his face. He had drawn his feet under him during the telling of his tale, and now seemed to hover there in his chair, caught between the physical present and the intangible past.
"When have you ever known me to exaggerate Watson?"
"But really, old boy, running all over the riverside? Gutted buildings? Resurrectionists from Soho? Keeping company with a female? Next, you'll tell me that you took up marathon dancing, lovemaking, and vegetarianism."
Holmes lifted one slim arched eyebrow at me. "I did once have a rather long and interesting discussion with Mrs. Anthony about vegetarianism."
"Susan B. Anthony? The abolitionist?"
"She was touring through the United States giving lectures on the suffragette movement when I met her."
"Suffragettes? Now really, Homes, this is too much."
"Have you never observed, Watson, the correlation between suffragettes and vegetarianism? No? How curious."
I stared at my friend, unsure whether to take him seriously or not. Meanwhile, he calmly packed his pipe from the Persian slipper hanging from the corner of the mantel and afterwards offered the slipper to me. I realized that my own pipe had been hanging cold in my limp hand. It must have been that way for some time, given how wrapped up I was in the story. I was not unfamiliar with my friend's idiosyncratic tales of his own cases, but this one did seem distinctly out of character. So badly handled. Such blundering was distinctly un-Holmesian.
I filled my pipe and watched him stretch his arms over his head and glance around the room, looking for something. His face cleared when his gaze landed on his violin and for a moment, I feared he might abandon his narrative unfinished and begin another of his eccentric compositions.
"Holmes?" I ventured.
"Hmm?"
"What happened next?"
"To whom?"
"Were you arrested?"
"Most certainly."
"And Tilby?"
Holmes waved his hand imperiously through the air at the mention of the name. "I no longer think of him. Consider him no more."
I took a long draw on my pipe before asking again, more quietly this time "Then what happened to you?"
"Dear God, Watson, I had just been thoroughly disobeyed, which I cannot tolerate, run myself ragged, which I abhor, and nearly drowned myself in the stinking Thames. I did what any mortal man would do. I became violently and deliriously ill."
The cell door clanged open and a young constable pointed out the prone figure of Sherlock Holmes to his very angry older brother.
"There he is, sir. Public disturbance charge, I think. Apparently the constables also saw him causing a young woman some trouble, but she had bolted by the time they got there."
Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose, taking a deep breath, then instantly regretted it. The air in the cells was stale and mildew-laden. The room was small and cold, three walls of stone, the fourth a set of steel bars that looked out into the hall. Sherlock lay prone on the floor, head pillowed on one still-soggy arm. He was pale and shivering.
"I think he's delirious," the young constable continued. He's been on and on about all sorts of deep-sea creatures and pocket handkerchiefs and the like. A few of the boys were after knocking him out to save him some of the suffering."
Mycroft wrinkled his nose at the whole situation and finally turned to leave, not sparing a second glance back at his younger brother. "Have him brought out front. There is a cab waiting."
He left the very confused constable behind.
Mycroft exited the police station and headed towards his cab, waiting by the front door. Kit was there, and he was frustrated to see that although he had asked her to stay seated within the cab while he was inside; she had disobeyed his request and was pacing the pavement. Did this woman ever do anything she was asked? If she were able, she would have been wringing her hands.
He had been settling into his favorite armchair in the farthest plush corner of the most inaccessible room of the Diogenes club when the Doorman had stuck his head in.
Confirming that the object of his quest was indeed here, he had crossed the carpeted room noiselessly, and leaned down to whisper a few words in Mycroft's ear. If Mycroft had been a different kind of man, he would have jumped from his seat. Thankfully, he was not, and decorum was preserved. Instead, he folded his paper neatly and fixed the Doorman with a very stern, if somewhat lethargic stare.
"Who did you say was asking for me?"
"A woman, sir. At the front door. She says your brother has been arrested after a near drowning in the Thames and is in need of your help."
"How inconvenient," Mycroft sighed, glancing forlornly at his as-yet unread evening paper. "I haven't had the chance to have my supper yet."
"Did you find him? Is he alright?" Kit pounced on him the moment he was in sight.
"Yes, he's there. Sick, I believe. I cannot say with any level of certainty. One thing I am sure of though, is that he will need a change of clothes."
Kit's shoulders rose and fell in a sigh of relief, quickly replaced by a new concern. "Is he very sick? Will he need a doctor?"
"I have no idea, my dear. I observed all his limbs seemed to be intact and working. I saw no need to assess anything further. I fear we will have ample opportunity to discover more very soon."
Even as he said it the recumbent form of the world's only consulting detective was carried out of the station over a large policeman's shoulder, looking like a sack of potatoes. The sick man was dumped unceremoniously in the waiting cab.
"Thank you, Hopkins." Sherlock called after him, apparently still set on clinging to his last vestiges of dignity. It didn't last long, since in the next instant his head fell with a solid thump against the door of the cab.
Kit scrambled into the seat beside him, hooking her arm around his shoulders and bringing him gently away from the wall to rest his head on her shoulder instead. He did not seem to be aware of the movement. "Brother Mycroft?" he asked, not opening his eyes.
Mycroft hoisted himself into the cab and squished himself in between Kit and the door.
"What is it Sherlock?" His voice was cross.
"Don't let me forget to ask you to return an item, one long piece of rope, to be specific, to a waterside resident named Bart Adams. He runs a boat called the Magpie down by Tower Wharf."
"Really, Sherlock, hadn't you better just keep your mouth shut for a good solid space of time? My charity does not spring eternal."
He knocked his cane on the roof of the cab and called out to the driver "Bread Street."
After much argument and eventual monetary exchange by Mycroft the cabman was convinced to help carry Holmes up the wooden steps to the flat overlooking Bread Street. Kit ran up ahead, unlocking the door, and giving her best disarming smile to their elder neighbor, who paused in sweeping her few inches of wooden frontage to gape in obvious disapproval at the sight of the detective being heaved back into his home like a half-full sack of flour. Mycroft shut the door firmly in her scandalized face.
Once back in the small sitting room the cabman abandoned Holmes with a grunt and stormed out, slamming the door behind him. The kettle was boiled repeatedly, a tin washtub filled, and the quivering detective dragged, rolled, and heaved in.
This process was a great deal more distressing for Mycroft, since Sherlock was comfortably unconscious, and Kit had retired demurely to another room, leaving Mycroft to deal with all the sordid realities of washing and dressing a very sick and dirty man all by himself. The gaslight hissed and smoked, threw off a meager light and stung Mycroft's eyes. Water kept sloshing over the edge of the tub onto his thighs, polished dress shoes, and the threadbare carpet.
Kit remembered that Sherlock had mentioned that his brother swore very little, but it was becoming obvious that the detective had not been around the elder Holmes at the appropriate moments, since the words she heard coming out of the bedroom at regular intervals would make a sailor proud.
By the time the brothers were done she had managed to get a small fire going in the dog grate of the room occupied by Holmes the younger. The dull beige walls did very little to help the light of the fire illuminate the room.
Dressing, dragging, and tumbling him into bed proved to be the very limits of Mycroft's capabilities, and as soon as he was done he staggered from the room, leaving Kit to tuck up the covers around the detective's chin.
The overly exerted government official collapsed onto the couch in the sitting room, taking great heaving pinches of snuff to calm himself from his late exertions.
"This is a black day for our family," he grumbled as Kit entered the room and perched on one of the chairs by the parlor stove, nervously tracing her fingers over the lace fabric calla lilies on the upholstery.
"We've never been excessively proud of Sherlock," he continued. "He really is the least talented of us, but he was taught propriety. Dignity. Some sort of familial loyalty. If word of this reaches mother, I'll never have another day of peace." He played distractedly with his black Farnsworth silk tie, nearly dislodging the sterling silver tie pin.
"Can I get you anything?" Kit asked.
"A glass of the King's Ginger Liqueur would be much appreciated."
"Mmm. The slight problem with that, of course, is that we don't have any. I was thinking more along the lines of tea."
Mycroft huffed and rolled his eyes. "Then I am leaving. I am having a hard time imagining anything more tedious than spending any more time in this squalid little room with you two. When I suggested you both figure out how to get along on your own I had imagined that you'd do a significantly better job than this." He lumbered up and made for the door when something stopped him. Some pang of brotherly guilt, Kit supposed, since he seemed to ask against his will "I don't suppose you two will need anything, will you?"
"Perhaps Mr. Holmes' shaving supplies and a fresh pair of clothes?" Kit ventured timidly.
"And my newspapers." A weak voice from the bedroom called.
"Which newspapers?" Mycroft roared back.
"From my rooms," came the reply.
"How am I to know which ones?"
"Bring them all." The yell degenerated into a wet cough and Kit winced at the sound. She gave Mycroft an apologetic smile.
"Perhaps some food would help? And a doctor?"
She opened the door for him as politely as she was able. He gave her an imperious look. "Call one if you have need. You may send the bill along to my club. Please tell my dear brother that I wish to see him immediately that he is able."
"Thank you once again for all the help, Mr. Holmes."
His look changed to one of incredulity before he stepped out and slammed the door after him. Kit winced at the sharp sound. She looked around the small space, at a loss for what to do.
"Cheer up," the voice in the other room wobbled. "That could have gone much worse."
Holmes tossed in his delirium, sweat running down his forehead to soak his pillow. Kit returned with a cold compress and placed it across his eyes. The fever had been burning him up for two solid days now, never getting high enough to be truly dangerous, but never leaving him either.
To his credit, Mycroft had sent a boy over the next day with a few fresh changes of clothes for his brother, clean night-shirts, his toiletries, and an enormous bundle of newspapers.
Kit instructed that everything be deposited in the sitting room. The young delivery boy looked around with curiosity but left quickly after accepting the few coins Kit dropped into his outstretched hand. A basket of provisions also arrived, and she was able to make broth for her new charge, as well as some restorative sandwiches for herself. The neighbor, Mrs. Kentrick, a widow for some length of years, tried to infiltrate twice, under the guise of feminine comradery, but Kit was able to avoid her meddling visits with the very real excuse that the flat was unsuitable to receive guests. Only too true. Every available seat but one was stacked with newspapers.
That one free armchair had been re-located to Holmes' bedside, where Kit had taken up residence, and not left for the last two days, alternately bathing his face and hands with cold water and assisting him to take a few swallows of broth every few hours.
During the day extraordinarily little happened to interrupt her vigil, giving her ample time to consider the events of the last few days. She understood that she had come to care very much for her new friend, but to what extent still eluded her. She sat quietly, practicing with her fingers on the strings of his violin, and considered.
Kit came from a working-class family. Her father had been a hansom driver before his early death, and her mother a schoolteacher before marriage and an only child. She had also died some years ago, leaving Kit to fend for herself at an age just old enough to prevent her from requiring government care. The workhouse loomed as large for her as it did for any other lone woman with no means, but she was in possession of one important skill. Her music.
She had been a bit of a child prodigy. There had been no money for any kind of lessons, and her clandestine tutelage had been undertaken buy an elderly tutor who gave lessons after Sunday mass in the empty local rectory. It had been he who had understood the look on Kit's face the first time she had seen the instrument, and he who continued to re-arrange his schedule every once in a while, to fit in her charitable lessons. Without her prodigious talent, she would have made little progress under such circumstances. But she was talented, and she did progress. So much so that other instructors, friends, acquaintances, former students of her first teacher, were willing to take her on.
It never occurred to her that it was odd that she and her tutor did not become friends, or at least, fast acquaintances. He was a straight backed, resin-dusted professor of the old school, only pleased by ethereal beauty. The person creating the beauty was less important. And so, at the time of her parent's death, Kit, though all alone in the world, was able to secure herself a job in various musical groups, eventually working her way into the orchestra that served the operatic shows at the Royal Olympic Theatre. At the time of her meeting with Holmes, she was contracted to five shows a week, with a separate fee for rehearsals and Holiday Reviews.
The thought that one day she would be unable to support herself had never occurred to her. Her options had therefore never really been considered. She supposed that she could go into service. She would regain some dexterity, surely. But service did not appeal. She knew herself well, and work of that nature required a subservience she had never had to garner in herself. She was also not naive. She knew how many women in her neighborhood made their food and board. The thought not only chilled her but opened a well of black despair. She had never confronted the reality that she might not want to survive ardently enough to do something like that. Like many, she had always assumed she did, but meditating upon the actual mechanics of selling her body to strangers was terrifying. Kit was not completely ignorant of men. Her looks had assured her of admirers, but her social standing had kept her single, and morals bestowed on her by her soon absent parents had kept her a virgin. It seemed a problem with no clear answer, and so Kit ruminated, keeping a careful eye on her charge, and considered the disastrous position she was in.
The nights were the worst for him it seemed, he kicked and thrashed at the bedclothes, shouted things she did not understand, lashed out suddenly. At times it seemed that he was being attacked by dogs, at other times as though he was on a ship, the waves crashing over his head.
Kit stayed close. She had called in the doctor on the first day, but he had simply confirmed that he was in the grip of a fever, and if it rose past a certain point, to call him. He left powders to be dissolved and drunk, tinctures to be dropped into water and rubbed on the forehead. Kit followed his advice religiously, but nothing seemed to change Holmes' state, he got no worse, nor became more comfortable. On the evening of the third day, very much against her will, she drifted off to sleep.
As always in her dreams of late, she was walking down a long dark street, glancing behind her every few moments, sure that there was someone there. She never saw anyone though, and her walk continued on interminably, the fear in her stomach rising with each step. She tried running up the steps of the nearest house, tried the door, knocked loudly, but no one answered. All the lights were out.
She hurried to the next house, then the next, then the next; all the doors were barred to her, the locks clacked loudly as she mounted the stairs.
Behind her the great black shape of a man was gaining on her, faceless, handless, only a low-pulled hat and the glint of something metal where his hands should be. The breath huffed out of his mouth into the cold air in great stinking clouds. She ran up the next flight of stairs, pounding on the door until her hand split and bled. She felt the man getting closer, heard the scuff of his first foot hitting the stairs below her. The door of the house swung open, and a man stood in the entrance.
"Miss Rushford? I believe you are dreaming."
She turned sharply to find Holmes standing before her, one hand still resting on the knob. "Miss Rushford?" He asked again, taking her by the forearm and pulling her inside. "You must wake up; you're having a nightmare." She allowed herself to be led into the safety of his presence, and the door closed behind her.
Kit relaxed against Holmes' chest, waiting for his arm to wrap around her. Instead she felt a shove, and she cracked her head against the door as she fell against it. Holmes loomed above her, his face dark, bristling with hair on his upper lip. She heard the click of a pocketknife opening somewhere down and to the right of her, and his hand came up, pushing her back by the throat. "It will only hurt for a moment," he promised. Something slammed against the door behind her, right next to her ear, and she jumped and screamed, clawing at Holmes' face.
Kit sat bolt upright, knocking Holmes' hands away from her face. Her heart was hammering in her chest. Holmes caught her wrist, squeezing, shaking gently, and his familiar baritone finally managed to break into her thoughts.
"Kit? It's all right. You were having a nightmare. You're safe now."
She tried to focus on him, propped up on his elbow, face in the dim light stamped with worry. She had only left a single candle burning on the nightstand, and it was low and guttering by now.
She felt weak and embarrassed. More so because she could feel tears stinging behind her eyes. She swallowed the lump in her throat, pushing the sick feelings away.
"Mr. Holmes," she said. "You are awake."
A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "Perceptive as ever I see, Miss Rushford." He watched her with his bird-gray eyes, half hidden behind hooded lids. The delirium had obviously passed. She could see that he was exhausted, but lucid. Their shared vulnerability lent a sense of calm and peace to the room - a sense of comradery.
She could see that he was trembling. "You should rest," she told him.
His smile widened as he took in the chair by his bedside, the violin leaned up against it, as well as the empty water glasses and bowls of cold broth.
"Have you gotten any sleep lately?"
She cleared her throat, the lump returning at the mention of sleep. "I've been…"
The smile dropped from his face.
"I've been having difficulty sleeping," she continued, trying to smile. Oh hell, she realized she was about to cry again. He reached out and took her hand, now devested of many of the bandages of the first few days and flipped it over so he could stare down at her palm.
"Have you noticed any improvement?"
"Yes, a little." The wobble would not leave her voice. She cleared her throat again. His hand was hot, and gentil despite his intense focus. She held her breath as he brought the hand to his face and bestowed a feather-light kiss across her palm. She felt weakness crawl up her arm, and a pulse of heat ripple through her.
"Excuse me," she pulled her hand away. "I think I may be slightly over-tired."
"Of course. I'm sorry. I simply meant…"
His look of distress made her heart ache. She wanted so much for him to mean that kiss but was unable to let herself hope. Did he not see how affected she was? She saw his face begin to cloud over, dropping the curtain of indifference back over his features. If anything, this was worse than his dismay.
She knew she must not let him retreat. She might never find herself this close again. Impulsively, she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his burning cheek, allowing herself one suspended moment to memorize as many sensations as possible; the strong spicey odor of perspiration, the prickle of his stubble against her lips and cheek, his sharp intake of breath.
His arms encircled her haltingly, and then with more force, drawing her tightly against the strong wall of his chest. Kit relaxed into the first comforting embrace she had received since her accident. Her head dropped forward onto his shoulder, and within seconds she was sobbing uncontrollably. Great heavy gusts of fear and pain.
Holmes was terribly frightened.
Her slim body trembled against him, her good hand seeking hold in the hair at the back of his head. Incredibly to him, his fear began to give way to a sympathetic release of tension. He had not realized how redemptive it felt to hold someone this way, to feel their strength seeping into one, and to be able to transmute one's own strength wordlessly back.
God, she must be exhausted. How many days had she been here, waiting patiently for him to return? His own eyes were drooping with fatigue, and he felt her cheek, pressed firmly to his neck, grow heavy and listless. She had cried herself almost to sleep.
Carefully, Holmes inched back in bed, drawing Kit forward and across his chest as he lay back down, hoisting the blankets over them. She sprawled there, head pillowed on his shoulder, already far past any understanding of where she was. Sherlock breathed in the intoxicating sent of her hair, stroking his fingers in a phantom caress over the silky strands as she settled farther into a deep, healing sleep.
"Do not be frightened, Miss Rushford," he told her in a hushed undertone. "Rest assured that I will protect you."