Once more many thanks to Ernil i Pheriannath / Sparkypip for her beta work and feedback! Check out her writing, beautiful H/C stuff :).
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Chapter 9
February 27th, 1867 – Wednesday – Day 6 in the Victorian Reality
"Holmes?"
God, he hated being woken by someone banging on the doors.
"Get up, you git!"
So John was in a bad mood, too.
His eyes jerked open.
He had tried to enter 1867 but it seemed he wasn't successful, it was clearly modern John's nuance of voice.
But when he looked around, it was only the words that were out of place, his room was its Victorian self and filled with 19th century furniture.
"I am awake," he answered, his voice unexpectedly hoarse.
"You better get out of there, we have a visitor," the doctor exclaimed, apparently still a bit ruffled about being held at distance last night - no that was real life John - this one had no reason to be gruff at all.
Why the hell was it this cold in London?
The fire had died again - which was his fault and no one else's, he realised - and his dressing gown was not even remotely warm enough.
Although terry cloth should have been invented by now... and produced and imported from the US... his gown was made of a thin fabric and fine wool. For modern standards it might have been considered warm, but for places without central heating... no chance.
"Holmes?"
"On my way!"
He tried to find the warm hand knitted socks made by Mrs Hudson but they were nowhere to be found.
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Fifteen minutes later he had skipped shaving but had managed to dress himself.
For some odd reason his stubble connected him to his current future look and some aspect of his ancient self needed that. He probably needed something to ground him. He was aware that he had difficulties with the two realities mixing up and losing control over them or losing himself.
He was losing it. Even though he fought it had, he knew he was.
The thought was unsettling and he tried to shove it away. He needed to stay focused.
"Good morning, Mr Holmes," a voice greeted him the moment he entered the living room.
"Gregson?"
"Another body was found," Gregson stated without an introduction, but said no more.
Sherlock had an unnerved expression on his face, he knew he had.
What was the man waiting for?
"Details?" he finally pressed out beckoning with his hand in frustration, trying not to sound too unfriendly, fully aware his withdrawal issues were affecting his patience in a bad way."A young woman was found floating' in the Thames."
"Where is the body?"
"Currently being recovered."
"I will be ready as soon as possible," Sherlock turned towards the doctor, who had just stood by; obviously he had had breakfast already. He spotted the newspaper and saw the date: February 27th, 1867. He was sure it should be the 15th.
From his point of view it was his sixth day in the Victorian Era, but it seemed time was passing faster than he noticed.
In addition, it was also passing much faster than in the real world; he had kind of lost count but it must be a bit more than four days since he had returned from the hospital. He realised that his sense of time was totally out of whack.
But he had no time to sort that out now. Feeling no need to eat anything, the detective strode towards his room to dress.
This took so much longer than in modern times and he skipped the suspenders and the pair of braces. The trousers fitted well enough without them.
When he returned to the living room, already in his coat and with his leather gloves in his hands, Gregson's eyes widened and Sherlock frowned, unaware which odd etiquette he had broken this time.
When no one pointed it out, he decided to just ignore it.
No real consequences if he misbehaved here.
He felt too bad to care about much else than the case anyway. He wasn't in his underwear, it should suffice.
A cab was waiting outside and after another loud and straining carriage ride they arrived at the scene.
A constable and Lestrade were bent over an unmoving form, while several onlookers were kept at bay by two others. A fourth was talking to some workers. Sherlock deduced those had pulled her out of the water, their sleeves and lower trouser legs were wet.
When they stepped closer, Lestrade and the first constable were going through her apron's pockets, which clearly had been a bright white before, but was now of a muddy pale green brown, the pollution and the smell of the Thames was incredible, far worse than Sherlock had imagined it ever being.
"There's something in here," Greg's voice was full of anticipation as he pulled out a piece of paper and immediately tried to unfold it.
"Don't!" Sherlock interfered with a sharp voice and a hand on his shoulder, "You'll destroy it. We need to dry it first. Put it in an evidence bag."
"Evidence bag? What's that?" one of the men asked.
"Probably what the name says, go get some paper bags from the nearest bakery," Greg addressed the constable.
With desperation, Sherlock noticed that his eyesight was hazy and even here his thoughts had started to drift towards cocaine repeatedly.
He needed to concentrate!
It was getting harder and harder.
"Wax paper ones would be better," he addressed the man who was now hurrying off, then knelt down next to the body. John joined him and Greg a moment later, after shifting his weight off his bad leg.
He blinked several times and picked up one of her hands. She was stiff and he needed to bend lower to see better. The victim's skin was dirty and swollen but he was able to spot something that looked like eczema or some other type of skin problem near where her cuff started. They would have to open up the blouse to see it properly.
Next, Sherlock started to pat the sides of her hips looking for pockets in her skirt.
"Holmes!"
"What?"
"She's probably a virgin; don't touch her like this in public!"
"She's dead," he argued and slipped his hand into the pocket hidden by a fold in the wet and clingy fabric.
"Bit grumpy, today?" Greg addressed the doctor, who wisely decided not to answer.
Sherlock pulled the pocket inside out and revealed another piece of paper, smaller than the first and obviously a part of some packaging cut to pieces.
"High quality, contains rags. Part of what is probably a brand name on it, and some text, advertisement likely."
Carefully, he placed it on a boulder a few metres away.
"Anything else?"
Greg looked horrified when he realised Sherlock expected him to look for more pockets, but finally looked for more clues, gingerly.
"Empty," he reported once he found the other pocket.
"Which heightens the chances that this is a murder, then," Sherlock explained.
"What? Why?"
"Because if it was an accident, she would have carried keys, worn a jacket and have some kind of money with her, although some of those items could have been in a handbag that was lost… or just fallen out of her pockets due to the currents…. This couldn't have stripped her of her jacket. Aprons are usually provided by the employers and remain at the employer's household. I therefore assume she made it to work and something happened there. We need to find the family she was working for."
"How?"
"Skipped the morning coffee, Lestrade? Or spent all night arguing with your wife? Not really awake yet, are you?" Sherlock chided and John gave him a warning look.
"The paper you found first is probably a telegram, folded. Right size, right cheap paper quality. Either she received it, or her employers did, which is the more likely option."
"Right, sorry. Yeah, rough night it was," Lestrade agreed, "She hates my job."
"Then we better solve a few murders so you get a pay rise, to bring back her peace of mind," John tried to change the topic.
Sherlock wondered briefly if John disapproved of Lestrade's wife or why he implied all she cared for was money, but then decided it was irrelevant.
"Any ideas about the cause of death, doctor?" Sherlock asked and Lestrade gave a nod in permission.
Watson started to check her over.
"None so far. There is a light discolouration of the skin of her right palm, probably some kind of eczema."
"So we need to wait for the autopsy."
"…And check if someone misses a wife or daughter."
"Daughter. Young, no ring," Sherlock stated, "but she might have taken it off before cleaning, not wanting it to get ruined by aggressive modern cleaning agents."
He felt the inside of her palm for the callus a working class woman would get from wearing a ring.
"No horny skin that indicates she usually wears one."
No use looking for tan lines, every fashionable female would do everything she could to avoid getting them.
"Watson, let's go home and dry those pieces of paper carefully," he reached for the bags.
"Oi, that's evidence," Lestrade held out his hand.
"Feel free to join us, inspector. I might need to iron it and I doubt you have a flatiron at your station, so better do it in Baker Street. See, faster if I do it, and probably higher rate of success, too. Especially when it comes to not burning it in the process. Can't risk Anderson trying this, can we?"
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An hour later Sherlock was heating the iron himself, while Mrs Hudson, Greg and John watched.
He first tried it on an old sheet of paper he had wetted himself, but it was too hot and browned the paper, so he let it cool down a bit more before starting to carefully dry the evidence.
After only two minutes he was able to unfold the thick wrapping paper with pincers.
John and Greg leaned closer.
"2 to ¼" was the only thing written on the inside, it was badly written and barely readable.
"What does that mean?" Lestrade wanted to know.
"Could mean a wide variety of things."
Carefully, Sherlock ripped open the second bag and produced the other sheet of paper. He repeated the process, though much more careful. The cheap paper was more likely to be easily damaged.
A few moments later they were able to read a telegram.
"Family Bernard Hollister."
"Alright, I'll send a constable to find out the family's address and their maids names."
"Better, let's go ourselves, their first reaction to the news might provide valuable insight and clues."
"Right, right," Greg agreed.
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An hour later, they arrived at the family home. Two almost adult daughters and a mediocre housewife stated the maid hadn't shown up for work at all.
Furiously, the Missis had declared she would fire her as soon as she turned up.
When Lestrade explained she was dead, she had fainted and the daughters had to take care of her and asked them to leave.
"So what do we think about this meeting?" John asked the detective on their way back to the cab.
"They are lying… They were already quite stressed out when we arrived," Sherlock explained.
"Yes, her complexion was very pale when she understood who we were," John agreed.
"The younger daughter seemed quite nervous, too. At least she told us our victim was suffering from some kind of dermatosis. So we can exclude the thing about her hand," he added.
"You think they killed her?" Lestrade asked.
"No."
"No? Really? But you just said…"
"No premature assumptions, how often do I have to say this?" Sherlock hissed.
Immediately, Watson's eyes moved to his friend's face, in a galvanic movement, noticing that something about his tone was off.
They reached the police carriage that had waited for them the entire time, the horse was stamping impatiently at being left to wait, it whinnied lightly upon seeing passengers return.
"Holmes?" John tried to move into a position from where he was able to see the other man's face, but Sherlock turned away.
Then, suddenly, his legs seemed to become weak and he had to use his hand to stabilise himself against the carriage.
"Holmes?"
The doctor was by his side in an instant, wrapping his hand around his upper arm to support him.
"Don't!" Sherlock hissed.
"You will let me examine you this evening! Your behaviour is not normal and you, too, are pale as a ghost."
"How many real ghosts have you seen then?" Sherlock straightened and grinned, referring to the old argument they had during the Ricoletti case.
"Stop it!" Watson's voice was sharper than expected.
"My theory is they knew she was dead but it wasn't their fault. They - for some reason - tried to hide it nevertheless."
"What did you see?"
"There were several buckets outside to dry. The hallway was recently mopped, the kitchen used and dirty. She came to work, started work, then she died. It shook them, but as I understand sentiment it would have shaken them, too even if it wasn't their fault. Maybe it was the father, or she had an accident… or a burglary. Those people are more interested in their reputation than in what is right. They might fear for that. All those might result in distress that has the same outward appearance. Psychology is mainly still uncharted territory."
"Right, so what do you suggest next?" Greg asked.
"Get her address, talk to her relatives," Sherlock's voice was hoarse again.
"I will do it. You go home and take a break. I'll come by later," Lestrade stated in a surprisingly order like tone. John raised his eyebrows.
Greg had changed a bit since his last advancement, his leadership abilities were slowly surfacing since he had to manage more subordinates now. However, he frowned when Sherlock nodded silently and opened the cab's door.
The detective's hand was shaking and both those facts alarmed the doctor and the DI to a very high degree.
But instead of climbing into the carriage, Sherlock hastily moved towards a side alley, where most likely the bins were located.
A moment later the unmistakable noise of retching made both, the inspector and the doctor winced in sympathy.
"God, I thought he just got the morbs. But this sounds a bit more physical now, does it?" Lestrade asked. "He's not up to Dick."*
Watson rolled his eyes and went after his friend to make sure he was all right.
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Nevertheless, he had barely made it to the corner when Sherlock reappeared, still very pale and wiping his mouth with one of his handkerchiefs.
Before John could say anything Sherlock had passed him, heading towards the cab.
"Holmes, are you alright?" Lestrade asked and stepped in the detective's way.
When Sherlock swayed, John stepped closer, ready to come to his aid.
"Go home, I'll take care of this," Lestrade urged when Sherlock gagged once more, turning away from them.
"Alright, I'll take him home," Watson agreed in a soft voice.
"You'll do no such thing!
"You need medical care, mate," Greg said in a caring voice Sherlock found was completely out of place - and out of time.
While Sherlock slowly climbed into the cab, Lestrade whisper to John, "What's wrong with him?"
The doctor shook his head, in a 'no idea' sort of gesture.
"Can we go?" came the urging voice from the inside of the carriage.
"Well, once he's decided to go he's impatient as hell, isn't he?"
"Probably afraid he might vomit again. I am really worried, Lestrade," the doctor admitted.
Watson followed his friend inside and the carriage started to move.
The horse was eager to move again and the ride was not as smooth as Sherlock had hoped it would be, although he was aware it was probably a perfectly normal ride, his senses were just too sensible due to him feeling sick.
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Back at Baker Street Sherlock vanished into his room and locked the door before Watson had even gotten out of his jacket. The last thing he needed was more emphasis on how bad it felt. It would solicit more attention than he had to spare if Watson started to try to treat him. Paying attention to how bad he felt would worsen his state. It was the whole point to flee from withdrawal, he could not allow it to affect the Victorian reality, it would spoil the whole idea why he was doing this. Therefore, Sherlock was a bit unsettled by the idea that things were starting to spill over to this amount. His only solution was the same one he chose in the real world. Not a good one, but he was too exhausted to try better.
He hid.
The doctor tried all evening trying to assess his friend's condition but only silence answered when he knocked.
Shortly after midnight, he finally gave up and went upstairs to get some sleep.
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* Victorian Slang words: Got the morbs: Phrase from the 1880 that indicated temporary melancholy. Not up to Dick: Victorian Slang for 'Not Well'
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A/N: Make me happy and give me some feedback. Constructive criticism welcome.
Thank you to all the wonderful people who gave me feedback for the last chapter. You guys made my days :)