I am not a native speaker and I hope you'll be able to ignore my mistakes. My wonderful beta is currently not available.
Many thanks to Ernil i Pheriannath / Sparkypip for the friendship and beta work!
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Chapter 14
March 6th, 1867 - Wednesday, Day V8
"We need to see the family," Sherlock greeted Lestrade the moment the man entered the flat. "To find out who wrote the dilution down. Whose handwriting it is - and to confront them with the new facts, find out their involvement. The man of the house should be home by now. Let's go."
Lestrade and Watson exchanged exasperated looks before the doctor hurried to get his jacket.
What followed were two hours of strained discussion at the Mansion of the Hollisters.
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The first thing Sherlock did was ordering the entire family to write down the numbers from one to ten but keeping it secret what he needed them for. The first priority was to get proof they weren't the ones who gave the skivvy maid the faulty instructions.
To the waiting group's utter dismay, Sherlock then retreated into the kitchen with the writing samples, leaving John and Lestrade to deal with the family. It was the only space that promised silence and a minimum of distraction to compare the original note with everybody's hand.
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Half an hour later, in which there was no tea because Sherlock blocked the kitchen, he confronted the family with the fact that he was sure they were the ones who put her in the Thames, though not guilty of killing her deliberately.
After a lengthy discussion, in which Sherlock explained his deductions, the family still denied everything. In the end, the detective lost his patience and decided to play the 'human psychology card'.
"The young woman has a family who loved her and who will dearly miss her. The same you would miss your daughter, Mr Hollister," he addressed the husband, then made a pause to let that sink in.
"The reaction to contact poisoning occurs after five to 30 minutes," he explained, "when she realised something was wrong and tried to wash it off, it was too late. At first only white patches appear on the skin, those aren't painful... She must have tried to wash it off, but it was too late."
The small group of people in the room stared into different corners of the stuffed room, but didn't look at him.
"At first, she probably suffered from severe abdominal pain and nausea. A bit later, she started to have trouble breathing... Then she died - alone and in a horrible amount of pain."
Blatantly, he looked around and to his triumph, he found one of the daughters was openly crying and the mother seemed to fight with tears.
They hadn't actively killed her, but he couldn't really feel sorry for them. They had tried to cover up her death, maybe even caused it by being careless.
It only took another minute of heavy silence until Mrs Hollister finally admitted that she had found the Ottilie dead, a few metres away from the bucket and a wet spot on the ground where she seemed to have started cleaning – exactly as Sherlock had assumed.
It turned out he was also right in the assumption that they were so very cautious about their reputation, that they - in a cloak-and-dagger operation - had washed away the acid and thrown her into the Thames, together with the soiled cleaning rags.
As soon as it was clear what had befallen the maid after her demise, Sherlock concentrated on trying to figure out the reason for her death.
"Do you happen to know where she bought the cleaning agents and who wrote this?" he asked, showing the mother and daughters the piece of paper with the wrong dilution written down.
Working together with Hooper, Sherlock had proven it must be a dilution because when they tested various dilutions of carbolic acid on the pigskin the only one that caused burns in the intensity the maid's skin displayed where the ones that were caused by a solution made with the numbers in question.
"She did all the shopping and… sometimes went quite far to get good offerings or quality. My wishes," the Misses explained, "There are three chemists on her way, let me see if I can find quittances."
"And while you are at it, see if you can find the bottle the solution was stored in."
"I am sorry, but we threw that one out right after..." Mrs Hollister said. "There was a label on it, but I don't know what it said."
She left and came almost immediately with six receipts from the past two months. Sherlock sorted them into to two different shops and four different writers. But none of the quittances was filled out by the person who had written down the fateful numbers that much was clear.
Therefore, the next thing to do was to find out where the note had been written and by whom.
Sherlock informed the waiting group they were all free of any suspicion of murder, but there might be further inquiry about the accident itself.
"You can leave," the detective finished his explanation.
"This is our house!" the husband protested.
"What?" Sherlock looked up, puzzled.
Lestrade stood up.
"Thank you for your help, we'll be in contact."
To their surprise, the youngest daughter stepped forward and reached for Sherlock's hand, which he only reluctantly allowed her to take.
"Oh, thank you, Mr Holmes, for proving we didn't harm the poor thing. She was such a nice girl and so eager to do a good job."
"Honey, I already told you how inappropriate it is to talk to her as much as you did. She is just a maid," the mother scolded.
"She was a friendly person, unlike many others."
"There will probably be further investigations because she was not properly instructed how to use the cleaning agents," Sherlock addressed the mother coldly.
"But my mother didn't know she didn't know! It is in the responsibility of the person who told her how to mix it!" the oldest daughter protested.
"But your mother was clearly aware how dangerous it could be, otherwise there would have been more people affected," Sherlock said.
The mother stared at him in shock.
"I was in fact informed about the risks by a very competent pharmacist when I first bought that cleaning agent, when it was quite a new invention. And I assumed she would be, too when buying it."
"Invention?" Sherlock frowned. As a chemist, his understanding was that most chemicals had always been there, no matter of humanity's awareness of them. Their uses for mankind though had to be figured out by a vast number of experiments, which needed creative thinking, but it was not an invention per se.
"Also, there might be consequences for lying to the police about this," Lestrade explained, "and getting rid of the body... as well as trying to mislead us, telling us she had eczema on her hands."
Most members of the family were quite gloomy after that statement.
When it came to saying their good-byes, John held out his hand for the daughter to shake, while Sherlock carefully made sure to hide his hands behind his back.
The now slightly idolising undertone the young woman used in her goodbye didn't go unnoticed by John and Lestrade.
The father, who had been not very cooperative during their earlier conversation and who had been quite dismissive, only now realised that although the maid died at their house and there would be a small scandal, the blame for her murder would have created a far greater disaster. He then joined his daughter's praise and suddenly the atmosphere changed into over-friendly and grateful.
Which meant Sherlock left the house as if it was on fire.
Greg and John took their time to bit them all farewell properly before they followed their friend to the waiting police coach carriage.
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They stopped at both pharmacies in question to ask the owners if they could identify the writer, of course without telling them why they were really asking. Sherlock asked under the pretence that he remembered that in the same pharmacy where he had gotten the note they sold his favourite tooth powder.
The owner of the first store was sure he had never seen the handwriting or the paper at all and gave a sample of his own writing and his assistant's – as well as a probe of his best selling tooth powder.
The second shop's apprentice was out but the pharmacist showed them detailed instructions the young man had to write for every customer to help him memorise facts. The handwriting was different from their piece of evidence, and so was the one of the man himself, he too advertised his oral care products and Sherlock bought a little box to use for experiments.
In the end, they wondered if it was worth seeing every chemist in London about the note - or at least Greg and John did, Sherlock of course argued this was exactly what detective work required and that it needed to be done.
When Sherlock suggested to find the next Kelly's directory*, John interfered.
"I strongly advice against doing this yourself. You need rest."
"Right. Listen to the doctor, Holmes. You look poorly. I will send constables out to get writing samples. You can then analyse those to your heart's content."
"They will behave suspicious."
"I am sure Lestrade can explain them how to do the same harmless little scam you just used," Watson smiled.
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They had barely returned to Baker Street when Watson was called away for a house call, one of his patients had fallen off a ladder. These days there were no A&Es at hospitals and most emergencies were still treated by the local doctor.
Sherlock felt so drained that he decided to lie down and muse about the case while relaxing his aching limbs in his bed.
He was woken by Watson's return, who then ate dinner and talked to Mrs Hudson in the living room.
Still not fully awake, everything suddenly irked him.
It was hard to keep his irritation in check and prevent himself from yelling across the flat to silence them. All noises seemed to be extraordinary hard to endure, as was the structure of the fine linens on his bare skin.
He kicked off the bedding and clenched his teeth not to make any loud noises of distress.
It felt as if his mind was plagued by myriads of ants trampling through his nerves, it made every sensation painful and fulsome.
To protect his flatmate and himself from his foul mood and oversensitive nerves he stayed in his room.
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"You need a shave to look decent, young man. People were turning their heads on your appearance all day," Mrs Hudson greeted him an hour later when he finally had found the strength to come to the living room.
He grimaced, aware he had missed something, though still trying to figure out when she had the chance to observe other people looking at him.
In his current state, shaving was a thing he tried to avoid because if might cause a sensory overload, especially when done by someone else.
But it was a fine line. If his stubble grew out too much, the itching and sensory input it brought could become very annoying, too.
Unwashed skin would also peeve him at a certain point, there was a limit to how much of his own body odour he could stand. He was well aware that this point was almost reached, in real life he was longing for a shower for days now and his own stench was starting to slosh over into this reality.
Therefore, he should try to shave and have a decent wash sometime soon; maybe it would allow him to keep the problem out of the mind palace reality. He had skipped bathing the past days, feeling too exhausted to even try.
But according to how raw his senses were already, it would be challenging.
"Holmes?" Watson was up and scrutinizing him the moment he stepped into the living room.
Before the detective could say anything, Watson had reopened the door Mrs Hudson had just closed after her and was addressing her on the stairs.
"Mrs Hudson can you please heat up water for a bath! As soon as possible! Thank you."
Sherlock cringed from the loud noise and was aware that he had ridiculously squinched his eyes shut.
"I don't..." he tried.
"Yes Holmes, you do. No arguments! If a client comes in here, we'll lose them immediately to your deterring smell. Also, we have a meeting tomorrow with that young man who asked to see you."
Right.
Sherlock plunked down into the chaise longue. Unfortunately, something was rucked up under his weight.
For a moment he considered just leaving it there – it hurt too much to move – but then he decided the noise it would make was rather annoying.
He shifted his weight and incompetently pulled the obnoxious object out.
It was theLondon Evening Standard, a newspaper that was not among his favourite ones, he wondered where it came from.
But then the headlines caught his gaze: British North America Act is passed in the House of Commons.
A way smaller article was titled: Polish composer Wiktor Każyński died March 6th in St. Petersburg.
Sherlock considered reading the article but found his eyes wouldn't focus properly.
"Hey mate, come on. Let's get you in the warm tub. You'll feel better once you're clean."
The tone was so much John that Sherlock looked up in confusion.
Watson smiled down at him. With care and without causing too much noise, the doctor removed the newspaper.
"You are stiff," Watson announced.
When no answer came, he continued, "What ails you?... Please tell me. Not knowing is giving me a lot of grief, my dear friend."
He rested a gentle hand on Sherlock's shoulder and for a moment, the detective just sat there, trying to collect himself.
The touch felt vivid and harsh at the same time, but he couldn't – wouldn't - shake it off, the tiny gesture was too precious.
A physical manifestation of friendship and care.
Not for the first time he wondered if this would be easier if he told the doctor what was going on.
Watson had seen war and was aware of the perils that followed if pain was needed to be numbed for a long period of time. He had lived through his own injury's pain management and the aftermath thereof. For this very reason he should be aware of the problems it brought.
He also was a doctor continuing his studies constantly, learning the new scientific sensations of the era. Maybe he would understand.
During the mid and late Victorian Period awareness rose about what certain drugs did and what addiction was. The results were tries to somehow govern the trade. Up till then many drugs were freely available for everybody.
Though a lot of people still considered constant drug use as a moral weakness, some scientists had already understood it should be regarded as an addiction.
The 1861 edition of a famous household book already warned of the well-known risks of cocaine, of giving too much, too frequently, too lightly.
On the other hand, drug use was not was not seen as a serious social and medical problem until the early twentieth century, which was a few decades away.
What was difficult to understand for him was that Watson had an odd way to react to his drug use sometimes.
At times, he seemed to think Holmes needed to kill some well hidden pain and understood that, on other times he seemed quite angry about it. He was probably deciding which was which from a catalogue of internal moral guidelines Holmes hadn't figured out, yet.
For a long moment he was contemplating, trying to remember why he had decided not to tell Watson about his abstinence.
His ability to concentrate wasn't getting better.
Maybe because he thought he couldn't stand Watson knowing?
Or thought he might not understand?
On the other hand, his nervous fussing was hard to endure, too.
Suddenly, he realised Watson had been a lot less gruff than usual recently. Had been patient and waiting without urging him to talk about his problem.
He remembered his decision to be able to rant freely and use Watson as a mental punching bag for all the things he couldn't unleash on John.
But instead of yelling and insulting the Watsons' human flaws, he suddenly experienced a rush of desperate need he couldn't identify.
"Hey?" the doctor's hand was still on Sherlock's shoulder, and now the thumb of that hand was tapping slightly onto his collarbone.
Sherlock closed his eyes, focussing on the point of contact.
The touch was so familiar... and such a strong sign of support.
And he was too enervated to make decisions and run away from his friend's care... and keep the facade up.
"The water is ready, let me help you."
A strong but gentle hand under his armpit heaved him upright and a moment later, they were stumbling into the other room where Mrs Hudson was preparing the bath.
He had tensed up, expected his senses to spike painfully.
But it didn't happen.
The touch didn't make him want to scream. He didn't have to fight to keep his distaste contained.
They reached the heated room when he felt his strength leave him.
Although he longed for feeling clean, he now doubted he was up to this, felt too weak to even undress himself.
Tired...
"Holmes!" Watson said alarmed, very close to his ear but in a low voice. "Hey!"
Puzzled and a bit disoriented he realised he must have dozed off and Watson had heaved him into the dressing chair.
Fingers fumbled for his wrist.
And the touch was actually...?
Welcome?
His mind staggered to a halt when his internal dictionary popped up and provided him with a term: touch starved.
He had never thought he would find meaning to that word, but the want for presence and the need for decisions being taken away from him was as alien as this.
Was he really suffering from such a condition?
Was it a mental or a physical need?
Was he just overwhelmed by all that was happening and the need for care – which he consciously despised - but subconsciously needed?
The repulsion he felt for a moment was strong, but he decided to inspect his strange sentiment closer.
It did feel like hunger he realised when he opened his internal dictionary to find the in detail definition of the word to read it.
With an internal eye-roll he acknowledged to himself it might fit.
It was ludicrous nevertheless.
He didn't want it to be true, felt pathetic and humiliated enough by his body's and mind's affectations, he couldn't take something like this on top of it all.
Distantly, he was aware that Watson's agitation about his lack of response was gaining intensity, so he shoved his reflections away to handle his friend first.
"Holmes?"
The initial thought about whether to inform Watson about the origin of his state shoved away by a new difficult concept.
He raised his gaze.
Watson was trying to help him out of his jacket and wanted his cooperation.
"I don't need assistance, please leave me be," Sherlock tried.
"For god's sake, Holmes! You will let me examine you!" Watson ordered sternly and Sherlock knew this John would not let himself be shaken off with a few rude words.
Although his hands were still shaking slightly, he managed to unbutton his shirt and hang it up on a wall hook in reach.
A moment later, Mrs Hudson came in to bring another large pot of hot water she then poured into the tub. The house was equipped with running water and plumbing but not yet with closed fire ranges fitted with back boilers.
This was his goddamn mind palace – why not?
It had been the last time he was here!
Why was it that much more inconvenient this time?
He needed comfort, the house should have stayed in his 1895 state to meet his need.
The answer to this was obvious.
He was miserable and his transport took every chance it got to remind him of that, besides that fact that his current reality was actually earlier in time.
A hot bath would be good, though.
Occupied by his own pensiveness, he kind of shut himself off from the experience of being examined by Watson, who had proceeded to action without his permission. The Victorian doctor wouldn't be of much help anyway, there was no use other than getting him off his back.
"Your behaviour tells me you know perfectly well what your health issues are caused by. Am I right?" Watson's stern tone jolted him out of his thoughts. He was holding a stethoscope and his leather doctor bag was open next to them on the ground.
Once more, Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment and tried to think, to decide how to respond.
Without opening them, he admitted, "Yes."
"So what...?"
Sherlock opened his eyes when Watson interrupted him.
"I am not sick. I am not dying. I will get better. There is nothing you can do!" he burst out.
"I am sorry, Holmes, but I can't trust you with things like that. You have neglected your body too often in the past... and damaged it just to solve a case. Therefore, I am prone to think this is an error of judgement and prefer to trust my own – educated – observations."
Sherlock felt his jaw muscles work and he briefly wondered if getting out of the room was an option. Getting in the bath were he couldn't evade this conversation seemed not a good idea.
He just shook his head and remained silent, out of words and not knowing what to say and how.
"Talk to me for god's sake!" Watson suddenly yelled, his patience depleted after days of seeing his friend suffering without knowing the cause.
The aggressive tone made Sherlock flinch hard and he leaned back in the chair, to get as far away from the other man as he could.
Watson's eyes widened about the unexpectedly hefty reaction to his loud words.
He frowned and anger was replaced by worry.
Then, he too, made a step back.
It was clear Watson was trying to say something but was rendered speechless, obviously trying to understand the reason for Holmes's unconscious reaction.
Consternation, confusion and distress passed over the doctor's face within a few seconds.
"I am sorry," Sherlock mumbled, unable to look at him.
He felt miserable and caught, and there was an aspect of shame.
Somehow he might have just wrongly insulted Watson for something John had done.
"What happened?" Watson asked in an unexpectedly low and slightly panicked voice.
Sherlock evaded his gaze and concentrated on not mentally regurgitating how it had felt to lie on the ground in the morgue, beaten and bleeding.
It was difficult.
"Please tell me."
"I was in a fight. It is not the reason for my poor health," Sherlock reassured him, well aware he was staring into space.
"Are you in pain?"
"Not to an amount I can't manage."
"I want to help, what can I do?"
Watson stepped closer again and Sherlock was at a loss. There was nothing anyone could do but wait for it all to get better. He shook his head, struggling still with the decision if he should tell Watson about his abstinence and the effects it had.
The doctor would probably welcome what he was doing but start to monitor him as closely as John was.
Additionally he was struggling with the idea that if the withdrawal by itself was present in this reality it could possibly destroy the desired effect of it being a respite from the very thing.
He had tried to will the Victorian doctor oblivious to his ailments but about this very point the mind palace didn't behave to his command. One more thing that was probably ruled by his subconscious issues. Or maybe it was rooted too deep in John's behaviour for him to write it out.
A slight tap to his cheek brought him back.
"This is not funny any longer. What are you taking? You had more cocaine in the past days than usual, didn't you?"
Sherlock just shook his head once more, and fell into the same trap he liked to use on other people when interrogating them.
"None," he huffed, feeling the need to correct a wrong statement.
"None? Since when?"
"Several days."
Watson sat down heavily on the footstool that was standing in the corner, indicating he very well understood what that meant.
It was out, then.
What Sherlock hadn't expected was the sudden onslaught of fright the revelation caused him.
He needed to erase this from this mind palace session and make Watson forget this had happened!
Immediately!
Unable to think clearly, he tried to leave his mind space.
But when he reopened his eyes, he was still in the richly decorated Victorian bathroom.
Escape!
He needed to get out of this situation, internal alarm bells ringing so loud he could hear nothing else.
Consciously, he tried to call the wooden door he used to enter this realm if he had issues focussing – he had rarely needed it to exit.
When nothing happened, he stood up on shaky legs and headed for the hallway. If the door wasn't coming to him, he needed to go where he installed it, opposite John's bedroom door... upstairs.
Watson grabbed his upper arm.
"Where do you think you are going?"
"I... I need to... Let me go."
Watson did, but when he dragged himself up the stairs, wondering why he hadn't placed the entry somewhere more practical.
Watson followed him, making sure he didn't fall, but Sherlock ignored him.
Problem was, the door wasn't were it was supposed to be.
Unsettled by this new disturbing discovery, he frantically shoved his hands all over the walls in the hall, looking for a hidden doorframe.
When he closed his eyes in desperation and did it a second time, his fingers finally touched it.
The doorknob.
Maybe it was not visible because Watson was standing behind him, babbling and clearly wondering if he had lost it.
Not daring to open his eyes, afraid it might not be there if he did, he fumbled to open it.
It moved with difficulty and it took him several tries until he finally managed to turn it.
When he stepped through though, what greeted him was not, as expected, his 2016 bedroom.
It was heat and smoke and the unmistakable smell of a house on fire.
He tried to make a step back, but the door that had been behind him moments ago was gone.
His back was against a solid wall.
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"Kelly's Directory(or more formally, the Kelly's, Post Office and Harrod & Co Directory) was a trade directory in England that listed all businesses and tradespeople in a particular city or town, as well as a general directory of postal addresses of local gentry, landowners, charities, and other facilities. In effect, it was a Victorian version of today's Yellow Pages. Many reference libraries still keep their copies of these directories, which are now an important source for historical research." Cited from/source: Wikipedia
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A/N:
Extra long chapter to compensate for the long wait a few weeks ago.
Some feeback would make my day :)