acdholmesfest | Fic for soul_bonnie: Distillery, PG

Title: Distillery
Recipient:

soul_bonnie
Author: [redacted]
Rating: PG
Characters: Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Original victims and villains, A.J. Raffles
Warnings: Well. There is a murder.
Summary: A crime at the Diogenes Club brings the Holmes brothers reluctantly together to solve a case... in silence
Thank-Yous: [redacted] for the idea and some beta-reading and, [redacted] for the cheerleading and additional beta-reading.

“Did I hear a visitor here, this morning?” In the cold, damp weather, I had a more difficult time dragging myself from the warmth of my bed. Old wars always haunted the soldiers that survived them in one way or another and I was no different. I was lucky that my wounds just stiffened my bones, I’d known more than a few lads whose real issues were in their heads, with clattering dreams and traumatic memories that left them still in the mind; unable to return to the lives they once knew the same way they’d left them.

Eventually, I managed to brave the stairs and I claimed my tea and toast as usual before sitting in my chair to scan the morning edition. Holmes had already risen, in a fashion, and while he was in the room, he was barely visible, sunk so deep into the sofa that, had there been a blanket over him, that particular piece of furniture would have appeared completely unoccupied. He was quite unexpectedly in one of his moods and until I’d have a few cups of tea in my system, I was simply not brave enough to tackle the reason why that might be. But, by the time I’d finished my second cup and the October sun had burned off some of the dismal morning mist, I’d found the courage.

“Not a visit - a visitation - a heaving beast from the very depths of the most forsaken corners of the house of the damned. A bloated, abysmal force of lethargy, a criminal -- the most socially damaging of sorts -- with no heart in his chest and nothing behind his Machiavellian smile apart from corruption and contempt.”

“Ah.” I folded the paper. “And how is Mycroft?”

A low moan was his only reply, followed by a weak wave of his hand before he fell back into his own misery. I paid no attention. I’d grown accustomed in my time at Baker Street to the non-relationship of the two Holmes brothers and was not put off by Sherlock’s assessment of the elder Holmes. I had no ill feelings towards Mycroft myself, but as I’d rather avoid ever being in the same room as the two men by choice, I was quite pleased that I’d managed to escape this visitation from the damned.

“Is there anything of interest in the papers, Watson? I can’t find it in myself to look.”
“No.” I shrugged. “Unless you’re interested in the wedding of the engagement of the Viscount Drumlanrig to Miss Alix Ellis.”

“Oh, heavens no. The only remarkable contribution from that family since the times of Robert the Bruce has been the Queensberry rules, and I rather think that’ll be the peak of their fame for at least the next hundred years.”

“And as that is the case,” I said, turning back to the front page to be positive that there was nothing I’d overlooked -- as there was not enough tea in China to put me in the right humour to suffer a lecture from Holmes about my being unobservant. “You’ll be unhappy to learn that London seems rather crime-free at the moment.”

“I don’t believe it,” Holmes retorted, dropping his feet to the floor and dragging himself into a semi-upright position with more effort than it took me to gather my stiff old self from the mattress. “There’s not a single murder?”

“No.”

“Missing person?”

“No.”

“Scandal?”

“Still no, unfortunately.”

“Lost cat?”

“Holmes -- what is the meaning of this?”

“I’m afraid the fates have conspired against us, dear Watson.” Holmes said. He looked as though he’d just discovered the milk in his tea had curdled. I felt for him, at least some, because I knew how dreary he might become if he had nothing to spark his interest or intellect. But as he continued to explain, my sympathy for him evaporated faster than morning dew in Afghanistan. “You see, there has been a bit of an episode at the Diogenes Club which my brother has asked me to investigate because he can never be bothered to do anything himself. I told him I had to consult with you and that I only would if there was nothing more pressing. I felt for sure there had to be something of greater importance somewhere in London, but now you’re telling me there is not.”

“An episode.” I said, “Whatever is the matter? Did someone talk?”

“Oh, it’s just a dismal murder.”

“A murder.” At this, I sat forward in my chair, letting the papers in my lap fall to the floor. I knew that Holmes often let his judgement cloud when his brother was involved, but the idea that he would let some murderer escape justice because he didn’t feel like aiding his brother was not something that I could leave alone. We had, I felt, a responsibility that was of far greater importance than a long-standing family feud. “We should go at once.”

Holmes looked at me with the glare of a petulant schoolboy who’d just been asked to produce an assignment that he had not completed. There was a long silence in which he sucked in his cheeks and turned his eyes to the ceiling, as though he might find either respite or excuse in the few corner cobwebs that had not yet met the wrath of Mrs Hudson.

“Tell me more about the Viscount Drumlanrig.” Holmes said at last.

At this, I rose from my chair. “I’m sending for a cab.”

***

There are plenty of places in London that I dislike, but chief among them stands the Diogenes Club. I was elected for membership by Mycroft at Christmastime in 1887. I accepted, in rebellion of the consulting detective’s protests. The club itself was situated on Dover street, not far from the newly formed Drones Club, and exactly its opposite in every remarkable way. The Diogenes Club was a place built around silence and secrets. It contained the most unsociable and unclubbable men in town. No member is permitted to take the least notice of any other one. It boasted, if one can call it a boast, among its members, a number of politicians, several former Prime Ministers, and at least one famous cricketer who complimented my cufflinks the single time I met him during one of my rare visits. I only remember that particular engagement because it was one of the few times anyone bothered to speak to me at all in the Stranger’s Room, the only place within the club where acknowledgement or speaking between members was at all permitted.

It was into that very room where Holmes and I were directed, and it was there that we found Mycroft, seated at the window and looking much more worse for wear than I’d ever seen him before. I greeted him with a nod, and stepped aside to allow the brothers to converse upon the specifics of the case.

“Have you contacted the Yard?” I could tell by the way that Holmes presented the question that he already knew the answer. Mycroft must have decided he knew as well, because he merely pursed his lips. It went unsaid that the Diogenes Club had ties to her Majesty’s Secret Service, and therefore any kind of police meddling would be unheard of. Their methods would cause an interference that all the members would certainly prefer to avoid.

“I shall take you to the scene of the crime.” Mycroft said, rising slowly from his seat. “All of those present when the murder was first noticed are still here, for this reason, I must advise you not to say a word when I bring you both in to examine the body.”

“They are still at the scene of the crime.” Holmes protested. “And you will not allow me to interrogate them? As they are all potential suspects, they--”

“Are not suspects, Sherlock.” Mycroft interjected.

“How can you be so sure?”

Once more, Mycroft refrained from answering with more than a quirk of his lips. He opened the door and brought us into the club’s main room. There, as Mycroft explained, a group of no less than seven members were seated, conveniently ignoring each other. I noticed the cricketer whose acquaintance I had made, engaged in the corner of the room and holding a snifter of brandy. When I saw him, he broke club etiquette and gave me a wink. I quickly diverted my attention and started to search the room for the dead man, but could locate no one that looked so much as distressed, let alone deceased.

Holmes, much to my surprise, seemed to be having the same difficulty. It took Mycroft gesturing towards an elderly, frail-looking gentleman in the corner before we realised that the man in question was -- in fact -- not sleeping. He was so decrepit, that from where we stood I had simply assumed that he was simply asleep. I exchanged a confused look with Holmes, as for the life of my I could not understand why someone would want to tip a man into his grave when he was already so clearly standing with one foot in it.

It took no further time for Holmes to descend upon the victim like a vulture. He surveyed the scene, smelled the man’s empty wine glass, took his pulse (to be sure he was really dead, as I think we both still had our doubts), and checked the man for visible signs of injury. Holmes snatched up a fresh wine glass from a nearby shelf and poured, from the open bottle that sat on the small table beside the deceased, a half glass of wine. He smelled this too and then, seemingly struck by something, straightened up and gestured for his brother to join him back in the Stranger’s Room.

I did not follow, instead taking the opportunity to examine the poor old man myself. I leaned over the body and inspected his pockets, pulling from his jacket his club membership card. Sir Martin Emery, the card read, apparently one of the Diogenes Club treasurers.

My investigation was then interrupted by a loud crash and the raised voices of the two brothers in the other room. While I could not make out what they were saying, I was suddenly very aware that if I did not intervene, the club might see its second homicide of the day. With a sigh, I looked down at the deceased and then at the wine glass that stood at the ready to his left.

“I think I shall need this a great deal more than you,” I murmured, having no patience for the club’s ridiculous rules at present. I liberated the glass of its contents. It tasted terrible, so shockingly bitter that had I not taken the wine in one fell swoop, I doubt I would of managed it. I looked for something near at hand to wash the sourness from my mouth but another shout from the Stranger’s Room brought my attention back to the more pressing matter at hand. I turned, and the room seemed suddenly to turn with me. I felt wrong -- as though I’d taken in far more than a glass of mild alcohol. But Holmes needed me, and I tried to push the light-headedness aside to stride forward. I never made it more than two steps, I’m sure.

The next thing that I recall was waking up -- not in the club, but on that most beloved and battered sofa at Baker Street. I felt very much as though I’d been struck over head by something: it pounded, my mouth felt dry, and it was more difficult to make myself stir than it had been that morning, even with all the stiffness brought on by the weather. I opened my eyes to find, standing over me, a very relieved looking Sherlock Holmes.

“Holmes.” My voice cracked when I finally managed to speak, and I winced at the dim light in the room as I tried to focus on his face. I remembered, slowly, that we’d gone to the Diogenes Club, that there had been a murder, but the rest of what had happened was still rather dark. “What -- what on earth happened?”

“Oh, Watson.” Holmes said. “Thank goodness you still have your health.”

“Pardon?”

“At the club, I left the room to explain to my brother that dear Mr. Martin Emery had been poisoned. We immediately confronted one of the waiters, who after he tried to escape, admitted that he had poisoned the treasurer because he meant to cut the club’s wine budget. He thought giving him a dose of a bad batch would be rather a taste of things to come. He laced the bottle with laudanum, but had no idea he’d administered a fatal dose -- well. Fatal for dear Sir Emery in any case. Enough to drop a racehorse, but apparently -- not you.”

“That -- that was the shouting I heard? Not you and your brother.”

“I’m afraid so.”

“And all this over a budget?”

At this, Holmes smiled and got up from where he’d perched on the side of the sofa. He brought his hand to my shoulder before retiring to his nearby armchair and retrieving his pipe. “Ah, but Watson, for the men of the Diogenes Club, wining is a very serious matter indeed.”

“Indeed.” I sat up slowly, still rather dizzy from the ordeal and the drug, and raised my hands to cover my face. I found that I was not overly concerned by my near brush with death by overdose. I believed Holmes when he said the mixture in the wine might have been fatal, but had no doubt that had my condition been worse, he would have seen to it that I was treated properly. I felt mildly guilty for thinking it, of course, but I suspected that Holmes would know well the signs of opium poisoning, even better than myself, and trusted his judgment completely. It was then, as I dragged my hands down my face, that I noticed something odd about my sleeves. Blinking for a moment I shifted forward to look up at my companion: “Holmes. Have you seen my cufflinks?”