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elina_elsuAuthor: [redacted]
Rating: NC17
Characters, including any pairing(s): Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Warnings:
Word count: 9200
Summary: Dead men tell no lies. The living do it for them.
“It is the curious fate of man,” said Sherlock Holmes, putting his newspaper down, “to be preserved according to the whims and peculiarities of the one who keeps his memory alive. What he considers himself to be might as well be lost in time as any of the other minutiae particular to him, though it governs him entirely in his lifetime.”
“A pensive thought,” I replied. “You have been reading the obituary column again, if I am not mistaken.”
He chuckled. “I have bled the romance out of you, Watson. There would have been a time you would have argued the merits of memory for its own sake. Yes, it is the obituaries. The finest expression of the impossible.”
It was the winter of 1895. I had given up my own practice for the convenience of a shared one. It afforded me more time to spend assisting Holmes in such capacity as I was able, and indeed his case load had increased to such an extent I believe he was glad of my presence. For my own part, I confess to finding greater satisfaction in being by his side than with my patients. Though I gave my duties my full professional attention, I could not pretend they afforded me the pleasure I found in his company.
“Consider these,” Holmes said, picking his paper up again and reading from it, “…’they will only find that consolation in contemplating the purity and virtues of the being that has left them’… ‘the unostentatious piety of her life, the charity and domestic virtues which she invariably practiced’… how we diminish our loved ones by forgetting their complexities and casting them in such virtuous stone!”
“I would be happy to be remembered for my virtues,” I remarked, wondering a little at his wistful mood.
He took a moment to answer, stretching his long thin hands to the crackling fire. His eyes were very bright when he turned to me. “My dearest friend, they would be many indeed. But look, here is the exception:
‘The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ
Moves on: nor all your Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it.’ There’s true grief, that admits reality.”
I was as yet unconvinced. “And yet do we not keep the best of the person when we preserve their memory so? If history were to be written by its participants would we be able to separate the minutiae from the great deed? It seems to me that the scribe remembers that which is worth remembering.”
“We decide worth by different measures, then,” Holmes remarked. “My little studies in shoeblack and ash make no detailed appearance in your accounts, but I could not solve a fifth of the cases I do without them.”
“I hope you have not found my small contributions entirely wanting,” I said, a little stiffly, for it had not occurred to me that we were speaking of ourselves.
“Come, come, I don’t mean to wring it out of you quite as badly as that,” he said, smiling. “If history remembers me at all it will be as Watson means it to, and there are worse fates. Speaking of fate, here is mine for the day.”
I looked enquiringly at him. “You have had notice of a visitor?”
“No, but the fifth step only squeaks that way for – yes, here he is. Good morning, Inspector.”
It was indeed Inspector Lestrade of the Yard, ushered in by Mrs Hudson. He greeted us politely enough but seemed troubled, and when Holmes had settled himself back in his armchair said gloomily, “I’ve come to the end of my tether, Mr Holmes. No doubt it’s a petty one and easily solved, but I’m hanged if I know what to do about it next.”
“We must be grateful you keep us in your thoughts then,” Holmes said dryly. He pushed his cigarette case at Lestrade. “Come man, an ounce of shag is quite long enough to tell us about the Southend mystery.”
Lestrade looked startled. “Why, it’s true that’s the very thing I came to speak to you about, sir. Though how you knew that is beyond me, as always. Still, I thank you for your hospitality.”
“It would be a dull detective who could not see the crust of sand around the ankles of your boots, nor the ticket stub in your pocket marked very distinctly with the Great Eastern Railway’s stamp,” Holmes said, “That and the fact that the papers will have you with no leads at all.”
“You will have been keeping up with it, Watson, no doubt,” Holmes said to me, while Lestrade was lighting his cigarette.
I had indeed. It would have been impossible not to, for the matter was as eerie as it was possible to be and the papers had made much of it over the last month. A man had been found dead on Southend beach, with no identification and no-one to claim him. There was nothing so very odd in this of itself, but inquiries as far as the continent had produced no missing persons report to match him.
“The facts so far, Inspector, if you would be so kind,” Holmes said, leaning back in his chair and half-closing his eyes, assuming the pose I most associated with the start of a case.
It never failed to raise a thrill in me to see him absorb information thus. People who knew him less were often puzzled by this picture of drowsy carelessness but I, by the continued intimacy of our years, knew his keen mind was at its most attentive when it appeared most to the contrary. I had always felt the privilege of that intimacy and never more so than now: to know the fire of intellect hidden beneath the lax, indolent body and the sleepy, contented look.
“The facts, in my estimation, provide nothing to assist the intelligent mind,” Lestrade said pompously. “Witnesses report seeing the man move while he sat with his back to the sea wall in the early afternoon. By late evening he was so still that it was decided to approach him, only to discover he had been dead for many hours. He was unmarked, with no signs of violence or struggle, and well-dressed. The autopsy has not revealed the cause of death and the man looks to have been in perfect health at the time of demise. No-one saw the man arrive, and the beach was well visited at that time.”
“You have questioned the nearby residents?”
“None admit to knowing him. A second-class rail ticket was found in his pocket, indicating he had travelled to the location.”
“I have some of the other details. The case has some intriguing little aspects,” Holmes said, carelessly. “The question is one of fabric, and whether wool was employed. You have, of course, kept the clothing?”
“We have,” Lestrade replied, “though I think you’ll find we’ve exhausted everything to be found there, Mr Holmes. All identifying marks were removed and apart from knowing the man’s neck size I cannot see what further information you might glean from those items.”
“If there was something worth hiding, there will be something worth discovering, you may depend on it,” my friend said. He turned to me. “Well, Watson, can you spare half a day to paw through a man’s clothing?”
“I can spare longer,” said I. “The surgery remains empty for now and young Aberforth is quite able to handle anything minor. I am entirely at your disposal.”
“I am glad of it,” he said, standing up and putting his hand on my shoulder. “Your medical opinion will be invaluable.”
“I cannot promise to be able to counter the City’s Medical Examiner and his colleagues,” I said doubtfully.
He squeezed my shoulder in response . “But none of those are my Boswell and will do half as well. Lead the way, Inspector.”
The warmth of his regard eased me of my doubts from our earlier conversation. I confess it was sometimes difficult to know if his brilliant and temperamental life derived much satisfaction from my being in it. My life together with my wife had been a blessed and happy one but our mutual affection had been apparent to both of us and we were as easy in each other’s company as if it had been ordained. Though I had no reason to doubt Holmes considered me a friend, I sometimes found myself wishing his affection was as perceptible as mine was for him.
I followed him out with a glad heart.
-
The evening was closing in as we arrived at the morgue and a fog was descending over the street. The lamplights glowed through their veil of mist, throwing a fine, thin light over doorways, and the thick night air settled around us like a cloak. I had the idea that it clung to us even as we entered the morgue. My fanciful notions of gloom were dispelled only when we entered the cold, clean inner chambers. Under the bright lights, the cadavers on their benches seemed altogether more real than the ghostly night outside.
The dead man was unveiled, and Holmes spent some time hovering over him, examining every minute feature.
“Well, doctor,” he said, after a few minutes, “what do you say?”
“He is well-formed and proportioned,” I replied, “a little over six feet, with the look of a fighter about him. His lower body is particularly powerfully developed. I would hazard a guess he was a practitioner of some dance form, so pronounced is the leg musculature. He has an unusual tattoo on his right arm that appears to be of some Eastern origin.”
“Good, Watson, good!” Holmes exclaimed. “I’m inclined to agree, with the caveat that many athletics pursuits will produce a similar musculature. The naked body without its accoutrements can be a blind, however. Inspector, be so good as to show us the clothing and the personal affects.”
Holmes started as Lestrade produced a suit of clothes, neat and without a mark on them. It was examined more closely than the corpse had been; he spent a considerable amount of time muttering over it, turning it inside out and rubbing his fingers along the seams. “It’s certainly wool, but there’s plenty of silk in it. French? No. The tailoring is too English, though there are discrepancies. There are certainly discrepancies. It has almost the feel of Scottish wool but not quite.”
The dead man’s shoes had a similar effect on him. He frowned at them and examined both the soles and the insides, sighing and shaking his head over the fact he had been deprived of the opportunity to examine them at the scene. Lestrade assured him nothing had been altered but this served little to allay his complaints.
A number of items had been found in the deceased’s pockets. Holmes seemed chiefly interested in a pack of cigarettes and a spool of navy thread. “Why navy?” he murmured. He tapped a cigarette out of the box and held it to his nose, inhaling deeply.
“I have my case here if you are so inclined,” Lestrade said, astonished. I was as surprised as he, though for different reasons. Holmes was a fastidious smoker, with a ready supply of expensive tobacco and would never have deigned to smoke the one-penny cigarettes he was holding.
Holmes shook his head. “The box and the contents are not one and the same. The cigarettes are of a vastly superior origin. If I had to guess I would say Turkish but the aroma is not a familiar one. It is very intriguing.”
He muttered on and I was just beginning to grow weary of waiting for an intelligible word from him when he made a sudden exclamation and began to shake the trousers upside down.
“Quick Watson, your penknife!” he cried. I was by his side in an instant with the knife in my hand. Lestrade and I watched in amazement as he used it to make a careful incision into a seam and split it. Holmes caught the object that he was evidently expecting to fall out as the threads gave way and the fabric gaped open.
“Why it’s a piece of paper,” Lestrade said, astonished. “What does it say, Mr Holmes?”
We watched as he unfurled it and laid it flat in front of us. There were but two words inscribed on it, typeset in a curling, curious font.
“Taman Shud,” I read. I looked at Holmes in confusion. “I do not recognise it.”
“It is finished,” Holmes said, looking troubled. “The words are from the Rubaiyat, that great Persian poem. Someone went to great pains to conceal this, yet why conceal it at all if the message needed conveying? I daresay we were never meant to find it, but found it we have. These are murkier waters than I expected.”
“I hope your methods will yield something more than we have, then,” Lestrade said, shaking his head. “It’s as if the man lay down and died with no-one to know him or account for his presence on that shore.”
“If he did, he took great pains over it. Did you observe the shoes? The soles are pristine and free of sand. If you are right in swearing that they have not been tampered with then we must take it to mean he has been moved to his final resting place and did not walk there himself. His clothes are immaculate, which means he was carried with a great deal of care. Well, Lestrade, I had expected to verify a suicide but this bears investigation.”
“We are born alone and die alone,” Holmes said philosophically as we walked out together, “though this man’s solitude was not peacefully won. The answers must lie in the place he did. Watson, you said you could spare time away from your practice. Will you come?”
“Most assuredly, if you need me,” I said, and indeed the thought of repairing back to my surgery while Holmes prowled a wild, wintry coast alone was anathema to me. It struck me that it was not the thought of inclement weather or the bitter cold of the season that repulsed me, but the idea that I should not be at his side while he worked, that we should be separate and distinct in our endeavours. It gave me pause that I could admit to being so attached to him, but then he was my oldest and dearest friend and time had worked on us long enough that I considered myself part of his labours.
“I always shall,” he said, gravely. “I would be lost without my Watson.”
“Then by all means let us journey to the seaside,” I said, and though the matter before us was as sombre as any we had met before, I could not stop my heart from once again lightening and easing at his words.
-
We met at Liverpool Street Station the next day and were on our way to Southend-on-Sea by early morning. The train ride was a pleasant one and though it was but an hour to our destination, I found myself dozing as we travelled. When I awoke, Holmes had moved from his position across from me in the carriage and was sitting beside me. My head was against his shoulder, and his body was wedged against mine so as to take my weight and prevent me from listing to the side. I was warm and comfortable and conscious of how solid a presence he was in spite of his wiry frame.
He had been reading a paper but on seeing me awake, folded it closed and smiled down at me. “You were sloping off the seat in your sleep, Watson. It seemed prudent to halt your decline before you were entirely on the floor. My poor boy, I had no idea you were so exhausted.”
“I did not either,” I admitted, straightening up and stretching a little. “I will be glad of some time away from the London air.”
“You may want to rest while I conduct my investigation, then,” he said, but I protested at that and it seemed that he was satisfied by my objections for he said no more of it but instead remained by my side, quietly reading his paper. I watched the last of the countryside change from pastoral fields to the more open, fresh air of the seaside and felt his strong, warm body next to me with a depth of feeling that I could not yet wholly admit to myself.
-
We arrived at our destination shortly and found our way to the short pier next to where the body had been found. It was a cold, still morning with no-one in evidence beyond a line of black-backed gulls scurrying to and fro at the water’s edge. A cordon of frayed and faded rope showed us where the body had last rested. The cordon was directly in front of a low seawall, behind which in turn rose a crest of white dunes. Beyond them lay a narrow road, bordered by rows of small houses. The area had become a popular destination of late and parts of it reflected the recent influx of wealth, but this part of the beach was evidently not as fashionable and the houses were modest and unremarkable.
Holmes was examining the scene with great interest. I saw nothing to catch my eye and indeed the sand about the area had been trampled and moved enough that I doubted my friend would either. The tideline was not far below where the body had been found. As a consequence, the sand was wet enough to hold the prints of all who had passed this way but the usefulness of this feature was quite countered by the recent traffic of people.
“They have managed very well between them to destroy anything of help. If they had consulted me sooner I doubt I could have prevented their ham-handedness,” Holmes agreed with some bitterness, when I remarked on it to him. “But it is not the immediate vicinity which interests us.”
He walked beside the seawall, which looked to stretch for another few miles or so, examining it as he went. We had gone about half a mile when he made a low, exultant sound and dropped to his knees. I saw him reach out to one of the rocks and pluck something from it. When he held it out to me I saw that it was a little scrap of material.
“It is not from the dead man’s suit, I think,” I commented.
He shook his head. “The colour is quite different: navy where the other one was a dark gold.”
“Then I fail to see what significance it poses.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the spool of thread found in the dead man’s effects. When he held it next to the cloth, we saw it was an exact match for shade and texture. “There is silk in this – as there was in the weave of our deceased friend’s suit,” he said. “We can surmise he was bringing replacement supplies for a piece of clothing not easily repaired at the English seaside.”
“But how are we to find this man with the second suit? It is not a topic that lends itself to easy investigation,” I said.
“On the contrary, I believe it lies between a choice of four houses,” Holmes said, putting a foot into a crevice in the wall and vaulting himself upwards. He held out a hand to me and I went, allowing him to pull me up and forward, and almost into him. We were clasped together for a moment while he regained his balance. When we pulled apart I fancied I saw an piercing, intent look in his eyes as they surveyed me, but he said nothing and merely patted my arm, turning quickly away to survey the houses in front of us.
They were humbly built, bleached and flecked by the sea air, and only distinguishable from each other by such small touches as each householder was wont to put on them. This one had a patch of garden, the next a handsomely painted fence. Two stood out for their well-maintained roof tiles and by the fact that there was no paint peeling off their walls. It was to these Holmes pointed.
“These two are our most likely contenders,” he said.
“Is there some connection in them being equally cared for?” I asked.
“We are looking for a man a little over six feet. He might be shorter, but in that case he will be broadly proportioned and strong. He must have an element of the foreign about him, or be well educated. He will be dressed fashionably or possess some sartorial understanding that lends itself to dress. Such a man will extend the dictates of neatness and presentation to his home and hearth.”
“My dear Holmes,” I said, “this is too much. Surely this was not all contained in that single patch of cloth?”
“No, no, Watson, you know my methods. The body in the morgue had its own story to tell. The cloth but added to that knowledge.” Holmes looked rueful. “If I had the two together I could doubtless draw more from them both, but that is the nature of this imperfect world we live in.”
“You amaze me,” I said, with more feeling perhaps than I should have.
“I will cease to do so one day, my boy,” he said, with a queer, mocking smile, “and you will wonder why you allied yourself so strongly with mere sleight-of-hand all these years.”
I knew he spoke in jest, but it was a blow that he thought me so faithless. I turned away quickly lest my consternation show. There was no doubt in my mind that if I exhibited but a fraction of my feelings his keen eye would see and deduce all that could not be said. When I had mastered myself I turned back to him. “That day will never come,” I said, as calmly as I was able. “And neither will our interview, unless we knock on this door.”
He considered me a long moment before nodding. “Then follow my lead, and be prepared for anything.”
I cannot reliably count the number of times I have followed Holmes into danger without questioning either his methods or deductions, no matter how tumultuous my emotions. I do not believe I ever will. Today was to be no exception, and I was behind him when he rapped smartly on the door of one of the houses.
-
A little maid answered it and informed us that the lady of the house was very elderly and resting. We would have taken our leave except that a man came up behind her then and asked us our business. We were taken into a parlour where Holmes explained his mission and the man introduced himself as Clarence Pennyworth. He and his mother lived a retired life together, he said, and the shock of knowing a dead man had been abandoned practically on their doorstep had been a bad one for his ailing mother.
Pennyworth had been one of the people who had seen the man sitting on the beach while he was still alive, though he could recollect very little of the details.
“He looked like he was smoking, but really I believe I just formed the notion that he was visiting the seaside and thought no more of it. I was on my way home from my athletic club and was in a hurry, for mother was brought up very strictly as a Friend and doesn’t believe in violence.” He was a very well-dressed, stocky little man, incongruous in such a sleepy village setting. He also had a curious, quick way of speaking, and his eyes darted to and fro as he spoke so that one was left with a sense of continual movement.
“Violence?” I asked, surprised.
He flushed a little. “Well, you see, we practice boxing bouts at our club and I am a great one for it. I’ve sat at the head of my table for the last four round robins and aim to keep my spot. But there, it’s that kind of talk mother doesn’t care for and I try to mention it as little as possible.”
“So, Watson, we have a specimen that has the physical strength at least to have moved our dead man, should he have chosen to do so,” Holmes said, after we had taken our leave and were outside. “Did you notice the pronounced calf muscles and thigh curvature? It was not very dissimilar to that of our body’s.”
“They share some physical characteristics, certainly, but I cannot see a motive,” I said, doubtfully. “Or a connection between them.”
Holmes looked thoughtful. “The dead man was powerfully built, and betting is taken very seriously within these athletic bouts. It might well be he was here for an event. The greatest mark against Pennyworth must be, however, that he was almost certainly one of the last people to see the deceased alive. But it is all speculation at this point.”
The next house was five doors down from the first. It was opened by a striking woman, well past the first flush of youth but still lithe and graceful. Her manners were poised and courteous, and she let us in when Holmes introduced himself and explained his mission. More introductions were made. We learned her name was Mrs. Hannah Crewes, lately married to William Crewes, a solicitor.
We were not five minutes into interviewing her when the very man walked in through a back door, rolling down his shirt sleeves with his coat slung over his arm. William Crewes was a huge, solid individual, with a thatch of white-blond hair and a gentleman’s manners. He was very taken aback to find us in his sitting-room, but answered our questions as readily as his wife.
No, he had not seen the man, he had been in his rooms all day. No, he had not noticed a stranger wandering around before that day and if he had, he would have assumed they were visitors to the seaside and thought nothing of it.
“You are both, I perceive, far from your rightful places in society, if you will pardon my saying so,” Holmes said, raising an eyebrow.
Husband and wife exchanged looks. “There is nothing left in London for us,” Crewes said, shrugging.
“We have both spent some of our youth in the city you see Mr Holmes,” Mrs Crewes said composedly, “and find the quiet air of a seaside village better suits our sensibilities.”
“It would suit a man accustomed to working in the Her Majesty’s Navy, certainly,” Holmes said.
Crewes shook his head wonderingly. “I have heard of your methods, Mr Holmes, but I cannot see how you have come to that truth. Yes, I served as midshipman on the Hastings, out of Port Said. It was a happy life for a while, but I began to long for a home and family and a life at sea soon paled for me.”
“I am not worth that praise if the contents of your home and the shipman’s hat on the hall stand do not lend themselves to some deduction,” Holmes said with a smile. “I see you have brought home the artifacts of your travels. The very air is scented by them.” He sniffed deeply and appreciatively.
Husband and wife looked a little uncomfortable at this.
Holmes continued, undaunted. “One of my little interests is Oriental literature. I see by your cabinet that you have picked up some fine specimens on your travels.”
“My wife is the reader in the family,” Crewes said dismissively, turning away. “I buy such things as might please her though my talent does not extend to appreciating them for my own sake.” There was a mirror on the mantelpiece opposite us and I happened to see Crewes’s face reflected in it. There was an expression of deep melancholy on it for a moment and something weary and resigned in the set of his shoulders.
“They are all very becoming and I like them very well,” Mrs Crewes said hastily, but it was too quickly said and there was something uneasy in her tone.
Holmes caught my eye and I rose to shake Crewes’s hand, thanking him and his wife and making our goodbyes.
“There is something there, Watson,” Holmes said when we were some yards away. “There are altogether too many questions unanswered in that little house.”
“The husband and wife did not seem happy, for all his claim to love family life,” I remarked and indeed, the atmosphere had been tinged with a sort of gloom I had not realised until we were away from it.
“Oh you caught that too, did you? Well, where there are unspoken things there is unhappiness, and truth makes all the difference. I have us booked on the 2.30 back to London, so we might stop here for lunch and a smoke before setting out for home.”
-
I woke the next morning in Baker Street to find Holmes standing by my bedside. I was used to him shaking me awake to accompany him on his missions and thought nothing of his being there but this morning he made no move towards me and kept his silence, frowning and watching me through the dim light. I held his gaze though I was drowsy and heavy-eyed and he held mine. I could not speak or breathe for fear he would look away and yet I knew if he did not I would commit myself to the deepest abyss without a backwards look.
“Holmes,” I whispered at last, when I could bear it no longer. “Is something amiss? Are you well?”
“The evidence is there for the taking and yet the final conclusion eludes me,” he said in a low, harsh voice. “No, I will not pretend I am well, Watson.”
It seemed to me the air in the room grew deeper and richer, and I – I could not look away from his eyes, which had fastened on me and darkened with an intent that I could not allow myself to hope for. To hope was madness. Even worse, it was to risk the dearest friendship of my life. I could bear disappointment but the thought of causing him pain must hold my tongue forever.
“Have you heard from Lestrade?”
His face changed then, and his sardonic mask slipped back into place. He took a long moment to answer but when he did he had recovered some of his everyday manner. “Yes, he has sent a messenger,” he said. “Occasionally even the constabulary manage to blunder across something, and today they have managed to blunder about quite well. They have found the man’s suitcase in the Left Luggage Office at Liverpool Street Station. Mrs Hudson has breakfast on the table, if I can persuade you away from your patients for another day.”
“I am your man,” I said, and he smiled his twisted smile at that, for perhaps he suspected by now that was all too true.
-
Lestrade stepped in at about seven that morning, bearing a small brown overnight case and the explanation that a porter had seen the picture of the deceased in the papers and recognised him.
Holmes’s eyes gleamed when he saw it. All traces of his earlier change disappeared in his examination. “Calf leather, about thirty years old, maintained by a careful man who kept secrets very well, passed onto a friend before being reclaimed. You see, Watson? The receptacle tells its own story. Great Scott! What is this?”
He had opened the case. I rushed to his side to see what had caused his exclamation. There in the case lay a book with the words ‘The Rubaiyat’ printed on it in large, curling font.
“Holmes,” I said, exultant, “it is the same script as the words on the piece of paper.”
“It is indeed,” he said, flicking the pages to and fro. “This is where they took it from.” He pointed to a page that had a corner torn out of it. It looked to correspond directly to the tear in the paper we had recovered from the dead man’s clothes.
Lestrade looked at us gloomily. “It’s a pretty puzzle piece, Mr Holmes but it brings us no closer to the murderer, if in fact he was murdered. There’s no name on the book and if it belonged to the deceased we may as well not have found it at all.”
“There is an inscription on the flyleaf,” Holmes said. He pushed it towards me. “Watson, if you will be so kind.”
“With pleasure,” I said. I was a little puzzled that he did not do it himself, but obeyed willingly:
“There was the Door to which I found no Key;
There was the Veil through which I might not see:
Some little talk awhile of Me and Thee
There was--and then no more of Thee and Me.”
c.
A shiver went through me at the verses; they went directly to my soul. I could not meet Holmes’s eye.
“C?” Lestrade asked, frowning.
“If it belonged to the deceased…yes” Holmes murmured with a faraway look, ignoring Lestrade. I recognised this for what it was, that dreamy state into which he plunged when his deliberations were the most intense. We would have no more from him until he had roused himself out of it. Lestrade saw himself out with a hushed promise to return for the case, and I settled down with the day’s papers to wait Holmes out.
I could not help but surreptitiously watch him as he thought. His long, thin hands were steepled and at his mouth, his legs were stretched out in front of him, his eyes were deep and half-lidded. He was but an arm’s length away and yet completely out of my reach.
“Another half hour and that twist in your neck will do you permanent harm, my dear,” Holmes said. I jumped a little at his words, for I had been lost in the anguish of my reflections and had not noticed he had been watching me in turn, that little half-smile on his face again.
“I beg your pardon, I did not mean to stare. I will leave you to your thoughts,” I stammered, and stood to go.
He was before me in a flash, gripping my wrists with a gentle but implacable strength. “John,” he said, quietly. “Will you not stay?”
A tremble started through me at his words that I tried in vain to control. His hands were warm against mine and he was so very close. I had held my feelings in check as far as I was able but I had not been successful and now here was the final temptation.
“You do not know what you are asking,” I said. “You must allow me to protect you in this.”
“I would not have known what I was asking a week ago,” he said, drawing closer still, “but the last few days have been sufficient to collect the evidence I needed. I admit I should have started gathering it earlier but perhaps you will forgive that omission. You know this is not my area of expertise.”
“Of all the perils we have ever faced—“ I began, but then I was stilled by his mouth on mine. He was still holding my hands and his mouth was warm and gentle. There was nothing to be gained by this; we would be friendless and cast out of society if this truth became known. He more than I had everything to lose and in allowing this I would become the direct agent of his downfall. Even so I moved wholly into his arms and felt his body fit against mine. I could taste him, feel the warmth of his chest as it pressed against me, hear the quick catch of his breath when I opened my mouth under his. There was no power on earth that could make me pull back from him at this moment; if it meant our ruin then, god help me, I would risk it for this. It made me a poorer man that I also put him in danger but a dam had broken within me and I was drowning in the flood. I could not give him up.
Our kiss grew deeper, I tasted his tongue against mine and a moan escaped me. We were pressed so close together I could feel him thickening against my thigh. “Put your hands on me,” I said hoarsely, and he shuddered at my voice and pulled me towards his bedroom.
He stilled momentarily when we had closed the door behind us, though he did not release me. “Watson, as you might suspect I have not—“
It was my turn to still him with a kiss. When I finally pulled away we were both panting. “We will only do what you wish,” I said. “It does not signify.”
His fingers had been busy on our clothes as we spoke. Very soon I was divested of my top garments and then he, too, was bare-chested. The breath caught in my throat when we came together again, at his warm, smooth skin, the brush of his hair when he bent to put his mouth on me, his clever fingers that soothed and inflamed me all at once.
We drew down our lower garments before laying down on the bed. He was thick and swollen and it was as if in a dream that I slid down his body and took him into my mouth. I had not imagined this ecstasy would ever be mine. He was hard and silken all over against my tongue. His body shook while I sucked, groaning at the taste and feel of him. I stroked my own prick with one hand, frantic to prolong this for as long as I could while simultaneously so desperate for release it was almost like pain.
“John,” he said thickly, clutching at my shoulders, “ah my dear, I am undone too soon. Your mouth…” He trailed away as his body went rigid and he threw his head back, crying out. It brought me to my own climax as he surged into my mouth, his hands now clutching fistfuls of sheet, the bow of his body arched and beautiful as he fell into the abyss.
-
I awoke clasped in his arms while he slept on. The taste of him still lingered on my lips and his legs were tangled with mine. A feeling of dread grew in me.
For all his brilliance and intellect, Holmes was untested in some of the ways of the world. I did not pretend he did not feel desire for me but that was not an end, and to rely on that alone was courting disaster. I could not direct his feelings but I could protect him from mine. The risk to him was too great, the dividends too weighed with guilt. One moment of ecstasy would have to carry me through; I could not ask more of him.
I stole out of bed and dressed. A bath and a shave served to restore some of my equilibrium, though my heart was very heavy and dull. I came to the lunch-table to find him there already.
“Ah, Watson,” he said, when he saw me. “Excellent, you are dressed. I’ve taken the liberty of purchasing tickets on the 1.30 to Southend. I fancy we are not far away from putting this thing to rest. One or two things remain to be tied up but they will not prove fatal if they are not borne out.”
He spoke cheerfully and without any hint towards the intimacy we had shared but an hour ago. It seemed to me that he had admitted the same regrets as I, and our liaison was to be put behind us. I did not blame him – how could I, when I had convinced myself of the same – he had chosen well; the logic and rationality of his true nature had guided him wisely.
My throat felt closed, but I forced myself to respond in kind. “You have come to a conclusion, then?”
“A provisional one,” he said, “but it will hold under questioning, I think.”
“I still cannot guess as to what the motives were for his death,” I said, trying to match his mood. “Or, indeed, what the cause of death was.”
“It was almost undoubtedly poison. The lack of any kind of physical markings show that it must have been a death initiated internally. I could show you two different specimens in my own collection that would bring a man down without any clue being given at post-mortem, save perhaps a slight thickening of the liver. He was most probably dosed, cleaned, dressed, and then placed in his position.”
“And the motive?”
“Oh,” he said, standing up from the table and making ready to go, “it is what it usually is in these cases. Love, or some thin approximation of it that injures everyone. Revenge, for the irregular placement of the former. What a perverse, injurious creature man is, to give his life over for a moment of feeling! You see why I seek to eliminate emotion from my reasoning altogether, do you not?”
It was as good a warning as I had ever received. I had thought him a little more affected by our encounter, but chastised myself for resenting the very thing I had hoped for. Even so, the pain of it cut deep and I was not as accomplished an actor as he was.
“Well,” I said. “I am here to accompany you back to Southend, if you wish, but I will remain behind if I am any kind of burden to you.”
His manner changed for an instant and I saw a deep emotion flicker behind his eyes. “My dear boy, any man alive would say yours is the more tested endurance. I blame myself for the continued assault on your fortitude and good will.”
“You will always have it,” I said, quietly. “Let us be on our way then.”
-
The journey was as different from the last as it could be. We sat on opposite seats and I did not sleep. The countryside flashed by in chequered glimpses of brown and green. Holmes read his paper without once looking up, I remained deep in my thoughts, and all was silent in the carriage. In all my years of association with him, I do not think there has ever been a more sombre mood between us. He was no longer solely my friend, but he was not the other, either, and my heart was gripped by a melancholy that almost numbed me.
We had ended our journey and alighted from the train before I had the presence of mind to ask where we were going.
“It is the woman,” he said, as we walked towards the houses we had visited previously. “An affaire de coeur, no doubt. The husband found them out and murdered him. Crewes and our dead man knew each other from their time in the Navy, as was evident in their similar tattoos. Yes, he tried to conceal it from us but I had the good fortune to be facing the door when he arrived and saw the mark before he rolled his sleeve down. Their home is also perfumed by the same cigarette that the dead man had in his pocket. Ah, did you not mark it? The very unfamiliarity of it was lodged in my mind.”
“And the silk?” I asked, mesmerised by his reasoning despite the tumult of emotions coursing through me.
He shook his head. “I have yet to test it, but it will not be hard to confirm.”
We walked in silence for a while longer until we reached our destination. Mrs Crewe opened the door as before, and seemed to pale a little when she saw us. She was cordial, however, and invited us in. She excused herself after seating us, saying she would fetch her husband.
“Quick, Watson,” Holmes said softly, “Outside! Station yourself by the back door, I will post myself at the front. He will undoubtedly try and escape.”
I ran to do his bidding and was almost too late. William Crewes was in the act of opening the back door when I came up behind him. His wife threw herself in front of me, clinging to my coat. I could not remove her without causing her harm. Having no other recourse to action, I threw myself backwards at him, dragging Mrs Crewes along with me. It was enough to stop him for a few precious moments while I disentangled her from me. Holmes had evidently heard the commotion and came running to my aid. We held him together; it was no easy task for he was very strong and had a wild look in his eye that told me he would not be easily subdued.
“Be still,” Holmes said sternly, “for her sake if nothing else. You have nothing left now but to protect your wife.”
His words found their mark. The big man stopped struggling and allowed us to escort him back to the sitting room, where he threw himself into a chair and put his head into his hands.
“My god, my god,” he cried, finally, looking up and holding a hand out to his wife. “Hannah, what will you do? Where will you go?”
She rushed to him and took his hand. “Don’t be frightened for me, William, I beg you. It’s your suffering I fear for. Poor man, poor man!” She burst into tears.
“I don’t regret it,” he said, stroking her hair. “We will be together at the last, and may eternal peace allow us the joy we were denied on this earth. I could not rest though, my dear,” he said, raising her up, “if I knew you were in pain.”
She sat up next to him and wiped at her tears.
“You did not seek to lessen her pain when you committed cold-blooded murder,” Holmes said grimly, “And you madam – I cannot implicate you completely but all my instincts convince me of your complicity. Can you deny it?”
“You are mistaken, sir,” Crewes replied, raising his reddened eyes to us. A strange kind of calm had settled on him at Holmes’s words. “I cannot protect Robert anymore, but I can protect his sister. Hush, Hannah, if I am to be accused, let it stand for something. Yes, Mr Holmes, you may look startled at that, for she used to be Hannah Somerville. Robert was her brother, whom I laid against that seawall a month ago, though I did not murder him. How could I, when he was my life and soul?”
I could not contain my shock and exclaimed out loud. Holmes had gone deathly still, and Hannah Crewes was white and bloodless.
Crewes passed his hand across his eyes in pain. “In a way I suppose I was responsible for his death, for he could not live a life of deceit any longer and I could not give him up. They discharged him with disgrace from the Navy when it became known. His old mates would have nothing to do with him, and his superiors disavowed him completely. He had nothing left but me, and even that must be done in lies and deception. He could not bring himself to come to me, even here, where his safety was assured. It was too much for his noble heart. He brought the poison with him from London and took it before we came home that night. He would not let me watch him depart this life but asked to be set in front of the sea one last time. I tore up my clothes carrying him there across that jagged wall, but that was nothing to the greater pain of knowing his eyes were dimming forever. I hid by the far end of the pier and kept vigil until I knew he was gone. Ah Robert, Robert!” He bent his head.
Hannah Crewes grasped his hand and looked up at us defiantly. “I wed William so he and Robert could live together without suspicion falling on them.”
I found my voice. “It was well done of you, madam.”
“I … had my own peculiarities,” she said, looking down at her hands, “I loved and was loved in turn, but consumption took …them from me. Robert protected me when I could have come to disgrace. It was no sacrifice to try and ensure his happiness when it came to his turn.”
Holmes had been silent till now, but he stood up and bowed to both of them. “I am not accustomed on the whole to being mistaken about my cases,” he said, “but in this instance I believe I can say with a glad heart that I was in error about the conclusions I drew. It remains only to assure you that your secret is safe with us, and to wish you recovery from your pain. Your wounds are deeper than most, but time will blunt the edge of all anguish. My only wish for you is that day comes sooner rather than later. Come, Watson, our work here is done.”
I followed him out into a chilly twilight, but one that was clear and bright. The first stars were out and a clean sea breeze blew off the water towards us.
-
We arrived at Baker Street late that evening, having caught the last train from Southend. The journey back had been as quiet and distant as the one there. In truth, the shock and distress of the afternoon coupled with the turmoil I had already been feeling served to weary me immeasurably. I did not sleep in the railway carriage, but my exhaustion got the better of me in the hansom that bore us back to our home. When it clattered to a stop I woke to find Holmes next to me, his arm keeping me upright.
I mumbled an apology but so weary was I that he had to keep his arm about me and escort me to my room. I collapsed onto my bed, my eyes already closing again, my last memory one of Holmes murmuring something into my hair before he bent over me and tugged off my boots. I slid into a dark, dreamless sleep.
-
I awoke late the next day, refreshed in body but no lighter in heart. The breakfast table was uninhabited. I could hardly bring myself to touch anything on it. Grief that cannot be shared is a strange bedfellow and I spent the rest of the day in my club reading and hardly speaking to anyone. Holmes was absent when I returned to Baker Street. I lay awake for some hours after retiring.
It was approaching midnight when I finally got out of bed and made my way down the passage. There was a light coming from under Holmes’s door and I perceived movement. The door was not latched. I swung it open.
Holmes stood in the center of the room, surveying me quite calmly. “Have you recovered, Watson? I deemed it best not to disturb your rest this morning.”
“I will not willingly choose the barren and empty existence that is life without you,” I said. “If you have in truth put it behind us then let that be an end to it, but I would rather dwell in the shadows with you then deny it and live in misery.”
“I for my part would not consign you to a life with a person so unsatisfying and unskilled that you would leap out of bed to avoid them,” he replied coolly.
I flushed. “My change of heart was not governed by anything other than a desire to protect you. I would not have left your side for anything less.”
He looked taken aback for a moment, then nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, that is my Watson. I might not be experienced in matters of the heart, my dear, but I am not untrained in subterfuge. It takes some skill to discover my secrets, you know.”
I was by his side in an instant. “You will have me, then?”
His answer was to draw me close. I kissed him with all the passion and longing I had carried within me since leaving his bed. He was warm and real under my hands, chasing away all the ghosts of solitude and sorrow I had felt haunting me since we had left Southend. Our story would be no less secret; none of the sweet everyday realities of love would be ours to enjoy. Our embraces would always be in the dark. I felt his mouth move against mine and did not care how we loved each other; it sufficed that he was mine. I would always be afraid but joy would overrule the domination of fear as long as we were by each other’s sides.
He pulled me closer and I gasped against his mouth when our pricks lined up through our clothes and rubbed hotly against each other. “I will hear that sound again before the night ends,” he murmured, and stripped us quickly of our clothes. I moved to grasp him, but he brushed my hand away and gathered us both into his hand instead. His long, thin, clever fingers curled around us and worked us against each other. “It is not so very difficult if one applies the principle of efficiency versus space,” he said thickly, then made a shocked, groaning sound when I rubbed a wet finger along the cleft of his buttocks.
His strokes quickened, our pricks slipping and sliding against each other as our fluids mingled. I put my hand over his to keep it steady and we both thrust against the pressure, panting and whispering promises to each other.
“Mine,” he said fiercely, throwing his head back and grinding himself against me with no inhibitions, “you are mine. I will not give you up for society or approbation.”
“I am yours, yours alone. Sherlock.” The words, raw and foolish as they were, spiralled me into ecstasy. I cried out, feeling him spill over me in turn, clutching at me as we panted and writhed against each other, murmuring words of love and belonging that I had never dared hope for in this life.
-
“Of course the obituary in the newspaper was placed by Crewes,” Sherlock said, against my skin. “I suspected the connection when I realised the book must belong to Crewes, though I admit I suspected the wrong family member.”
We were in his bed, sated and lazy, wrapped in each other. It was novel and strange indeed to be curled around Sherlock Holmes, having one of our daily conversations while occasionally stopping to kiss the words off each other’s mouths.
“How did the scrap of paper come to be in his clothes?” I asked.
He shrugged. “I can only surmise Somerville placed it there himself, perhaps as some poetic farewell. Perhaps the fact that it came from Crewes’s book was significant to him.”
I shivered inwardly at the the picture of those dark last days of the dead man. How bleak and unforgiving life must have seemed to him. And yet for all the sorrow his memory still lived on. When it seemed as if all the world had forgotten him, we had found two who had loved him best and who would keep him in their hearts forever. So life went on, even in death.
We slept.
-
The End.
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Date: 2014-05-07 10:13 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-05-17 11:00 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-05-07 07:24 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-05-17 11:02 pm (UTC)Wednesday May 7, 2014
Date: 2014-05-07 09:00 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-05-07 10:44 pm (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2014-05-17 11:03 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-05-08 06:21 am (UTC)I just loved it: There is a great story and angst and first time and lil scared Holmes and Watson, oh my heart! I loved all the details of the mystery too. I also liked the dramatic ways of Holmes (like sniffing the cigarette), which you described very well.
Plus it's a longer story too! (I don't like when the stories I read end too soon. XD)
The train travel part of this story reminded me of a drawing I once did :) I thus forth dedicate it to this story: and might actually finish it one day!
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Date: 2014-05-17 11:08 pm (UTC)I am SO relieved and delighted you liked this. It was my first ever ACD fic and I was so anxious about getting it right. I know I have a lot to learn (particularly after reading all the talented and compelling stories that have come through this exchange), but that you liked it is super encouraging.
Thank you for liking it! And for the gorgeous drawing ♥
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Date: 2014-05-19 07:21 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-05-08 06:31 am (UTC)Good case fic as well - the details take us straight into that time.
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Date: 2014-05-17 11:10 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-05-18 08:40 am (UTC)Very relieved that they said "The law is a ass" instead!
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Date: 2014-05-18 08:53 am (UTC)Miserable, frustrated Holmes would probably be interesting to write, too. *ponders*
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Date: 2014-05-08 07:30 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-05-17 11:12 pm (UTC)And thank you again for your gorgeous art, I loved it ♥
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Date: 2014-05-08 02:49 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-05-17 11:12 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-05-08 05:31 pm (UTC)And a lovely first-time tale to boot!
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Date: 2014-05-17 11:16 pm (UTC)But yay! that you thought the case worked here, I'm so pleased. It sounds like they've pretty much decided Jestyn (?) was involved in the death, so I figured some sort of tragic lovers story was appropos.
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Date: 2014-05-08 07:32 pm (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2014-08-18 12:02 am (UTC)