acdholmesfest | Fic for thesmallhobbit: The Best Laid Plans, Part I

Title: The Best Laid Plans
Recipient:

stardust_made
Rating: R
Characters: Holmes/Watson. OFC.
Warnings: None apply.
Summary: When Watson is pressed to act against Holmes’s instructions he finds himself embarking on a journey that leads him to some unexpected places.
Disclaimer: Filled with gratitude for being able to play freely with the characters in the public sandbox. But mostly with admiration for Sir Arthur Conan Doyle for the fine quality of sand he’s provided.

The sitting room of 221B Baker Street has seen many dramatic entrances over the years. Clients have burst in, excited or distraught, at odd hours. Holmes’s young squad of eyes and ears, the Irregulars, have crammed the space, filling it up with disorder in proportion to the indignation of our landlady. Wicked men of crime and vice have made their presence known through quiet hisses or sudden displays of brute force. I have attempted to capture my readers’ attention by giving each such occasion its due, but my focus has always remained firmly on the visitor.

In the case I am confiding to these pages, out of habit rather than any possibility of publication, it was the host who was in a state so remarkable as to obscure the entrance of the visitor. The host was I, and the visitor was a worthy opponent for taking centre-stage, if only for her exquisite beauty. Her face had the delicacy produced from generations of excellent breeding. From her hair, golden and heavy, gracing her head like a crown, to her small, narrow feet, she was as lovely a creature as a man could find, but at the moment of her arrival none of these observations were available to me. Holmes wouldn’t have congratulated me, even if he had been there. I made them later; at the start, all I noticed was her youth and the violent redness of her tearful eyes. The rest was lost on me.

To say that my soul was in turmoil would be inaccurate, for it would suggest unhappiness at least to some degree. While I was certainly unsettled, tense, and not a little frantic, misery played no part in my experiences. Quite the opposite—there was a joyous, bright feeling that shone through all the rest. It was rooted in an event that had taken place mere three hours earlier, but I was certain its effects would last for a much longer period than that.

Holmes and I were working on a smuggling case, the grand scale of which became more apparent with every step we made. Two weeks after a humble retired widow came to seek my friend’s assistance for the disappearance of a family heirloom Holmes was working around the clock, trying to piece together rumours and facts, reported incidents and distant hearsays. He had grown secretive, too, as was his habit. In the night to which I refer he had left at dusk on a mysterious mission and judging by his extraordinary conduct before his departure, I could only conclude that mission was to put him in mortal peril.

Why should I feel happiness at the prospect? There is a simple explanation—I didn’t. I was deeply worried and restless; I even debated going against his instructions to avoid contacting the police at all cost. Yet while preoccupied with fears about my friend’s safety, a part of me, an egotistical part, was busy re-living our parting.

After impressing upon me his instructions once more—"Don’t leave the house unless it is absolutely necessary, Watson. You must promise me again!"—Holmes quickly nodded at my reluctant assent and shook his head silently, cutting short my last attempt to convince him to take me with him. He held my eyes for a second longer than necessary. (Then again, that was often my feeling anyway, so I dismissed it as wishful fancy on my part. Besides, who could say how long was the necessary length of eye contact between two people with our close bond?) He then walked briskly to the door and opened it, made to go out. There, he stopped abruptly. He stood in the doorway for a few moments, his back to me, before turning decisively on his heels, coming back to me in a few long strides and…

He embraced me. Sherlock Holmes embraced me. He squeezed my upper arms first, his eyes boring into mine with unfathomable intensity, and he wrapped me in his arms. I hardly had the chance to come out of my stupor then he was already pulling away and looking at me again, his expression almost moved. Holmes’s hands did the most astonishing thing then—they seemed to flutter over me, as if he was making sure I was real and present. His eyes shone with something that, after repeatedly turning the image over in my head (as my stomach turned with it, warm and throbbing and exulted), I came to believe was akin to regret. He pulled me into his embrace again, a tighter one, and one in which I was damned well intent to play a more active part. I had barely closed my arms around his slender frame and pressed my chin against his shoulder when he pulled away again, nodded curtly, and disappeared.

How could the late evening appearance of an unaccompanied beautiful young woman, as much as she was sobbing into her glove, be more engaging than the tumultuous conflict of emotions battling in my chest? The man I held in higher esteem than any other for all the world to see, the man for whom my devotion and attraction had long passed any reasonable line from which it was wise to let the world watch, that man had given me a glimpse of his strong emotion—a miracle in its own right—and it was all directed at me, for me, bearing the unmistakable form of fondness. I was wild with questions, torn between the most persistently soaring hope and the sobering, heavy anchor of common sense—or was it self-preservation? Saying how that couldn’t be…could it?

Yet a gentleman had his conduct to uphold, even when he was secretly feeling much like an impressionable young lady himself and I am proud to say I stood up to the challenge. If I wasn’t already pacing around the room in a state of considerable agitation, I would have jumped when the door all but flew open, letting in the distraught young woman and a rather flustered Mrs. Hudson. After a few moments of confusion I was already busy reassuring our landlady on her way out, then directing the trembling visitor to the chair nearest to the fire—as it happened my own, though I had made hardly any use of it. A cup of tea was offered; it was declined with a voice that I had expected to match the gentle form of the lady. It was rough, instead, from crying and exhaustion as I was quick to conclude. I had another chance to privately frown at the rules of society that forbade a lady to be offered something stronger. I have often thought that in certain circumstances a sip of brandy would save a lot of anxiety to both the creatures of the fairer sex and their helpless companions. This was one of those occasions, yet there was nothing to be done. I ventured to pat her delicate shoulder and retreated into Holmes’s chair to wait for our visitor—I was certain she wasn’t my visitor—to restore the possession of her faculties and speak about the reason for her presence in the room at this hour.

Thankfully, the wait wasn’t a long one. Within a minute the lady’s breathing calmed. She sighed and rubbed her forehead somewhat abruptly, the gesture unbecoming and betraying her distress even more, as far as I could judge. Her swimming eyes met mine and I decided it was time to speak.

"May I ask about the purpose of your visit, Miss…"

"Fanshaw. Valerie Fanshaw," she whispered.

"Doctor Watson, at your service. I imagine you’ve come to see Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Miss Fanshaw."

Valerie Fanshaw opened her mouth as if to speak, but chose to nod vehemently.

"I regret to tell you he is not at home," I said. I intended to offer my assistance, more out of courtesy than any real profession to be of equal use. Before I had finished my sentence she was staring around the room with wild eyes as if expecting Holmes to appear from behind a secret door and disprove my words.

"He is not at home?" she repeated, voice trembling. "But I must see him. I must speak to him! Oh, I am so wretched!"

Her voice had gone shrill at her last words and she dug her fingers into her palms as she folded her hands into fists. Her eyes filled with tears again. I rushed to comfort her.

"Please, Miss Fanshaw, do not distress yourself! Can you tell me what is bothering you? Holmes may not be back for some—" Just in time I remembered his words of warning and bit my tongue. Valerie Fanshaw was certainly not a member of the Yard, but something in Holmes’s tense demeanour earlier made me stop and take extra precautions.

"Miss Fanshaw," I began once more, "If there is anything I could do to help you…"

She stared at me with sudden shrewdness—I could only think of it as suspicion fighting with desperation—and then her face fell.

"I am in a terrible situation, Doctor Watson," she said. "Strange occurrences have been happening to me in the last six weeks. Strange and sinister. I live alone in Richmond. My father died when I was two and my dear mother passed away a year ago. I have no siblings and no relatives that I am close to. For personal reasons I have a deep distrust of servants and only keep a maid in the house during the day." It seemed to me that there was hesitation when she said the last sentence, but I didn’t press her.

"I have enough means to allow me to live comfortably," she continued. "I dedicate my time to a couple of charities and to the various pursuits a lady in my position has. My life is simple. I don’t have many friends; I spend my evenings at home, doing embroidery, and I only go to the theatre once a month. There is no—I have no male acquaintances on whose help I can rely." She sighed and her head bowed, but she didn’t start crying again.

"Go on," I encouraged her.

"Well, as I said, it all began six weeks ago. One evening, as I was drawing the curtains closed, I chanced to look outside and I saw two men leaving the house across the street. I don’t know the people who live there. I don’t think I have ever seen them, but I have only lived in the area for the last three months. The two men were rough looking and—" She made a sharp gesture, as if she was about to hide her face in her palms, but then she stopped half-way. I looked at her, amazed. She seemed to have frozen, until in a few moments her hands dropped back in her lap, and she finished, stoically. "The men stared at me and leered at me, I am sure of it."

I thought she was trying to be brave and indeed she continued in a hurry to get her story over with.

"I have seen those same men or at least one of them every week since then. Not just on my street—they are everywhere I go. In the last week they have tried to approach me, coming closer, nodding and smiling at me in a most disgusting manner. Two days ago I was leaving our local church when someone brushed past me quite forcefully. When I looked up, it was one of those men. He just laughed at me! Oh, that hideous face!" Her little fist shot up in the air and made me start. I could see this was a mystery that would quickly catch Holmes’s interest. My heart suddenly plummeted in my chest. Miss Fanshaw’s extraordinary account had distracted me, but now the thought that my dear friend may never have the chance to learn about this case pierced me to my core. I collected myself.

"And what brings you here tonight?" I asked.

Miss Fanshaw looked me squarely in the face and I was at last struck by the true loveliness of her features. Her swollen eyes were the only thing to mar the perfection. Despite their pitiful state, there was hardness in them.

"This morning I received a note," she said. "It only read, ‘Prepare for the new dawn.’ I didn’t know what to think, but something told me those two horrible men had something to do with it. I’ve spent the day in unimaginable fantasies about what is to come. What can such a message mean, Doctor Watson? The dawn—it can only mean something will happen to me during the night." Suddenly she slid forward in her seat until she was on the edge, seemingly ready to drop on her knees in front of me. I regarded her in alarm, as she turned a pleading face at me.

"I am begging you, Doctor Watson, you must help me! There is no one I could turn to, no one! I was hoping that Mr. Holmes could explain these sinister events, but now you say he is not here…I cannot go back to my house alone. I don’t wish to go back there. I’m scared out of my wits as to what should happen to me. Doctor Watson, please, tell me what to do! Please, help me!"

At the last words she quivered forward like she was really about to throw herself at my feet. I jumped to mine.

"Miss Fanshaw! You are safe here. You won’t have to face those men alone. We must go to the police at once—"

She interrupted me with renewed vehemence.

"No! I spoke to them after the incident at the church. They laughed at me. They saw me as a fanciful young woman and sent me away."

"But if we go together and you show them the note—you kept the note, didn’t you?" I asked, thinking with a considerable delay that the note was where Holmes would have started.

She nodded.

"Have you brought it with you?"

She hesitated. "Yes," she said at last, her tone firm. "But I’ll show it to you when we get to my house. You must promise me that you will not leave me alone or make me go to the police."

"Miss Fanshaw," I pressed. "Mr. Sherlock Holmes is held in high esteem by certain members of the force. I am sure that if we go to them with—"

"No," she cried, making a motion as if to get up. "No, I don’t want to go back to them."

"Then we shan’t," I hurried to soothe her. It was evident there was something else at play here, but Miss Fanshaw was too distressed to be questioned further. I had seen plenty of clients come to seek Holmes’s help, but still hesitant to reveal everything to him. Only those in real despair were put in a position where they had to trust quickly. Miss Fanshaw still didn’t trust me and after all, she had her right—I was not Sherlock Holmes.

I made up my mind. If I couldn’t be of assistance with Holmes’s exceptional skills, then I could try and offer her my modest ones. Maybe then I could gain her confidence and apply his methods, question her further about those men and most importantly, examine the note and her surroundings.

"Miss Fanshaw," I said reassuringly. "Will it put your mind at ease if I accompanied you to your house and stayed there for the night, keeping watch?"

Her face, already red and shining from the nearness of the fire and from her ordeal, lit up.

"Yes! Oh, Doctor Watson, thank you! Thank you!" Her hand rose again, in a gesture that was quite a match to some of Holmes’s more theatrical ones. "I don’t know how I should repay you. Any fee you—"

I lifted my own hand. "Please. I am sure Holmes would be most intrigued by your case. I’m merely offering my presence and my revolver for the night."

She sprang to her feet. "Oh, I already feel silly for being so scared. How can I thank you for putting my mind at ease?"

I murmured another reassurance and excused myself. I made preparations for spending the night away, starting by scribbling a note to Lestrade. It was not the same as going to the police with the lady, I reasoned. With Holmes gone without a trace and myself disappearing into the night, it was sensible to make sure someone knew at least my whereabouts. Lestrade, Holmes and I had a long-standing, tested relationship, despite certain tensions between my friend and the respected police inspector. I knew Holmes singled him out for a good reason. As for myself, I felt a sense of camaraderie with Lestrade that made me consider him not just an official member of the force, but a trusted friend.

After I finished the note, I put my revolver in my coat pocket and quickly shrugged it on. I could see the lady was growing restless by the way she paced to the window and kept looking out. Time was advancing, indeed, and I was afraid to make our arrival in Richmond later than it already was. But I had to write another note. I answered Miss Fanshaw’s questions about both notes with half a lie. I told her the first note was to a patient who was expecting to hear from me, but I did tell her the truth about the intended recipient of the second.

As my words hastily filled the page, I felt deep unease. Such was my reluctance to disobey Holmes’s orders and such was my concern about him, that for a moment I hesitated if I should not ask Miss Fanshaw to spend the night at Baker Street. But aside from the lack of propriety of such a suggestion, I could hear my friend’s cry, "The game is afoot, Watson!" I had to leave, follow the scent in his absence. I quickly signed my note—"Yours, Watson"—hoping feverishly that he would read it and that he would understand my choice to break my promise. And was it really a break? He had told me to leave the house only in exceptional circumstances and I was sure he would agree these fitted the description. My eyes lingered for a moment on the word ‘yours’ and sweet pressure collapsed my lungs again. Then, with a final touch to my coat pocket, I left the house with Miss Fanshaw.

***

The journey to our destination allowed me to make further observations on my companion. There was not enough light in the carriage for this to be a truly successful endeavour, but I was nonetheless able to get a confirmation of her words about her financial situation. Her clothes and hat would have likely told Holmes half the story of her life in addition to the monthly sum she spent on her personal appearance. What I could say with certainty was that both dress and hat seemed of excellent quality. The hat in particular was the kind of accessory I had seen gracing the heads of ladies of some prominent stature in life.

Miss Fanshaw seemed barely over twenty years of age, so the flashes of strong character of which I had caught glimpses must have been due to her own nature rather than hardship. I couldn’t say what life she had led before her mother’s death, but her life now was sheltered and luxurious. I might not be Holmes, but I am a medical man—I was able to distinguish the signs of a healthy countenance that only good nutrition and comfortable living could give.

On a couple of occasions Miss Fanshaw caught me looking at her and I decided to abandon my pursuit for more information. I had always been baffled by Holmes’s skill to watch people without them noticing, but on this instance I was reminded that my amazement was even stronger on account of another, perhaps even more inexplicable phenomenon. People sometimes caught my friend’s keen gaze on them, but there was something about him that made them accept—if not willingly then at least begrudgingly—the intrusion of such a close look. Very likely it was the same something that commanded respect from both members of the noblest families and common London beggars alike.

Once outside, we managed to catch a hansom after two unsuccessful attempts. One was already driving past us as we left the house, and the driver didn’t seem to see me. The second had my companion almost settled into it when she gasped, averted her face with an expression of distaste, and alighted instantly, murmuring delicately that the conditions in the carriage were unacceptable. I didn’t enquire for details and naturally obliged her. Thus, we found ourselves on our way after we got on into the third hansom. There I had proof of what the lady had complained about earlier. A part of her clothing must have come to a close contact with something repulsive in the second carriage—as we rode, I kept catching a whiff of some very unpleasant smell. I could see Miss Fanshaw looked uncomfortable, too.

Aside from that, our journey was uneventful. My companion and I hardly spoke—she had withdrawn into her corner, the last twelve hours evidently taking their toll as she didn’t say more than a few words. She did direct a bashful smile at me a few times though, as if to convey the enduring strength of her gratitude.

For myself, I disliked the lack of conversation. It meant that, unhindered, my thoughts returned anxiously to Holmes and the possible dangers he was facing alone. I bitterly resented my compliance to his moods and to his whims, but that had always been the case, ever since we met and I was put under the instant spell of his most fascinating personality. Despite of showing Sherlock Holmes my admiration and my disapproval without discrimination, I could hardly ever affect him with them. I had failed to modify his habits and behaviour; at least that was the way I saw things then. He still did what he thought best and I still remained by his side—or in some cases ostensibly far from it.

With my gloomy reflections, the time to get to Kensington seemed both too short and too long to me. Looking out I tried to find my bearings, but was not successful; although this part of London was vaguely familiar to me, it was not familiar enough and soon I was completely lost. We drove quickly through some bigger streets, the hansom taking turn after turn that had me disoriented. I was just beginning to suspect our driver was unsure of the address when the horses slowed down until a few turns later they stopped outside the very last house in a close.

I alighted and paid the driver, then offered my hand to Miss Fanshaw and let her lead the way. The hooves of the retreating horses echoed for a few moments and then the fog swallowed both animals and sound, leaving the place eerily quiet. The hour had advanced—the street was barely illuminated by the weak light of a couple of street lamps, the one nearest to the house extinguished and making visibility even harder. I had no chance to have a proper look at the house across the street, the one where Miss Fanshaw had first seen the two strange men. I had tried to ask her about their descriptions at the start of our ride, but she had answered with a couple of tired words that there was nothing distinctive about them. They were both young men in their thirties, she had said, wearing workmen’s caps. Their faces were covered with a lot of facial hair. I had pressed about their clothing; the lady had all but snapped at me that she did not wish to dwell on her persecutors. I was respectful of how taxing the last six weeks must have been for her nerves so I excused her behaviour and dropped the subject. Now, there was nothing to add about the surroundings either. I was beginning to dread having to report to Holmes—there was hardly anything I could tell him! At least the lady’s home could give me some clues.

The houses opposite Miss Fanshaw’s property as well as those adjacent to it were all plunged in darkness. My fingers slid in my pocket instinctively and clasped around my revolver. I fought an impulse to murmur some reassurance to the thin, quiet figure unlocking the front door in front of me, but in the dead silence I was not convinced whom I was trying to reassure. The door opened without any noise, yet I was certain I heard some scratching sound from within the house. The fingers of my other hand closed around my young companion’s shoulder, making her jump. In a harsh whisper I apologized for startling her and suggested I should go in first. I couldn’t see her features well, but I saw her nod in agreement as she moved out of my way. I gripped my revolver tighter and pulled it out of my pocket, quietly releasing the safety catch, then moved into the pitch black house.

The corridor seemed perfectly silent. I heard Miss Fanshaw’s movements as she entered the house behind me. I took a few steps in and was just about to ask her to risk turning on the lights, when something sharp pressed against my neck and a different kind of blackness replaced the first.

***

On to Part II