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acdholmesfestTitle: The Adventure of the Devil’s Snare
Recipient:sanspatronymic
Author: [redacted]
Rating: Teen/PG-13
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, John Openshaw; mentions of Mary Watson and Mrs Hudson
Relationships: John Watson/Mary Watson (at the time of the case); Sherlock Holmes/John Watson (unspecified later time)
Warnings: References to atrocities committed in the American Civil War and Reconstruction eras; canon-typical violence; canon references; Victorian-era racial terminology and attitudes; a more-or-less verbatim quote from The Five Orange Pips reworked into the story as a ‘resource’
Summary: “Of all the mixture of half-truths, gross oversimplifications, and farrago of lies I have sent him over the years, the Adventure of the Five Orange Pips stands out as one of the most extraordinary taradiddles that ever masqueraded as a truthful account.”
Word Count: 7,625
Author’s Notes: As you might guess from the above, The Adventure of the Five Orange Pips never made sense to me as written. I’ve taken your prompt of “a fondness for 'deleted scene' type works (ie, something that would fit nicely into a hole left in a canon story)” as inspiration and…well, pretty thoroughly rewritten the entire thing. I hope it pleases you!
Special thanks to: [redacted] for the beta
Disclaimer: The original story and characters belong to Doyle; all mistakes are my own.
Doctor Doyle – my editor and publisher, insofar as he takes public credit as the ‘author’ for my work – recently published a list of his favourite Sherlock Holmes stories. I was thoroughly amused by the list, but when I came to one particular favourite, I burst out laughing, heartily and long enough for Holmes to inquire what was so amusing. When I told him, he did not laugh, but gave me one of his most ironic smiles.
I do not know if it was a subtle joke on Doctor Doyle’s part, or whether the man really does like that particular bit of writing. But of all the mixture of half-truths, gross oversimplifications, and farrago of lies I have sent him over the years, the Adventure of the Five Orange Pips stands out as one of the most extraordinary taradiddles that ever masqueraded as a truthful account.
For all its flaws, it did help serve to save a man’s life. I must be proud of it for that reason alone; but there is very little additional cause to herald its existence. My wife Mary, an orphan, off visiting her non-existent relatives? Holmes blithely letting a client wander off into a dark and stormy night with known danger dogging his heels?
Pure and utter nonsense – and in the former case, an error gross enough that it really should cause readers to wonder at it. For one reader in particular, however, it served (and serves) exactly as intended – a reminder of known illegal acts, and a deterrent against further attempts.
The true story is far darker and more dangerous, and can never see the light of day.
John Openshaw was our client’s name, true enough, and he did arrive at Baker Street on the stormiest night in many years. But as for the rest of it…
_________________________
It was a foul night. The worst storm I had ever seen in London howled outside the windows of the sitting-room at Baker Street. I was particularly grateful to be warm and cosy indoors, as my own home certainly would not have been. A problem with the gas line for our street had been discovered, and the resultant public works had left my home and surgery (along with every other building on our row) without gas or running water for the week. Mary and I could have decamped to a hotel, but despite a good start on my new practice, funds were still scarce. Instead, she had gone to visit Mrs Forrester, who was delighted to have her as a guest. I had made a similar appeal to Holmes, whose terse telegrammed response (COME AT ONCE STOP SH FINAL STOP) was belied by his small, warm smile when he saw me at the door. Any doubts that might have lingered in my mind about my welcome were dispersed by the sight of the sitting-room, hastily cleared of papers, and by my friend’s quiet air of contentment as we sat together by the fireside late into the night.
Between the shriek of the wind and the hammering of the rain, I almost did not hear the bell. “A visitor? At this hour, and in this weather?”
Holmes gave me a sardonic look. “The only person in this house who regularly receives visitors is Mrs Hudson, as you well know. This must be either an Inspector or a client – and desperate indeed to be out in such a storm. If you will answer the door, Watson, I shall stir up the fire.”
Given that it was long past the hour when Mrs Hudson and the servants would be abed, I made no objections to this sensible plan. I hurried downstairs and found a pale, rain-soaked young man on the doorstep in a state of considerable agitation. I ushered him indoors and helped him remove his raincoat and hat, neither of which had stood up to the storm particularly well. His umbrella was a twisted wreck, testament to the fierce winds. In his other hand he grasped an old carpetbag, which he would hardly let go of long enough to remove his coat.
“Are you Mr Sherlock Holmes?” the man asked as soon as he caught his breath.
“Doctor John Watson,” I replied, shaking my head. “Holmes is upstairs. I am sure you must need his advice very urgently.”
“Desperately. It might mean my very life,” he replied fervently, then paused and ducked his head. “Forgive my lack of manners. I am all bewildered. My name is John Openshaw. Your name is familiar to me, Doctor Watson, and I would be glad of your counsel as well as his.”
“I shall be happy to provide whatever assistance I can. Come up to the sitting-room and sit by the fire, and tell us what brought you here.”
In very little time Openshaw was ensconced in a chair near the fire, with a lap-rug over his legs and a measure of brandy in his hand. I was unsurprised to find Holmes had placed Openshaw’s chair not merely for warmth, but so that the light of the fire and of the gas-lamps fell upon him. The illumination glinted off of the visitor’s gold-rimmed glasses and the dull brasswork of the carpetbag he set by his feet. In spite of the urgency of his late-night call, he hardly seemed to know where to begin. Holmes, however, is a master at coaxing the shyest, most tongue-tied individual into speaking freely, and it was not long before John Openshaw was deep into his story of his uncle and the strange and deadly legacy he had left behind.
“I have read descriptions of men turning as pale as death, Mr Holmes, but I had always believed them fanciful until the day my uncle received the Pondicherry letter. When those five orange pips fell out onto his plate, he cried out, not loudly, but a horrible noise I will never be able to adequately describe, and his face looked – well, it appeared the same way seven weeks later, when he lay in his coffin.”
“Five orange pips?” Holmes asked, his brows knitted into a slight frown.
“Yes, five seeds and nothing more, except the letters K K K, written in red ink on the inside of the envelope.”
“And what did your uncle do then?”
“He sat there quite unmoving for a minute or more, as if he had been turned to stone. Finally he heaved a great sigh and focused on me. ‘My sins have come back upon me, John,’ he said in the saddest voice I could ever recall him using. ‘What sins?’ I cried, for I was only sixteen, and although my uncle was generally unsociable, and occasionally prone to drink, he had always been kind to me, and I could not imagine him as anything other than a good man. I said as much.
“A little colour came back into my uncle’s face at that, and he suddenly looked very sad. ‘Bless you for thinking so, my boy. I have tried to be a good man, and yet sometimes the Devil’s greatest snare is laid for those who believe themselves to be doing right in the face of a great wrong, and thereby blind themselves to the wrongs they themselves commit.’ He shook his head. ‘I see you don’t understand. I hope you never do. Come with me.’
“He led me up to that very attic room I had always been forbidden to enter, the one place in the house I had never been allowed to go. He pulled out his ring of keys and fitted an old iron key into the lock. I remember being surprised at how smoothly it turned, and how silently the door opened. The room itself was perfectly ordinary, with a few boxes of papers, an old steamer trunk, and sundry other items. My uncle ignored them all and went straight to a small brass box. I saw immediately that it had the same mysterious letters raised upon its top as had appeared inside the envelope. There was a small hole in the side, where a key might fit.
“‘What is all this?’ I asked him, gesturing around the room.
“My uncle never looked away from the brass box. ‘Relics of my younger days, my boy, when I believed the world to be a simpler place, with easy answers. Records of my days in the Army of the Confederacy, and my involvement in American politics during the Reconstruction. None of that need concern you now, although you might find it interesting to look through at some later time, should you ever wonder about my years in America.’ He hesitated briefly, then picked up the brass box and handed it to me. ‘I will give you the key to this, but you must promise me that you will never open it except in direst need – you’ll know when, if that black day ever comes – and if you swear that you will never share the contents with your father. Never mention it to him. Swear it.’
“Stunned, I did so. My uncle took off his pocket-watch and chain, and showed me the small key inside the fob. ‘This will wind the watch, and will also unlock that box. Use the former often, and pray you never need bother with the latter.’ That was all he said about it, then or ever. He ushered me out of the attic room, locked the door, and sent one of the servants for his attorney.
“My uncle was a changed man from that day – more morose, more prone to drink, and less sociable than ever. The only times he ventured out of doors were in drunken fits, where he would charge about with his revolver, snarling that he was afraid of no-one. That he was afraid, I saw even then. I understand it better now; the feeling, anyway. I am as in the dark as ever as to the sinister forces that inspire it.
“Well, one night my uncle went out on one of his rages and never returned. We found him in the morning, in the garden, face-down in the pool that marked one boundary. It was no more than two feet in depth. There was no sign of violence, and several servants testified as to his inebriated state, so the jury brought in a verdict of ‘death by misadventure.’”
“What year was this?” Holmes asked.
“1883. My uncle received the letter on March 10th and died on May 2nd.”
“Thank you. Pray continue.”
“My uncle’s will left his entire estate to my father for his lifetime, with the provision that it should then come to me. My father decided to give over his house in Coventry to my eldest brother, and resettle at Horsham with me. I think he was tired of town life, and did not want to uproot me from my home of many years. That was in the beginning of ’84. I had told my father of the strange message my uncle received, and the odd effect it had upon him, but my father did not think it of much importance. He and I lived happily at Horsham until January of ’85, when a second mysterious message made its appearance. The letter was addressed to my father. The postmark was from Dundee this time, not Pondicherry, but the contents were the same: five orange pips. This time, however, there was an additional message along with the K K K on the inside flap: ‘Put the Colonel’s papers on the sundial.’
“My father flatly refused to consider any such thing. ‘I have been through all of my brother’s papers, and there is nothing in them of any interest to anyone. Even if there were, I should never accede to such a bizarre demand. This is England, not uncivilized territories. It is nothing more than a crude joke, and I will ignore it as the trash that it is.’
“I knew he was right, for I had read through my uncle’s papers myself since his passing. There was nothing unusual or objectionable about them. Yet I knew what my father did not: neither he nor I had seen all of my uncle’s things. The brass box and its unknown contents burned in my conscience as I urged my father to notify the police. I would not break my sworn word, but I did everything I could to encourage him. He refused, and moreover forbade me to mention the matter to anyone else. The prohibition stung, particularly as I knew my father was due to travel to visit with an old friend in two days’ time.
“I felt I had to obey him, yet knew I could not rest without taking some action. That night, I took the key from the watch-fob and opened the brass box. Inside, as I suspected I might, I found a number of papers, both loose and a hand-bound collection, with the letters K K K prominently blazoned on the front of the latter. I leafed through the papers eagerly, certain I had found the key to the sinister messages. But it was nothing more than the notes and meeting minutes of some society my uncle had belonged to in Florida. There was nothing obviously sinister about it; just names of those in attendance, old and new business, and the like. For the life of me, I could find no meaning in any of it.
“I say for the life of me, but I should say for my father’s life. He left as planned for his visit to Portsdown Hill. Two days later I received an urgent telegram from the Major imploring me to come at once. My father had gone for an evening walk around the countryside, and fallen into one of the deep chalk-pits that can be found there. His skull was shattered, but he was still alive, though in the gravest condition. I left immediately, but my father never regained consciousness. He died the morning after my arrival.
“To all eyes but mine, my father’s death was a simple accident. The jury brought a verdict of ‘death from accidental causes,’ and ask and seek as I might, I could not find any evidence to the contrary. The chalk-pit had been unfenced, and was along the route my father would have walked from Fareham to the Major’s home. Yet it did not seem so to me. My uncle and my father, dead from accidents within two years of each other, both shortly after receiving those letters, seemed too coincidental to me. I returned to Horsham, and the first thing I did was collect all of my uncle’s papers, brass box and all. At first I thought to destroy them, but some instinct held me back. Instead I took up a few floorboards in the room that had been my uncle’s, and then my father’s, and would become my own. I had learned enough skill in helping maintain my uncle’s estate to fashion a crude hiding-place. I hid them all within the space I created, and then closed it all up again. Not a soul knew of the hiding place except myself.
“That was over two years ago, years in which I came into my inheritance and lived peacefully at Horsham. I began to think that I had escaped the fate that had come to my uncle and father, or that it truly had been coincidence and a run of misfortune as does occasionally happen to families. Nothing disturbed my tranquil life except a string of robberies in the neighbourhood earlier this year. Several houses were broken into, including mine, but very little was taken from any of them. The police investigated and concluded that it was likely the work of some tramps that had been seen in the neighbourhood, and had since moved on. I almost believed I would never have to think or wonder about the mysterious letters again – until yesterday evening, when I received one of my own.”
He withdrew an envelope from his coat pocket and handed it to Holmes, who took it with keen interest. “Hm! A London postmark. Your name and address, hastily written. And inside…” He tipped the envelope over his open palm, and five orange pips fell into his hand. “The message inside the flap matches the handwriting on the outside of the envelope, and is exactly the same as you reported on your father’s message.”
“It is identical,” Openshaw agreed. “I could never forget it. I openly admit that my blood ran cold, Mr Holmes. I sat stunned, lost in a grip of horror, for longer than I like to admit. Finally, however, I came back to my wits. I first thought of the police, but what could I truly tell them? I hardly believed my story myself, and I had lived it. Then I remembered my father’s friend, the Major, and how he had mentioned you. You saved him once from undeserved scandal, and he spoke of you as a man who could penetrate any mystery. I have also read some of the accounts of Doctor Watson. I left my home at first light this morning, and came directly to London, and to you.” He reached down to his side and brought up his carpetbag, which he hastily opened. The lamp-light caught on the gleam of brass amongst a jumble of other papers. “I have brought you everything I could carry. I hope that you can find a meaning, a cause for this mysterious persecution, that I cannot. These are all the ones in the box, as well as those from the war and his later political life that mentioned names or places that appeared in the box papers.”
Holmes clapped his hands together. “Capital! You are clearly a man of some resolution.”
Openshaw shook his head. “It was more desperation than anything else. I did not know what else to do.”
Holmes gave him a kindly look. “The outcome is the same, and I have known many men who have shown less resolve and organization in the face of ominous circumstance than you have. Now you must be fatigued from your long journey. I suggest that you stay here with us tonight.”
“I had thought to find a hotel…”
Holmes did not let him finish. “Given the weather, and under the circumstances, I should absolutely counsel against it. I do not like this London postmark. It suggests that your enemies – and I believe you have them – are closer to hand than they have ever been before in your father’s time, or in your uncle’s. Besides, I shall not sleep tonight. Your papers will keep me company until morning. You might as well make use of …”
“My former room now functions as a guest room, and has been made up with fresh linens just this morning,” I interjected smoothly. “You asked for my counsel earlier, and I can give no better advice than for you to retire to bed immediately, and refresh yourself with a good night’s sleep. I will prepare a sleeping draught for you so that you can find rest. I can see that you have had very little since you received your letter.”
“Almost none,” Openshaw agreed. He passed a trembling hand over his face, his exhaustion evident. “Thank you, Doctor.”
It took very little time for me to mix up a mild sleeping draught. I was certain that Openshaw would not need a strong one; just enough to coax his anxious mind into settling a little. His own tiredness would do the rest. After he drank it, I escorted him up to my old room and wished him good-night.
“You did not want Openshaw to sleep in my room,” Holmes remarked when I returned to the sitting-room. He did not look up from his perusal of the documents spread before him, but I was aware of the focus of his attention all the same. “You stopped me from offering him the use of it.”
“Say rather that I wanted our client to get some desperately needed rest, and that the décor of your bedroom was unlikely to promote calm in his overwrought condition,” I pointed out dryly.
Holmes smiled, one of his more ironic ones, the kind he used when directed at some internal thought as much as anything else. “Ah, yes. That was very well-reasoned of you.”
I paused, an unwelcome awareness that I might have presumed too much belatedly making me uneasy. “I can sleep very well on the sofa here, as you know,” I started.
My friend looked up at that, a briefly startled expression flitting across his face before he smiled again, this time rather more warmly. “Nonsense, my dear fellow. As I said before, I shall not sleep tonight. You shall take my bed. I hardly need fear that you’ll find yourself unnerved by reminders of famous criminals.”
“Hardly,” I agreed. “But if I can be of any help…”
“I have no doubt you will be. But for tonight, the best help you can provide is to leave me to smoke and read through these papers in silence.”
“Very well, Holmes. Good-night.”
He waved a genial hand in my general direction, his attention already returning to the problem of Openshaw’s papers.
I retired to Holmes’ room, but it was some time before I could find sleep. It was not the portraits of criminals that kept me awake, but my own thoughts.
There was too much presence, and too much absence. Holmes’ scent surrounded me, welcome and familiar, and yet unfamiliar too in this context. I had grown used to Mary’s presence beside me in bed at night. I missed her now with a strength that surprised me. I wondered briefly what she would make of all this, Openshaw and his mysterious persecutors. I could imagine her curiosity, her bright, lively interest as I told her of what had happened so far. I had fallen in love with Mary as much for her spirit and her mind as for her lovely form. Holmes, too, saw her worth; had encouraged me in my suit, and in our long engagement until I could afford to support a wife.
I was happy in my new, married life. I loved Mary, and looked forward to a long, happy life together.
Why, then, did some small part of me feel so glad to be back at Baker Street – to be back with Holmes?
I missed Mary, and yet I felt as if I had come home at last after a long journey away.
I fell asleep before I could resolve the contradiction, or even understand it. My sleep was restless, and I awoke several times from dreams that were divided equally between my wife and my friend.
I roused myself from Holmes’ bed sometime after dawn and joined Holmes in the sitting-room. My friend remained in the same chair he had been in last night, his eyes half-closed, but from the state of the papers and common-place books around him – and the thickness of the smoke in the room – it was clear he had been hard at work throughout the night. To my surprise, I noticed a small pile of telegrams by one side of Holmes’ chair.
“Good morning, Watson,” Holmes greeted me, his eyes sharpening and following my glance. “Yes, I have been making some inquiries while you – and London – slept. Now London stirs while others slumber. Tell me, Watson, have you ever heard of the Klu Klux Klan?”
I blinked at the nonsensical sounds, wondering briefly if I still slept and this was another dream. “I cannot even say I’ve ever heard such a word, Holmes. Is it English?”
“American, and it is three words, such as they are.”
“Oh – K K K?”
“Precisely.”
“But what does it mean?”
Holmes’ expression darkened. “Nothing good, Watson – for our client or for any of those who have been terrorized by their activities. It’s an ugly business, complicated and dark, and a very dangerous one, particularly for such a sheltered fellow as young Openshaw. But I believe I hear the maid on the stairs with tea and coffee, and I shall be very surprised if breakfast, and our client, do not follow shortly. We might do well to fortify ourselves before discussing the details.”
Had I known Holmes less well, I might have been convinced that he had some intention of consuming an actual breakfast while on a case. Knowing him as I did, I was completely unsurprised that his idea of fortification included coffee and tobacco, but no actual food. I was less insensible of bodily needs, and made a good breakfast before Openshaw appeared. The night’s rest had done him some good, but he was still nervous and shaken, with a poor appetite. He ate only a little before setting down his fork with a clatter.
“Mr Holmes, please do not keep me in suspense. Have you been able to learn anything?”
“I have learned a great deal,” Holmes replied at once. “I am not as familiar with the affairs and peculiarities of our American cousins as I am with our home-grown varieties, but I maintain a broad correspondence, and the initials which so puzzled you are not unknown to other experts in the field. Have you ever heard your uncle speak of a society known as the Klu Klux Klan?”
Openshaw shook his head, as openly puzzled as I had been by the odd name. “No. I am sure I would have remembered such a strangely named group as that. What are they?”
“They are, as you might have guessed, the root of your trouble, and I am afraid your uncle could once have been counted among their number. I will not pretend to have any first-hand knowledge of them, but this description from one of my experts should enlighten you well enough.” Holmes picked up one of the telegrams by his chair and began to speak, but it was clear from the start that he was adding considerably to the minimal text contained on the form. I briefly wondered whom he had wired, and where else he had acquired his information.
Holmes put a particular emphasis on the last state named, and Openshaw’s eyes widened. Holmes continued without taking any apparent notice, but I was sure he had seen it.
Openshaw’s complexion grew steadily paler as Holmes’ recitation went on, until I was afraid he might faint. “Murder?” he gasped at last. “I can believe my uncle would belong to an ex-Confederate society. He was always adamant in his support of the Confederate States. I can even believe he might join a society opposed to the enfranchisement of the American Negroes.” He shook his head. “He despised and hated Negroes, and never made any secret of it. He told me it was one of the reasons he moved back to England – he could be sure of avoiding them in the countryside here, as he could not there. I never understood his aversion, but I have never met any kind of Negro.” He bit his lip. “I suppose that is obvious, given the opinions of the uncle who raised me, and the isolated nature of Horsham. But even given his virulent dislike and unruly temper, I cannot imagine my uncle murdering anyone.”
“Perhaps your uncle did not realize the full extent of the society’s activities and goals when he joined them.” Holmes’ unusually gentle words surprised me, but nowhere near as much as Openshaw’s reaction to them. He flinched as if he had been slapped.
“The Devil’s greatest snare,” he whispered. “Oh.” He shrank into his chair and buried his face in his hands. “Oh no.” He sat unmoving for a long minute, then raised his head. “How many?” he asked with dreadful calm. “How many people did this society kill? How much blood is on my uncle’s hands?”
“I cannot give you an exact number, but he was undoubtedly complicit in the deaths of some, and the terrorization, harassment, and persecution of many others. Although deliberately terse and lacking detail, the evidence of the society’s records – records that your uncle kept, and must have understood, and may even have authored – is clear enough when read with a knowledgeable eye.”
“Why did he keep them, then?” Openshaw asked wildly.
“That is a very good question indeed, as is why he passed so many peaceful years while holding them.” Holmes thoughtfully tapped one finger against the bowl of his pipe. “Nor is it entirely clear why your father, and then yourself, should have been targeted. While the vindictiveness of some of these societies is well-known, yet there is something very odd about the timing of all this. I believe there is some other factor in play.” His eyes fixed on Openshaw. “You said you brought me all that you could carry of the papers that seemed relevant to the contents of the box. Does that mean that some yet remain hidden at Horsham?”
“Yes, quite a few remain there.”
“I shall need to examine those papers as well.” Holmes’ eyes focused on me. “Watson, do you feel up to a journey into the country and back? I cannot say you will have delightful weather for it, but there will be no shortage of fresh air.”
The wind chose that moment to blow rain against one of the windows, emphasizing his point. I nodded. “Of course.”
Openshaw blinked, startled out of his shocked stupor. “That is very kind of you, Doctor Watson, but it’s hardly necessary. I can go home and bring the papers back on my own.”
“Given that you have been threatened, and given what happened to your uncle and your father after being similarly threatened, I should be the worst kind of fool to let you, as my client, travel by yourself,” Holmes disagreed. “In such a case as this, two is far better than one. And there is no one better to have at your side than Watson.”
For a moment I thought Openshaw would continue to resist the idea. His chin thrust out, and a bit of colour returned to his face. Then he sighed, and all the stiffness went out of his frame. “I can hardly ask for a better recommendation than that, Mr Holmes. Doctor Watson, I would be honoured to have your company.” He adjusted his glasses and glanced at Holmes. “Will you accompany us as well?”
“No, I shall remain here in London and continue my research. I am expecting responses to several more telegrams which may also help shed light on this affair.”
Holmes pulled me aside as Openshaw gathered up his things, including his now-empty carpetbag. “Be careful, Watson. Do you happen to have your revolver with you?”
I shook my head. “I did not think to pack it in my medical bag.”
“Then you shall take mine. I do not want you going unarmed.”
“I will take it and gladly, but the other deaths occurred when the victims were alone and isolated. Do you really think Openshaw is at much risk while in my company?”
“In the bustle of the city, no, but I do believe these villains have already struck twice in the countryside, including once at Horsham itself. I had rather not leave anything to chance,” was Holmes’ reply. “I have taken the liberty of looking up the trains, Watson, and I am afraid you will need to overnight in Horsham. Take a spare collar, and do not relax your vigilance, particularly not while in the country.”
We set out from Baker Street with Holmes’ revolver heavy in my overcoat pocket and his warning heavy on my mind. The weather, while better than the previous evening, was still quite foul, and no one was outside who did not have to be. The cab-man appeared no more willing to be out than anyone else, scarcely waiting long enough for us to get inside before urging his horse forward. Openshaw was in no mood for conversation, still deeply affected by what he had learned about his uncle. The quiet ride, combined with the relatively light traffic, gave me plenty of opportunity to observe. I might have spotted the wagon even without Holmes’ words foremost in my thoughts. As it was, I first noticed it behind us a few blocks from Baker Street. It was not easy to keep an eye on it, as the type of cab we were in had us both facing forwards, and the heavy rain obscured the view through the glass. The thickening traffic as we approached the station increased the difficulty. Still, I was almost certain that I saw the same wagon four separate times on our journey. Granted, it was plausible that the wagon was simply going to the train station, the same as we were.
Uncertain whether I was making too much of the matter, or even if I was being distracted by a coincidence, I tried to keep an eye on everything as the cab neared the station. Unlike Baker Street, the stormy weather had not lessened the crowds here. The street was clogged with traffic, all moving at different speeds, and the sidewalks were full of pedestrians hurrying to get out of the rain. I saw several umbrellas collide as we descended from the cab, sending water showering down on those unfortunate enough to be caught in the way.
“Stay close,” I advised Openshaw as I paid our cabbie. “I don’t want us to become separated in the crowd.”
“Of course, Doctor Watson, although I wish I’d been able to replace my ruined umbrella. I’m afraid my raincoat isn’t proof against your London weather.”
“I’m not sure anything is sufficient against rain like this, but better a little wet than…”
It happened in an instant. A man bumped up against Openshaw, sending him staggering back off the kerb. Before he could recover his balance, another fellow seized the carpetbag and yanked on it, trying to wrench it out of Openshaw’s grasp.
And pulling Openshaw even more dangerously out into the treacherous river of traffic.
I acted without thought, throwing my arms around Openshaw and bodily hauling him back to the greater safety of the sidewalk. I heard him cry out as he lost his grip on the carpetbag, and then we were both stumbling back onto the pavement. I felt a sharp pain as my shoulder and leg took the strain of his weight as well as mine, but managed to keep my footing long enough for Openshaw to regain his balance.
“My bag!” he cried.
“Was empty,” I reminded him, “and the thief is already gone with his worthless spoils. Let’s get to our train.”
Openshaw took a deep breath. “Right, of course. I’m sorry. It’s just I’ve never had anything like this happen to me before.”
“It’s quite all right; anyone would be shaken up. We are getting wetter by the minute, too, and that can’t be helping matters. I hope we can procure some hot tea, either in the station or on the train. It will do both of us – ”
A shout, a thundering of hooves, and a piercing cry, abruptly cut off. I glimpsed a wagon – the selfsame wagon I thought I had seen earlier – thundering past, horses whipped up and galloping at a crazed, reckless pace, driver a shapeless blur muffled in a dark coat and hat. I looked back along his track, and saw other drivers pulling up their horses or swerving away from a dark, ruined shape on the pavement. I managed to catch a brief glimpse of the figure before others rushed forward, blocking my view. Enough to see that there was no help possible for the man; his head was crushed and mangled, probably by a wheel.
And enough to see the carpetbag still clutched in one hand.
“What’s happened?” Openshaw asked. His innocent puzzlement made it plain to me that he had not seen anything of what I had seen.
“An impatient driver caused an accident in the rain,” I told him. “Come. We need to go.”
We reached the station without further incident. I was able to get Openshaw and myself some much-needed tea, and also send a tersely-worded wire to Holmes, before boarding our train.
The rest of our journey to Horsham, and our return trip, were both entirely without incident. I was very glad to see the familiar door at Baker Street again, and even gladder to see Holmes in his usual chair by the fire-side.
“Welcome back,” he greeted us as he took in the two heavy bags we carried in with us. “These are all of the remaining papers?”
“Yes, Mr Holmes. I have brought everything,” Openshaw replied. He sounded almost as exhausted as I felt. The long interval of incessant vigilance, combined with travel and near-constant rain, had left me feeling as tired as a week on campaign.
“Excellent. I, too, have been successful in learning much in your absence. I fully expect these papers will help me complete the picture.” His satisfied look shifted into a keener expression. “However, in the meantime I must regretfully inform you that an erroneous report has made it into nearly all of the London papers.” He handed Openshaw a newspaper folded open to a particular page. “Watson wired me of your trouble with the bag-snatcher. Apparently your bag was found abandoned near an unfortunate pedestrian who had a fatal encounter with a cart. The pedestrian was unrecognizable, I’m afraid, but your bag had your name and address inside it. The constable at the scene naturally presumed that the abandoned bag must have belonged to the victim.”
Openshaw sank into a chair, his eyes scanning the newspaper. I looked at Holmes. I suspected my friend had something to do with this, although I was not certain exactly what – or why. He met my gaze with a serious one of his own, and nodded slightly. I accepted the unspoken acknowledgement and promise that I would learn all in time.
“This – this is extraordinary,” Openshaw murmured at last. “At least my household will know better, since I was just with them. I – I suppose I should write the papers at once and correct the mistake.”
“I should rather advise leaving the error, at least for the time being,” Holmes contradicted. “In one sense this mistake is extremely fortunate. Any enemy searching for you might well be thrown off your track by these false reports. You will naturally wish to send a wire to your brother, but I recommend limiting any other communication to the bare minimum, at least for a few days.”
I saw it then, as I should have seen it earlier. I had referenced both the wagon and the accident in my wire, as well as the bag thief. Holmes had clearly put things together in his mind, as only he could do, and seen the opportunity. Perhaps he had even ‘helped’ the police to the wrong conclusion. He certainly meant for the driver of the wagon to believe he’d been successful in killing our client, at least long enough for Holmes to bring him – and whatever forces were behind him – to justice.
“I must say I dislike the idea, Mr Holmes, but if you think it necessary, I suppose I will be guided by you in this.”
“It should only be for a day or two at most,” Holmes assured him. “I feel certain I am close to resolving this matter.”
And Holmes was right. Within two days, he had unravelled the affair. It was not purely a matter of vengeance of the Klu Klux Klan, as it first appeared. Holmes had suspected as much from the start, for why else had the Colonel been allowed to live in peace for so many years? His research discovered that the dreadful society had lost a great deal of its power, due to stringent actions against it by both the American government and by a revulsion of popular opinion in crucial areas. Certain members of the society, however, had flourished, and one name in particular had risen to distinguished prominence. He was a politician, one that had started as a local judge and advanced to positions of increasing importance in the state. He was now poised to ascend to the national stage.
It was not this man’s history with the Klu Klux Klan that was likely to scotch his career, shockingly enough. Although it would have been an embarrassment in some circles, Holmes’ correspondents asserted there was still enough support for its terrible beliefs in the general populace of the southern states to render it moot. No, the answer lay elsewhere in the Colonel’s papers, specifically in his real estate dealings during the Reconstruction. That self-same politician who was a leader in the Klan had also conspired with Northern profiteers to benefit heavily during the Reconstruction. He had hidden most of his dealings by buying properties in his wife’s and his wife’s mother’s names, but Colonel Openshaw had been astute enough to discover it and make note. That was what had driven the politician to fear the Colonel, and eventually to drive him to desperate measures to recover those papers or ensure their destruction, along with anyone who might know about them. Each new election campaign had renewed and escalated his efforts.
There was no way to prosecute this man for the deaths of Colonel Openshaw and his brother, no way to tie him directly to the campaign of death and terror he had waged in England as he had waged in America. However, Holmes could and did ensure that copies of the relevant property documents found their way into hands that put them to best use. The politician’s career was halted in its tracks. His influence dwindled, his poison limited to the sphere in which he already travelled, and there were no more attacks on John Openshaw or the rest of his family.
________________________
“Your telegram spared me what could have been several bleak hours,” Holmes remarked, startling me out of my memories of the case.
“How so?” I asked, completely mystified.
Holmes gave me one of his swift smiles. “Openshaw’s bag was only mostly empty. It contained my card, one I had given him. That led the constable to come to me with the bag. Had you not thought to wire…”
He did not say any more, but he did not have to. I knew exactly what he would have felt, and he knew that I knew it, had felt it myself far more strongly and deeply at other points in our lives. “I’m glad I thought of it then,” I said lightly, not wishing for either of us to revisit that old pain. The wounds had healed, but still bothered us both occasionally, as old wounds will. We both tried to avoid aggravating them.
Holmes acknowledged my words as the offering they were, and made one in return. “I scandalized Mrs Hudson by not allowing the maid to change my bed linens for a fortnight after that case.”
I had to think about that for a moment, and then my eyes widened. “Truly?”
“Of course.”
I remembered my own reactions to sleeping in Holmes’ bed then, the sensation of being surrounded by his scent. I could only imagine how much more it must have affected him at that time, knowing I had no idea then of his feelings for me, knowing my love for Mary, my wife. Having no idea that things might ever be any different.
It was years before I understood my own feelings for Holmes, and more before I learned of his, when he and I came to an understanding. I loved Mary, and still mourned her. Holmes was still occasionally jealous of that, even though he understood, and I think finally believed, that I loved him just as strongly, and with a depth of feeling just as true and lasting.
“Openshaw turned Methodist, if I remember correctly,” I mused.
“Indeed?” Holmes raised his eyebrows at my apparent non-sequitur.
“Yes. The last I heard, he was happily married and diligently involved in investing his inherited fortune into worthy causes near and dear to the Methodists, both here in England and abroad in America.” I gave him a speaking look. “The evil deeds of others can never be erased, but sometimes good can follow evil, even redress it, if people act with enough resolve and dedication.”
Holmes’ smile was entirely free from irony, and he gently placed one hand on my good shoulder. “Yes, my dear Watson. Yes it can.”
Recipient:
sanspatronymicAuthor: [redacted]
Rating: Teen/PG-13
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, John Openshaw; mentions of Mary Watson and Mrs Hudson
Relationships: John Watson/Mary Watson (at the time of the case); Sherlock Holmes/John Watson (unspecified later time)
Warnings: References to atrocities committed in the American Civil War and Reconstruction eras; canon-typical violence; canon references; Victorian-era racial terminology and attitudes; a more-or-less verbatim quote from The Five Orange Pips reworked into the story as a ‘resource’
Summary: “Of all the mixture of half-truths, gross oversimplifications, and farrago of lies I have sent him over the years, the Adventure of the Five Orange Pips stands out as one of the most extraordinary taradiddles that ever masqueraded as a truthful account.”
Word Count: 7,625
Author’s Notes: As you might guess from the above, The Adventure of the Five Orange Pips never made sense to me as written. I’ve taken your prompt of “a fondness for 'deleted scene' type works (ie, something that would fit nicely into a hole left in a canon story)” as inspiration and…well, pretty thoroughly rewritten the entire thing. I hope it pleases you!
Special thanks to: [redacted] for the beta
Disclaimer: The original story and characters belong to Doyle; all mistakes are my own.
Doctor Doyle – my editor and publisher, insofar as he takes public credit as the ‘author’ for my work – recently published a list of his favourite Sherlock Holmes stories. I was thoroughly amused by the list, but when I came to one particular favourite, I burst out laughing, heartily and long enough for Holmes to inquire what was so amusing. When I told him, he did not laugh, but gave me one of his most ironic smiles.
I do not know if it was a subtle joke on Doctor Doyle’s part, or whether the man really does like that particular bit of writing. But of all the mixture of half-truths, gross oversimplifications, and farrago of lies I have sent him over the years, the Adventure of the Five Orange Pips stands out as one of the most extraordinary taradiddles that ever masqueraded as a truthful account.
For all its flaws, it did help serve to save a man’s life. I must be proud of it for that reason alone; but there is very little additional cause to herald its existence. My wife Mary, an orphan, off visiting her non-existent relatives? Holmes blithely letting a client wander off into a dark and stormy night with known danger dogging his heels?
Pure and utter nonsense – and in the former case, an error gross enough that it really should cause readers to wonder at it. For one reader in particular, however, it served (and serves) exactly as intended – a reminder of known illegal acts, and a deterrent against further attempts.
The true story is far darker and more dangerous, and can never see the light of day.
John Openshaw was our client’s name, true enough, and he did arrive at Baker Street on the stormiest night in many years. But as for the rest of it…
_________________________
It was a foul night. The worst storm I had ever seen in London howled outside the windows of the sitting-room at Baker Street. I was particularly grateful to be warm and cosy indoors, as my own home certainly would not have been. A problem with the gas line for our street had been discovered, and the resultant public works had left my home and surgery (along with every other building on our row) without gas or running water for the week. Mary and I could have decamped to a hotel, but despite a good start on my new practice, funds were still scarce. Instead, she had gone to visit Mrs Forrester, who was delighted to have her as a guest. I had made a similar appeal to Holmes, whose terse telegrammed response (COME AT ONCE STOP SH FINAL STOP) was belied by his small, warm smile when he saw me at the door. Any doubts that might have lingered in my mind about my welcome were dispersed by the sight of the sitting-room, hastily cleared of papers, and by my friend’s quiet air of contentment as we sat together by the fireside late into the night.
Between the shriek of the wind and the hammering of the rain, I almost did not hear the bell. “A visitor? At this hour, and in this weather?”
Holmes gave me a sardonic look. “The only person in this house who regularly receives visitors is Mrs Hudson, as you well know. This must be either an Inspector or a client – and desperate indeed to be out in such a storm. If you will answer the door, Watson, I shall stir up the fire.”
Given that it was long past the hour when Mrs Hudson and the servants would be abed, I made no objections to this sensible plan. I hurried downstairs and found a pale, rain-soaked young man on the doorstep in a state of considerable agitation. I ushered him indoors and helped him remove his raincoat and hat, neither of which had stood up to the storm particularly well. His umbrella was a twisted wreck, testament to the fierce winds. In his other hand he grasped an old carpetbag, which he would hardly let go of long enough to remove his coat.
“Are you Mr Sherlock Holmes?” the man asked as soon as he caught his breath.
“Doctor John Watson,” I replied, shaking my head. “Holmes is upstairs. I am sure you must need his advice very urgently.”
“Desperately. It might mean my very life,” he replied fervently, then paused and ducked his head. “Forgive my lack of manners. I am all bewildered. My name is John Openshaw. Your name is familiar to me, Doctor Watson, and I would be glad of your counsel as well as his.”
“I shall be happy to provide whatever assistance I can. Come up to the sitting-room and sit by the fire, and tell us what brought you here.”
In very little time Openshaw was ensconced in a chair near the fire, with a lap-rug over his legs and a measure of brandy in his hand. I was unsurprised to find Holmes had placed Openshaw’s chair not merely for warmth, but so that the light of the fire and of the gas-lamps fell upon him. The illumination glinted off of the visitor’s gold-rimmed glasses and the dull brasswork of the carpetbag he set by his feet. In spite of the urgency of his late-night call, he hardly seemed to know where to begin. Holmes, however, is a master at coaxing the shyest, most tongue-tied individual into speaking freely, and it was not long before John Openshaw was deep into his story of his uncle and the strange and deadly legacy he had left behind.
“I have read descriptions of men turning as pale as death, Mr Holmes, but I had always believed them fanciful until the day my uncle received the Pondicherry letter. When those five orange pips fell out onto his plate, he cried out, not loudly, but a horrible noise I will never be able to adequately describe, and his face looked – well, it appeared the same way seven weeks later, when he lay in his coffin.”
“Five orange pips?” Holmes asked, his brows knitted into a slight frown.
“Yes, five seeds and nothing more, except the letters K K K, written in red ink on the inside of the envelope.”
“And what did your uncle do then?”
“He sat there quite unmoving for a minute or more, as if he had been turned to stone. Finally he heaved a great sigh and focused on me. ‘My sins have come back upon me, John,’ he said in the saddest voice I could ever recall him using. ‘What sins?’ I cried, for I was only sixteen, and although my uncle was generally unsociable, and occasionally prone to drink, he had always been kind to me, and I could not imagine him as anything other than a good man. I said as much.
“A little colour came back into my uncle’s face at that, and he suddenly looked very sad. ‘Bless you for thinking so, my boy. I have tried to be a good man, and yet sometimes the Devil’s greatest snare is laid for those who believe themselves to be doing right in the face of a great wrong, and thereby blind themselves to the wrongs they themselves commit.’ He shook his head. ‘I see you don’t understand. I hope you never do. Come with me.’
“He led me up to that very attic room I had always been forbidden to enter, the one place in the house I had never been allowed to go. He pulled out his ring of keys and fitted an old iron key into the lock. I remember being surprised at how smoothly it turned, and how silently the door opened. The room itself was perfectly ordinary, with a few boxes of papers, an old steamer trunk, and sundry other items. My uncle ignored them all and went straight to a small brass box. I saw immediately that it had the same mysterious letters raised upon its top as had appeared inside the envelope. There was a small hole in the side, where a key might fit.
“‘What is all this?’ I asked him, gesturing around the room.
“My uncle never looked away from the brass box. ‘Relics of my younger days, my boy, when I believed the world to be a simpler place, with easy answers. Records of my days in the Army of the Confederacy, and my involvement in American politics during the Reconstruction. None of that need concern you now, although you might find it interesting to look through at some later time, should you ever wonder about my years in America.’ He hesitated briefly, then picked up the brass box and handed it to me. ‘I will give you the key to this, but you must promise me that you will never open it except in direst need – you’ll know when, if that black day ever comes – and if you swear that you will never share the contents with your father. Never mention it to him. Swear it.’
“Stunned, I did so. My uncle took off his pocket-watch and chain, and showed me the small key inside the fob. ‘This will wind the watch, and will also unlock that box. Use the former often, and pray you never need bother with the latter.’ That was all he said about it, then or ever. He ushered me out of the attic room, locked the door, and sent one of the servants for his attorney.
“My uncle was a changed man from that day – more morose, more prone to drink, and less sociable than ever. The only times he ventured out of doors were in drunken fits, where he would charge about with his revolver, snarling that he was afraid of no-one. That he was afraid, I saw even then. I understand it better now; the feeling, anyway. I am as in the dark as ever as to the sinister forces that inspire it.
“Well, one night my uncle went out on one of his rages and never returned. We found him in the morning, in the garden, face-down in the pool that marked one boundary. It was no more than two feet in depth. There was no sign of violence, and several servants testified as to his inebriated state, so the jury brought in a verdict of ‘death by misadventure.’”
“What year was this?” Holmes asked.
“1883. My uncle received the letter on March 10th and died on May 2nd.”
“Thank you. Pray continue.”
“My uncle’s will left his entire estate to my father for his lifetime, with the provision that it should then come to me. My father decided to give over his house in Coventry to my eldest brother, and resettle at Horsham with me. I think he was tired of town life, and did not want to uproot me from my home of many years. That was in the beginning of ’84. I had told my father of the strange message my uncle received, and the odd effect it had upon him, but my father did not think it of much importance. He and I lived happily at Horsham until January of ’85, when a second mysterious message made its appearance. The letter was addressed to my father. The postmark was from Dundee this time, not Pondicherry, but the contents were the same: five orange pips. This time, however, there was an additional message along with the K K K on the inside flap: ‘Put the Colonel’s papers on the sundial.’
“My father flatly refused to consider any such thing. ‘I have been through all of my brother’s papers, and there is nothing in them of any interest to anyone. Even if there were, I should never accede to such a bizarre demand. This is England, not uncivilized territories. It is nothing more than a crude joke, and I will ignore it as the trash that it is.’
“I knew he was right, for I had read through my uncle’s papers myself since his passing. There was nothing unusual or objectionable about them. Yet I knew what my father did not: neither he nor I had seen all of my uncle’s things. The brass box and its unknown contents burned in my conscience as I urged my father to notify the police. I would not break my sworn word, but I did everything I could to encourage him. He refused, and moreover forbade me to mention the matter to anyone else. The prohibition stung, particularly as I knew my father was due to travel to visit with an old friend in two days’ time.
“I felt I had to obey him, yet knew I could not rest without taking some action. That night, I took the key from the watch-fob and opened the brass box. Inside, as I suspected I might, I found a number of papers, both loose and a hand-bound collection, with the letters K K K prominently blazoned on the front of the latter. I leafed through the papers eagerly, certain I had found the key to the sinister messages. But it was nothing more than the notes and meeting minutes of some society my uncle had belonged to in Florida. There was nothing obviously sinister about it; just names of those in attendance, old and new business, and the like. For the life of me, I could find no meaning in any of it.
“I say for the life of me, but I should say for my father’s life. He left as planned for his visit to Portsdown Hill. Two days later I received an urgent telegram from the Major imploring me to come at once. My father had gone for an evening walk around the countryside, and fallen into one of the deep chalk-pits that can be found there. His skull was shattered, but he was still alive, though in the gravest condition. I left immediately, but my father never regained consciousness. He died the morning after my arrival.
“To all eyes but mine, my father’s death was a simple accident. The jury brought a verdict of ‘death from accidental causes,’ and ask and seek as I might, I could not find any evidence to the contrary. The chalk-pit had been unfenced, and was along the route my father would have walked from Fareham to the Major’s home. Yet it did not seem so to me. My uncle and my father, dead from accidents within two years of each other, both shortly after receiving those letters, seemed too coincidental to me. I returned to Horsham, and the first thing I did was collect all of my uncle’s papers, brass box and all. At first I thought to destroy them, but some instinct held me back. Instead I took up a few floorboards in the room that had been my uncle’s, and then my father’s, and would become my own. I had learned enough skill in helping maintain my uncle’s estate to fashion a crude hiding-place. I hid them all within the space I created, and then closed it all up again. Not a soul knew of the hiding place except myself.
“That was over two years ago, years in which I came into my inheritance and lived peacefully at Horsham. I began to think that I had escaped the fate that had come to my uncle and father, or that it truly had been coincidence and a run of misfortune as does occasionally happen to families. Nothing disturbed my tranquil life except a string of robberies in the neighbourhood earlier this year. Several houses were broken into, including mine, but very little was taken from any of them. The police investigated and concluded that it was likely the work of some tramps that had been seen in the neighbourhood, and had since moved on. I almost believed I would never have to think or wonder about the mysterious letters again – until yesterday evening, when I received one of my own.”
He withdrew an envelope from his coat pocket and handed it to Holmes, who took it with keen interest. “Hm! A London postmark. Your name and address, hastily written. And inside…” He tipped the envelope over his open palm, and five orange pips fell into his hand. “The message inside the flap matches the handwriting on the outside of the envelope, and is exactly the same as you reported on your father’s message.”
“It is identical,” Openshaw agreed. “I could never forget it. I openly admit that my blood ran cold, Mr Holmes. I sat stunned, lost in a grip of horror, for longer than I like to admit. Finally, however, I came back to my wits. I first thought of the police, but what could I truly tell them? I hardly believed my story myself, and I had lived it. Then I remembered my father’s friend, the Major, and how he had mentioned you. You saved him once from undeserved scandal, and he spoke of you as a man who could penetrate any mystery. I have also read some of the accounts of Doctor Watson. I left my home at first light this morning, and came directly to London, and to you.” He reached down to his side and brought up his carpetbag, which he hastily opened. The lamp-light caught on the gleam of brass amongst a jumble of other papers. “I have brought you everything I could carry. I hope that you can find a meaning, a cause for this mysterious persecution, that I cannot. These are all the ones in the box, as well as those from the war and his later political life that mentioned names or places that appeared in the box papers.”
Holmes clapped his hands together. “Capital! You are clearly a man of some resolution.”
Openshaw shook his head. “It was more desperation than anything else. I did not know what else to do.”
Holmes gave him a kindly look. “The outcome is the same, and I have known many men who have shown less resolve and organization in the face of ominous circumstance than you have. Now you must be fatigued from your long journey. I suggest that you stay here with us tonight.”
“I had thought to find a hotel…”
Holmes did not let him finish. “Given the weather, and under the circumstances, I should absolutely counsel against it. I do not like this London postmark. It suggests that your enemies – and I believe you have them – are closer to hand than they have ever been before in your father’s time, or in your uncle’s. Besides, I shall not sleep tonight. Your papers will keep me company until morning. You might as well make use of …”
“My former room now functions as a guest room, and has been made up with fresh linens just this morning,” I interjected smoothly. “You asked for my counsel earlier, and I can give no better advice than for you to retire to bed immediately, and refresh yourself with a good night’s sleep. I will prepare a sleeping draught for you so that you can find rest. I can see that you have had very little since you received your letter.”
“Almost none,” Openshaw agreed. He passed a trembling hand over his face, his exhaustion evident. “Thank you, Doctor.”
It took very little time for me to mix up a mild sleeping draught. I was certain that Openshaw would not need a strong one; just enough to coax his anxious mind into settling a little. His own tiredness would do the rest. After he drank it, I escorted him up to my old room and wished him good-night.
“You did not want Openshaw to sleep in my room,” Holmes remarked when I returned to the sitting-room. He did not look up from his perusal of the documents spread before him, but I was aware of the focus of his attention all the same. “You stopped me from offering him the use of it.”
“Say rather that I wanted our client to get some desperately needed rest, and that the décor of your bedroom was unlikely to promote calm in his overwrought condition,” I pointed out dryly.
Holmes smiled, one of his more ironic ones, the kind he used when directed at some internal thought as much as anything else. “Ah, yes. That was very well-reasoned of you.”
I paused, an unwelcome awareness that I might have presumed too much belatedly making me uneasy. “I can sleep very well on the sofa here, as you know,” I started.
My friend looked up at that, a briefly startled expression flitting across his face before he smiled again, this time rather more warmly. “Nonsense, my dear fellow. As I said before, I shall not sleep tonight. You shall take my bed. I hardly need fear that you’ll find yourself unnerved by reminders of famous criminals.”
“Hardly,” I agreed. “But if I can be of any help…”
“I have no doubt you will be. But for tonight, the best help you can provide is to leave me to smoke and read through these papers in silence.”
“Very well, Holmes. Good-night.”
He waved a genial hand in my general direction, his attention already returning to the problem of Openshaw’s papers.
I retired to Holmes’ room, but it was some time before I could find sleep. It was not the portraits of criminals that kept me awake, but my own thoughts.
There was too much presence, and too much absence. Holmes’ scent surrounded me, welcome and familiar, and yet unfamiliar too in this context. I had grown used to Mary’s presence beside me in bed at night. I missed her now with a strength that surprised me. I wondered briefly what she would make of all this, Openshaw and his mysterious persecutors. I could imagine her curiosity, her bright, lively interest as I told her of what had happened so far. I had fallen in love with Mary as much for her spirit and her mind as for her lovely form. Holmes, too, saw her worth; had encouraged me in my suit, and in our long engagement until I could afford to support a wife.
I was happy in my new, married life. I loved Mary, and looked forward to a long, happy life together.
Why, then, did some small part of me feel so glad to be back at Baker Street – to be back with Holmes?
I missed Mary, and yet I felt as if I had come home at last after a long journey away.
I fell asleep before I could resolve the contradiction, or even understand it. My sleep was restless, and I awoke several times from dreams that were divided equally between my wife and my friend.
I roused myself from Holmes’ bed sometime after dawn and joined Holmes in the sitting-room. My friend remained in the same chair he had been in last night, his eyes half-closed, but from the state of the papers and common-place books around him – and the thickness of the smoke in the room – it was clear he had been hard at work throughout the night. To my surprise, I noticed a small pile of telegrams by one side of Holmes’ chair.
“Good morning, Watson,” Holmes greeted me, his eyes sharpening and following my glance. “Yes, I have been making some inquiries while you – and London – slept. Now London stirs while others slumber. Tell me, Watson, have you ever heard of the Klu Klux Klan?”
I blinked at the nonsensical sounds, wondering briefly if I still slept and this was another dream. “I cannot even say I’ve ever heard such a word, Holmes. Is it English?”
“American, and it is three words, such as they are.”
“Oh – K K K?”
“Precisely.”
“But what does it mean?”
Holmes’ expression darkened. “Nothing good, Watson – for our client or for any of those who have been terrorized by their activities. It’s an ugly business, complicated and dark, and a very dangerous one, particularly for such a sheltered fellow as young Openshaw. But I believe I hear the maid on the stairs with tea and coffee, and I shall be very surprised if breakfast, and our client, do not follow shortly. We might do well to fortify ourselves before discussing the details.”
Had I known Holmes less well, I might have been convinced that he had some intention of consuming an actual breakfast while on a case. Knowing him as I did, I was completely unsurprised that his idea of fortification included coffee and tobacco, but no actual food. I was less insensible of bodily needs, and made a good breakfast before Openshaw appeared. The night’s rest had done him some good, but he was still nervous and shaken, with a poor appetite. He ate only a little before setting down his fork with a clatter.
“Mr Holmes, please do not keep me in suspense. Have you been able to learn anything?”
“I have learned a great deal,” Holmes replied at once. “I am not as familiar with the affairs and peculiarities of our American cousins as I am with our home-grown varieties, but I maintain a broad correspondence, and the initials which so puzzled you are not unknown to other experts in the field. Have you ever heard your uncle speak of a society known as the Klu Klux Klan?”
Openshaw shook his head, as openly puzzled as I had been by the odd name. “No. I am sure I would have remembered such a strangely named group as that. What are they?”
“They are, as you might have guessed, the root of your trouble, and I am afraid your uncle could once have been counted among their number. I will not pretend to have any first-hand knowledge of them, but this description from one of my experts should enlighten you well enough.” Holmes picked up one of the telegrams by his chair and began to speak, but it was clear from the start that he was adding considerably to the minimal text contained on the form. I briefly wondered whom he had wired, and where else he had acquired his information.
“The Klu Klux Klan is an American secret society. It was formed by some ex-Confederate soldiers in the Southern states after the Civil War, and it rapidly formed local branches in different parts of the country, notably in Tennessee, Louisiana, the Carolinas, Georgia, and Florida.”
Holmes put a particular emphasis on the last state named, and Openshaw’s eyes widened. Holmes continued without taking any apparent notice, but I was sure he had seen it.
“Its power was used for political purposes, principally for the terrorizing of Negro voters and the murdering and driving from the country of those who were opposed to its views. Its outrages were usually preceded by a warning sent to the marked man in some fantastic but generally recognized shape – a sprig of oak-leaves in some parts, melon seeds or orange pips in others. On receiving this, the victim might either openly abjure his former ways, or might fly from the country. If he braved the matter out, death would unfailingly come upon him, and usually in some strange and unforeseen manner. So perfect was the organization of the society, and so systematic its methods, that there is hardly a case upon record where any man succeeded in braving it with impunity, or in which any of its outrages were traced home to the perpetrators.”
Openshaw’s complexion grew steadily paler as Holmes’ recitation went on, until I was afraid he might faint. “Murder?” he gasped at last. “I can believe my uncle would belong to an ex-Confederate society. He was always adamant in his support of the Confederate States. I can even believe he might join a society opposed to the enfranchisement of the American Negroes.” He shook his head. “He despised and hated Negroes, and never made any secret of it. He told me it was one of the reasons he moved back to England – he could be sure of avoiding them in the countryside here, as he could not there. I never understood his aversion, but I have never met any kind of Negro.” He bit his lip. “I suppose that is obvious, given the opinions of the uncle who raised me, and the isolated nature of Horsham. But even given his virulent dislike and unruly temper, I cannot imagine my uncle murdering anyone.”
“Perhaps your uncle did not realize the full extent of the society’s activities and goals when he joined them.” Holmes’ unusually gentle words surprised me, but nowhere near as much as Openshaw’s reaction to them. He flinched as if he had been slapped.
“The Devil’s greatest snare,” he whispered. “Oh.” He shrank into his chair and buried his face in his hands. “Oh no.” He sat unmoving for a long minute, then raised his head. “How many?” he asked with dreadful calm. “How many people did this society kill? How much blood is on my uncle’s hands?”
“I cannot give you an exact number, but he was undoubtedly complicit in the deaths of some, and the terrorization, harassment, and persecution of many others. Although deliberately terse and lacking detail, the evidence of the society’s records – records that your uncle kept, and must have understood, and may even have authored – is clear enough when read with a knowledgeable eye.”
“Why did he keep them, then?” Openshaw asked wildly.
“That is a very good question indeed, as is why he passed so many peaceful years while holding them.” Holmes thoughtfully tapped one finger against the bowl of his pipe. “Nor is it entirely clear why your father, and then yourself, should have been targeted. While the vindictiveness of some of these societies is well-known, yet there is something very odd about the timing of all this. I believe there is some other factor in play.” His eyes fixed on Openshaw. “You said you brought me all that you could carry of the papers that seemed relevant to the contents of the box. Does that mean that some yet remain hidden at Horsham?”
“Yes, quite a few remain there.”
“I shall need to examine those papers as well.” Holmes’ eyes focused on me. “Watson, do you feel up to a journey into the country and back? I cannot say you will have delightful weather for it, but there will be no shortage of fresh air.”
The wind chose that moment to blow rain against one of the windows, emphasizing his point. I nodded. “Of course.”
Openshaw blinked, startled out of his shocked stupor. “That is very kind of you, Doctor Watson, but it’s hardly necessary. I can go home and bring the papers back on my own.”
“Given that you have been threatened, and given what happened to your uncle and your father after being similarly threatened, I should be the worst kind of fool to let you, as my client, travel by yourself,” Holmes disagreed. “In such a case as this, two is far better than one. And there is no one better to have at your side than Watson.”
For a moment I thought Openshaw would continue to resist the idea. His chin thrust out, and a bit of colour returned to his face. Then he sighed, and all the stiffness went out of his frame. “I can hardly ask for a better recommendation than that, Mr Holmes. Doctor Watson, I would be honoured to have your company.” He adjusted his glasses and glanced at Holmes. “Will you accompany us as well?”
“No, I shall remain here in London and continue my research. I am expecting responses to several more telegrams which may also help shed light on this affair.”
Holmes pulled me aside as Openshaw gathered up his things, including his now-empty carpetbag. “Be careful, Watson. Do you happen to have your revolver with you?”
I shook my head. “I did not think to pack it in my medical bag.”
“Then you shall take mine. I do not want you going unarmed.”
“I will take it and gladly, but the other deaths occurred when the victims were alone and isolated. Do you really think Openshaw is at much risk while in my company?”
“In the bustle of the city, no, but I do believe these villains have already struck twice in the countryside, including once at Horsham itself. I had rather not leave anything to chance,” was Holmes’ reply. “I have taken the liberty of looking up the trains, Watson, and I am afraid you will need to overnight in Horsham. Take a spare collar, and do not relax your vigilance, particularly not while in the country.”
We set out from Baker Street with Holmes’ revolver heavy in my overcoat pocket and his warning heavy on my mind. The weather, while better than the previous evening, was still quite foul, and no one was outside who did not have to be. The cab-man appeared no more willing to be out than anyone else, scarcely waiting long enough for us to get inside before urging his horse forward. Openshaw was in no mood for conversation, still deeply affected by what he had learned about his uncle. The quiet ride, combined with the relatively light traffic, gave me plenty of opportunity to observe. I might have spotted the wagon even without Holmes’ words foremost in my thoughts. As it was, I first noticed it behind us a few blocks from Baker Street. It was not easy to keep an eye on it, as the type of cab we were in had us both facing forwards, and the heavy rain obscured the view through the glass. The thickening traffic as we approached the station increased the difficulty. Still, I was almost certain that I saw the same wagon four separate times on our journey. Granted, it was plausible that the wagon was simply going to the train station, the same as we were.
Uncertain whether I was making too much of the matter, or even if I was being distracted by a coincidence, I tried to keep an eye on everything as the cab neared the station. Unlike Baker Street, the stormy weather had not lessened the crowds here. The street was clogged with traffic, all moving at different speeds, and the sidewalks were full of pedestrians hurrying to get out of the rain. I saw several umbrellas collide as we descended from the cab, sending water showering down on those unfortunate enough to be caught in the way.
“Stay close,” I advised Openshaw as I paid our cabbie. “I don’t want us to become separated in the crowd.”
“Of course, Doctor Watson, although I wish I’d been able to replace my ruined umbrella. I’m afraid my raincoat isn’t proof against your London weather.”
“I’m not sure anything is sufficient against rain like this, but better a little wet than…”
It happened in an instant. A man bumped up against Openshaw, sending him staggering back off the kerb. Before he could recover his balance, another fellow seized the carpetbag and yanked on it, trying to wrench it out of Openshaw’s grasp.
And pulling Openshaw even more dangerously out into the treacherous river of traffic.
I acted without thought, throwing my arms around Openshaw and bodily hauling him back to the greater safety of the sidewalk. I heard him cry out as he lost his grip on the carpetbag, and then we were both stumbling back onto the pavement. I felt a sharp pain as my shoulder and leg took the strain of his weight as well as mine, but managed to keep my footing long enough for Openshaw to regain his balance.
“My bag!” he cried.
“Was empty,” I reminded him, “and the thief is already gone with his worthless spoils. Let’s get to our train.”
Openshaw took a deep breath. “Right, of course. I’m sorry. It’s just I’ve never had anything like this happen to me before.”
“It’s quite all right; anyone would be shaken up. We are getting wetter by the minute, too, and that can’t be helping matters. I hope we can procure some hot tea, either in the station or on the train. It will do both of us – ”
A shout, a thundering of hooves, and a piercing cry, abruptly cut off. I glimpsed a wagon – the selfsame wagon I thought I had seen earlier – thundering past, horses whipped up and galloping at a crazed, reckless pace, driver a shapeless blur muffled in a dark coat and hat. I looked back along his track, and saw other drivers pulling up their horses or swerving away from a dark, ruined shape on the pavement. I managed to catch a brief glimpse of the figure before others rushed forward, blocking my view. Enough to see that there was no help possible for the man; his head was crushed and mangled, probably by a wheel.
And enough to see the carpetbag still clutched in one hand.
“What’s happened?” Openshaw asked. His innocent puzzlement made it plain to me that he had not seen anything of what I had seen.
“An impatient driver caused an accident in the rain,” I told him. “Come. We need to go.”
We reached the station without further incident. I was able to get Openshaw and myself some much-needed tea, and also send a tersely-worded wire to Holmes, before boarding our train.
The rest of our journey to Horsham, and our return trip, were both entirely without incident. I was very glad to see the familiar door at Baker Street again, and even gladder to see Holmes in his usual chair by the fire-side.
“Welcome back,” he greeted us as he took in the two heavy bags we carried in with us. “These are all of the remaining papers?”
“Yes, Mr Holmes. I have brought everything,” Openshaw replied. He sounded almost as exhausted as I felt. The long interval of incessant vigilance, combined with travel and near-constant rain, had left me feeling as tired as a week on campaign.
“Excellent. I, too, have been successful in learning much in your absence. I fully expect these papers will help me complete the picture.” His satisfied look shifted into a keener expression. “However, in the meantime I must regretfully inform you that an erroneous report has made it into nearly all of the London papers.” He handed Openshaw a newspaper folded open to a particular page. “Watson wired me of your trouble with the bag-snatcher. Apparently your bag was found abandoned near an unfortunate pedestrian who had a fatal encounter with a cart. The pedestrian was unrecognizable, I’m afraid, but your bag had your name and address inside it. The constable at the scene naturally presumed that the abandoned bag must have belonged to the victim.”
Openshaw sank into a chair, his eyes scanning the newspaper. I looked at Holmes. I suspected my friend had something to do with this, although I was not certain exactly what – or why. He met my gaze with a serious one of his own, and nodded slightly. I accepted the unspoken acknowledgement and promise that I would learn all in time.
“This – this is extraordinary,” Openshaw murmured at last. “At least my household will know better, since I was just with them. I – I suppose I should write the papers at once and correct the mistake.”
“I should rather advise leaving the error, at least for the time being,” Holmes contradicted. “In one sense this mistake is extremely fortunate. Any enemy searching for you might well be thrown off your track by these false reports. You will naturally wish to send a wire to your brother, but I recommend limiting any other communication to the bare minimum, at least for a few days.”
I saw it then, as I should have seen it earlier. I had referenced both the wagon and the accident in my wire, as well as the bag thief. Holmes had clearly put things together in his mind, as only he could do, and seen the opportunity. Perhaps he had even ‘helped’ the police to the wrong conclusion. He certainly meant for the driver of the wagon to believe he’d been successful in killing our client, at least long enough for Holmes to bring him – and whatever forces were behind him – to justice.
“I must say I dislike the idea, Mr Holmes, but if you think it necessary, I suppose I will be guided by you in this.”
“It should only be for a day or two at most,” Holmes assured him. “I feel certain I am close to resolving this matter.”
And Holmes was right. Within two days, he had unravelled the affair. It was not purely a matter of vengeance of the Klu Klux Klan, as it first appeared. Holmes had suspected as much from the start, for why else had the Colonel been allowed to live in peace for so many years? His research discovered that the dreadful society had lost a great deal of its power, due to stringent actions against it by both the American government and by a revulsion of popular opinion in crucial areas. Certain members of the society, however, had flourished, and one name in particular had risen to distinguished prominence. He was a politician, one that had started as a local judge and advanced to positions of increasing importance in the state. He was now poised to ascend to the national stage.
It was not this man’s history with the Klu Klux Klan that was likely to scotch his career, shockingly enough. Although it would have been an embarrassment in some circles, Holmes’ correspondents asserted there was still enough support for its terrible beliefs in the general populace of the southern states to render it moot. No, the answer lay elsewhere in the Colonel’s papers, specifically in his real estate dealings during the Reconstruction. That self-same politician who was a leader in the Klan had also conspired with Northern profiteers to benefit heavily during the Reconstruction. He had hidden most of his dealings by buying properties in his wife’s and his wife’s mother’s names, but Colonel Openshaw had been astute enough to discover it and make note. That was what had driven the politician to fear the Colonel, and eventually to drive him to desperate measures to recover those papers or ensure their destruction, along with anyone who might know about them. Each new election campaign had renewed and escalated his efforts.
There was no way to prosecute this man for the deaths of Colonel Openshaw and his brother, no way to tie him directly to the campaign of death and terror he had waged in England as he had waged in America. However, Holmes could and did ensure that copies of the relevant property documents found their way into hands that put them to best use. The politician’s career was halted in its tracks. His influence dwindled, his poison limited to the sphere in which he already travelled, and there were no more attacks on John Openshaw or the rest of his family.
________________________
“Your telegram spared me what could have been several bleak hours,” Holmes remarked, startling me out of my memories of the case.
“How so?” I asked, completely mystified.
Holmes gave me one of his swift smiles. “Openshaw’s bag was only mostly empty. It contained my card, one I had given him. That led the constable to come to me with the bag. Had you not thought to wire…”
He did not say any more, but he did not have to. I knew exactly what he would have felt, and he knew that I knew it, had felt it myself far more strongly and deeply at other points in our lives. “I’m glad I thought of it then,” I said lightly, not wishing for either of us to revisit that old pain. The wounds had healed, but still bothered us both occasionally, as old wounds will. We both tried to avoid aggravating them.
Holmes acknowledged my words as the offering they were, and made one in return. “I scandalized Mrs Hudson by not allowing the maid to change my bed linens for a fortnight after that case.”
I had to think about that for a moment, and then my eyes widened. “Truly?”
“Of course.”
I remembered my own reactions to sleeping in Holmes’ bed then, the sensation of being surrounded by his scent. I could only imagine how much more it must have affected him at that time, knowing I had no idea then of his feelings for me, knowing my love for Mary, my wife. Having no idea that things might ever be any different.
It was years before I understood my own feelings for Holmes, and more before I learned of his, when he and I came to an understanding. I loved Mary, and still mourned her. Holmes was still occasionally jealous of that, even though he understood, and I think finally believed, that I loved him just as strongly, and with a depth of feeling just as true and lasting.
“Openshaw turned Methodist, if I remember correctly,” I mused.
“Indeed?” Holmes raised his eyebrows at my apparent non-sequitur.
“Yes. The last I heard, he was happily married and diligently involved in investing his inherited fortune into worthy causes near and dear to the Methodists, both here in England and abroad in America.” I gave him a speaking look. “The evil deeds of others can never be erased, but sometimes good can follow evil, even redress it, if people act with enough resolve and dedication.”
Holmes’ smile was entirely free from irony, and he gently placed one hand on my good shoulder. “Yes, my dear Watson. Yes it can.”
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Date: 2017-10-23 07:58 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-11-01 04:58 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-10-23 10:05 pm (UTC)There's such a lovely tenderness in your narration. In spite of the bad weather and the fiendishness of the case, we get lovely little moments from Watson: the visitor vs client retort, Watson's thinking Holmes's room too ghoulish for Openshaw, his reflections on his marriage. They're like sanctuaries amid the chaos. I particularly love Watson wondering what Mary would make of the case:
There was too much presence, and too much absence. Holmes’ scent surrounded me, welcome and familiar, and yet unfamiliar too in this context. I had grown used to Mary’s presence beside me in bed at night. I missed her now with a strength that surprised me. I wondered briefly what she would make of all this, Openshaw and his mysterious persecutors. I could imagine her curiosity, her bright, lively interest as I told her of what had happened so far. I had fallen in love with Mary as much for her spirit and her mind as for her lovely form. Holmes, too, saw her worth; had encouraged me in my suit, and in our long engagement until I could afford to support a wife.
You make so much use of this paragraph, I'm envious! I get such a vivid portrait of his marriage, and of Mary. One can imagine that on an average night they might be side by side, hand in hand, going over the facts of the case... And really, I think my vision of Watson's sexuality can be summarized as 'lying in Holmes's bed, thinking about Mary, being very befuddled by the absence of contradiction'.
The end is a perfect dessert. Of course Holmes had a 'I am never washing my sheets again' reaction, the loon. And this:
The wounds had healed, but still bothered us both occasionally, as old wounds will. We both tried to avoid aggravating them.
This might be my favorite line. Thank you!
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Date: 2017-10-23 11:43 pm (UTC)And this last remark is probably a bit nerdy (but hey, that's what we're here to do, right?): your economy of words extends throughout. I always struggle to write case fic because I find it so difficult to wrangle the exposition in a way that doesn't feel clumsy or boring. Not a word of this is clumsy or boring.
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Date: 2017-11-01 05:56 am (UTC)I'm particularly tickled you enjoyed Holmes' reaction to Watson sleeping in his bed, and Watson's bedtime musings and confusion between what he knows, and what he does not yet realize, about his relationships. Poor Holmes would have been happier if he could have let himself believe Watson switched rooms with Openshaw because he didn't want another man sleeping his Holmes' bed, rather than Watson being concerned with the effect on Openshaw's nerves. ;-) I'm glad you enjoyed the balance of happiness they found in the end.
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Date: 2017-10-24 05:18 am (UTC)Oh, author, I needed this fix-it. FIVE is a particular sticking point for me in the canon. The death of John Openshaw is so needless and so painful. Holmes takes this case casually despite every indication of its severity, and his client pays the price. It was wonderful to see him take the danger seriously here at last. Head canon accepted, 100%.
“Ah, yes. That was very well-reasoned of you.”
The gentle love story threaded through is also a treasure. Your characterization throughout is deft and delightful, full of humanity. I loved it all.
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Date: 2017-11-03 04:24 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-10-24 07:22 am (UTC)I can only agree to what is said in the comments above: THANK YOU for this canon fix-it.
Not only did "you" save the client but you also offer Johnlockers a hopeful note while Warstons get their well-deserved Mary as a good wife and more than a throw-away line, too. Further, you did your best with the historical facts and put all those horrible things at least in context. Lastly, your Watson-voice was a breath of fresh air!
Thanks for writing.
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Date: 2017-11-03 04:27 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-10-24 06:34 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-11-03 04:28 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-10-24 11:46 pm (UTC)It makes so much more sense that Openshaw’s uncle never destroys the papers, and it makes so much more sense with regard to Holmes’ personality that he insists Openshaw should stay at Baker Street, and then sends Watson back to Horsham with him. Also, I really admire your conclusion to the case - that you’ve come up with a completely fresh explanation for the murders.
Watson’s thoughts on the contradiction between how he feels about Mary and how he feels about Holmes are so poignant. It’s also poignant that Holmes had supported him in his engagement - loving Watson unselfishly and wanting the best for him. And though Holmes does eventually get his happy ending with Watson, I’m glad that Mary is never forgotten.
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Date: 2017-10-25 03:12 am (UTC)Everything about the original story screams "Doyle was in a rush, the deadline was approaching, he threw up his hands and said 'Screw it, these idiots will read a story where Sherlock Holmes reads the damn dictionary' and mopped it up in a day to concentrate on something else."
And this story is a sight better than the Moffatt and Gatiss' "Suffragists Are Murderous Cultists" version.
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Date: 2017-11-03 04:34 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-11-03 04:33 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-10-25 03:04 am (UTC)The two men are beautifully portrayed, Holmes at peace with Watson staying the night, Watson at peace in Holmes' bed, and all of it leading as naturally and gently to its conclusion with them together as watching two saplings grow into one tree.
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Date: 2017-11-03 04:36 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-10-25 09:03 pm (UTC)You handled the complex emotional dynamics of Holmes, Watson, and Mary with a beautiful, light touch. I am glad they were all so good to each other, and that each found their own happiness in their own time. Thank you for this terrific fix-it of what was probably Holmes's most terrible mistake in canon!
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Date: 2017-11-03 04:42 am (UTC)Openshaw in the original also struck me as a fairly decent and kind character, one that didn't deserve his fate. I wanted to explore that, and also how his uncle, who was involved in such a horrible organization, might both have been better, and just as awful, as that membership suggests. It didn't seem likely that the Colonel's racism would have ever changed much, however much he might have come to regret some of his racism-driven actions and decisions.
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Date: 2017-10-26 09:09 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-11-03 04:44 am (UTC)I've never really understood FIVE, and the fact that Doyle considered it one of his best stories - why???? That's really a mystery!
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Date: 2017-10-31 05:53 pm (UTC)AND YOU GOT RID OF THE SHIP GOING DOWN WITH ALL HANDS!
AND THE KKK ALIGNS MORE ACCURATELY WITH ITS ACTUAL HISTORY IN THE STATES
AND HOLMES MANAGED TO BRING DOWN WHO-ALL EVEN THOUGH THE KKK STILL HAD A CHUNK OF POWER
AND NO ONE DIES NEEDLESSLY, FOR VERY WHAT-EVEN-WAS-THAT REASONS
...sorry. I might in fact have some emotions and frustrations about FIVE. I don't know who you are, dear author (or perhaps I do?), but I like you very much.
“What’s happened?” Openshaw asked. His innocent puzzlement made it plain to me that he had not seen anything of what I had seen.
“An impatient driver caused an accident in the rain,” I told him. “Come. We need to go.”
Such an incisive sketch, in just a few words, of Watson-the-soldier. He's on Mission Keep Openshaw Alive, and is not going to let casualties that he can't do anything about become a distraction to the accomplishment of his mission. And oh yes, he's gonna make sure his commanding officer has accurate intelligence about what's going on in the field.
And I loved, too, the little not-quite-throwaway about the bed-sharing and carefully hoarded linen. And the fact that the two of them are at last comfortable enough that such a detail can be shared. :-)
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Date: 2017-11-03 04:46 am (UTC)Your excited response really made my day. I share many of your emotions and frustrations about this canon story, and yet it has the seeds (pardon the pun) of a good story within it. I'm thrilled you enjoyed it.
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Date: 2017-11-04 02:04 am (UTC)And this is such a lovely FIVE fix-it -- I rec'd it right away to a friend who also has very strong FIVE feelings. :-)