weeping, cheeks glistened with tears, you demand—standing at the center of the living room with your fists tucked stubbornly to your sides—a full cart of dried sweet persimmons delivered immediately to the flat.
a/n: my sherlock doesn’t follow a fandom; I write him the way I see and interpret his personality—but here’s the thing: I definitely prefer acd Sherlock over every other sherlock. do you understand me? I want to bone that man!!! Age difference : Holmes is like 39 and sparrow is 27.
THE morning was peaceful.
Sparrows twittered. Its less pleasing cousin, Pidgeons, Holmes noted with displeasure, blotted the ledge of the window with its droppings. Even great machines could not elude such profound, long suffering violations. Black, sleek motorcars that chuttered pridefully about on the road, veered when the same pigeon managed to land a (surprisingly) good aim on the bumper. He had heard Mrs Hudson’s, “Good god!” when it swerved too close to the pavement she stood on. She composed herself, gave the driver a good chiding, before trotting off to the grocers with a huff.
It was the same as any other day in the flat. And, just as any other day, he dressed in his day suit and waistcoat, finished his breakfast of toast and marmalade, fluffed up the sofa with blankets and pillows for his wife before heading downstairs to fetch the newspaper thrown onto his doorstep. He returned back into the living room, content for an onward relaxing morning.
Holmes raised the teacup to his lips, in the process of lowering himself into the armchair with a groan when the bedroom door flung open with a bang.
“Blast.” He jostled the cup at the sudden sound.
Tea sloshed over the rim, burning his thumb. He set it down quickly onto the table, flapping his hand to cool off the burn, and swiveled up, nonplussed, at the source of such awakening—which was, everyone should’ve known by now, a violation he wouldn’t have tolerated from anyone but his wife.
“William!” You declared.
“My dear girl,” He breathed, steadying his palpitating chest, already running through the worst possible scenarios that would justify your anguished expression.
Your hair was delightfully mussed up from sleep, chemise rumpled in a manner it hiked over just slightly over your round stomach, baring a sliver of skin, and your shoulders were heaving, panting as though you had ran a mile—which was peculiar; their room wasn’t small, but it was neither spacious given the clutter of your belongings and his. Holmes was sure the length of their bedroom couldn’t be that taxing to cover in several strides.
However, this is you he is speaking about.
“What is the matter?” He walked over, a hand curling over the back of your head and the other, he pressed the back of his knuckles on your forehead.
“Something came up.” You moved impatiently on the balls of your feet.
Sore feet? He massaged it last night. Nausea? He prohibited smells, and potential ones, that would irritate your nose. His chemical bench is forever locked up in the basement. And this morning, he was sure he smoked a good several hours outside in the cold before coming in. Mrs hudson gawked at the sight of him ruddy and shivering . (“All is well.” He’d chatter, ambling upstairs like a bristling leaf under the wind.) He even peeled off the clothes he wore that morning and changed into ones stripped of any smell.
Unless, you had caught a whiff of it?
“Are you feeling unwell?” He said gently.
You shook your head. He pulled away his knuckles and rested his cool hand on the side of your throat.
“I am hungry.” You said anxiously. “Really, very, so terribly hungry.”
Ah. The Cravings. Something that could be easily taken cared of.
“Lemon tarts?” He offered, “I could go down and—“
“Not lemon!” Your eyes glistened, “I hate lemon! It’s—it’s very sour and irritating! It will make me weep! No. No lemons.”
He soothed your throat, thumb on your jaw. “Then that is done—no lemons. What would you like?”
You swallowed, “I had a dream last night.”
He gave a small smile, “You must have slept well, then.”
“Very! I was in bed and you were holding something in your hand. Feeding me. It was sweet and dry,” You looked up hopefully, “Dried persimmons I think.”
Persimmons?
The thumb soothing your jaw stilled. Now, how is he to tell you that procuring such delicacy is an impossibility especially at this month? They are usually sold during winter, not to mention, food imports are tightly controlled as priority is given to essential stables. Any chances of running into a shop handling such a luxurious and, at this moment, scarce fruit is a paltry blessing. An oddity, even. Half of the population isn’t even aware such a fruit existed.
Unfortunately, however sound the subsequent narration of his logic was, he was sure it would not soothe the agitated, cravings of a pregnant wife, currently on the verge of tears. You were now looking up to him as though he was personally responsible for your anguish, fisting his waistcoat, lips trembling, eyebrows drooping so dolefully his chest seized.
“…Right,” he said slowly, curling his hand around your cheek “I’ll see if Mrs Schaefers has any.”
“A cart of them!” You blurted. “I need a cart, William!”
“The doctor,” He managed, his tone adopting a sterner edge, “Advised that too much glucose concentration—“
“Oh!” You huffed, stomped your feet on the ground, he thought, like rabbits do when they are displeased, “Blast that doctor!”
“Darling,” He said with a warning tone.
“No! I cannot bear it! I cannot! If it is not a cart, I shall march to the British Parliament and persuade them!”
His mind unhelpfully provided the visual imagery of his fussy wife slamming the great oak doors of the establishment open and lighting the parliament on fire. The corner of his lips twitched. He looked away. Focus, man.
“You are not taking me seriously,” You accused with betrayal, thumping a fist gently on his chest.
He clasped your fist with both hands, “I perfectly am,” he said, “However, given the circumstances of the economy and your health I do not think it is wise to consume so many of this…persimmons. In fact, a more healthier substitute, I—“
“Am aware you still use the seven percent solution, William.”
Holmes paused, his mouth working for a moment. He dared not to ask how you know. Dared not to go on his knees to apologize. And dared not to negotiate. In other words, you will sleep outside.
“…I will see to it that it is carefully procured.”
“What is it, Sherlock?” Mycroft’s voice chuttered through the receiver.
In the kitchen, he held the landline to his ear. It was holstered on the cabinet against the wall. His fingers worried the coiled wires as he peered through the open doorway and into the living room.
“This is an urgent case, Mycroft.” He watched as you fussed over the two pillows on the sofa, fluffing the dust out with several devastating smacks of your palms.
“Not any more urgent than identifying spies, I hope?”
“Spare me the theatrics.” He huffed. “There is a more pressing matter.”
“Well then get on with it, man. The British government does not dally.”
“It involves the inquiry of shipping logistics.” He said.
“…I see.”
You were now waddling around to keep busy and not think of the gnawing demand of a full cart of persimmons, pushing the stepping stool—wherever you had got it from— towards his bookcase.
“Is it possible for you to oversee a shipment of persimmons?”
“What for?” Mycroft said in disbelief.
You lifted one foot, placed it on the stool, then hauled yourself up, attempting to dust the upper shelf (already cleaned by him) with a feather duster.
“A good portion of a full cart is preferable—Good god woman!” He jumped forward when the stool wobbled, panicking. You righted yourself perfectly fine after a second. Then continued dusting.
“What? What’s happened?”
“The persimmons…” Holmes grounded out after a moment and sagged against the wall. “Will keep her busy and sane from conjuring any other life threatening chores she is currently occupied in.”
A long, long long silence settled on the other side.
“Did you hear me?” He repeated impatiently, “I said—“
“I heard you perfectly,”
“Then you are aware how devastating this grievance is?”
“I was under the impression that this is a line reserved for national emergency and not domestic ones.” He pronounced domestic with such disappointing clarity.
You seemed to have heard it and you turned, throwing a look over your shoulder. He was, once again, blasted by your doleful, anguished eyes. The feather duster drooped just as sadly.
He whirled around to the sink. “It will be a national one in a moment!” He hissed.
“What, she will send you to the moon?”
“To the gutter, Mycroft!”
“Your fault, entirely. I cannot blame her.”
“Would the alternative for the demands of shipping policies be reformed any more pleasurable?”
“Doing so would virtually affect nothing of my work.” He said. “Word of advice? Using your two legs and your pair of eyes, go down to the market and ask around.”
“Mycroft, you and I both know under this circumstances—“
“If not, I shall send my best wishes to your spine on the gutter. Good day. And do not call me for another month.”
Mycroft hung up.
He let out a disbelieving sound and stared at the landline for a moment. Utterly unhelpful. Holmes pressed the telephone to his chin, tapping it thoughtfully. Through other means. Now, he did not specify which means were preferable…did he?
A young woman of five and twenty. You’re a writer with a particular problem: a massive brain drain of a writing block that haunted you for days without end. So, in order to rectify such a suffering, you’ve decided to move in with Britain’s greatest, if not most eccentric, consulting detective.
two, three, four
CHAPTER FOUR
THE seventh day.
The final thread was pulled with an angry, sniffling tug. In your hand laid a crude, misshapen doll roughly six inches tall, dressed in scraps of black fabric. Hair a splotch of India ink. Face, a smug smile of threads stitched on to it.
You held it up, this pitiful effigy of a six-foot liar, and with a flick you tossed across the room. It landed near Pippa, who was investigating a dust bunny in the corners She started, then crept closer, her nose twitching.
“Tear it up, Pippa,” Your voice was thick, nasally from hours of childish sobbing. Your eyes felt swollen and your nose were, no doubt, clogged.
Pippa narrowed her little eyes and pounced. Her tiny claws scrabbled, sharp teeth sinking into the fabric. She shook the doll, worrying the figure, sending tiny tufts of stuffing and shreds of cloth flying into the corner with vengeance.
You watched, a damp chin on your knees, wiping your runny nose every now and then.
The Next day, Sherlock Holmes stood on the familiar doorstep of 221B Baker Street, his key hovering over the hole in a state of foreboding indecision. For a good, solid minutes of thirty, he had stood, senses heightened, his ears strained for the familiar happy rustle of skirts, eager patter of feet, and peals of a certain feminine giggle.
He leaned into his cane.
There was nothing. Only silence. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He nudged the key into the brash escutcheon, then retracted it. Nudged it again. Clink. Retract. The consequence was deliberately human—alien to the man who would stride unflinching into a den of gangs, cutthroats and murders—one promised arrangement broken; an aspiring authoress who had did her best to convince him days prior had now, probably, think him a monster. Or, worse, a forgettable bore.
He briefly considered earnestly relocating his practice to Sweden.
Finally, with a resigned compression of his lips, he was about to properly insert the key. As he did, it swung open by itself. His chest lurched, a pre-emptive, carefully worded apology—composed and rehearsed during the entire cab ride from Bailey (Lestrade found his unusual stillness unnerving)—leapt to his tongue.
But it was not the youthful eager face of a young authoress and flatmate that greeted him— it was Mrs Hudson. Her arms were folded, a matronly sight of disapproval as she took him in.
“Back in one piece, I see.” She remarked.
“Never better, Mrs Hudson.” He replied, his tone a shade too brisk.
“Oh, well,” She said, stepping aside to allow him entry. “We’ve got such a quiet week, my poor old self had almost forgotten what it’s like to have a consulting detective in residence. It’s been like the old times. Just the dust and me.”
He cleared his throat, stepping past her and into the hall.
“Heard the old fool was taken to Old Bailey,” She remarked, her eyes burning, “I’m guessing it went to plan.”
“Quite,” He said, his back to her, as he unnecessarily fussed with the buttons of his great coat,”There was a brief regrettable lapse in timing which we may squarely blame upon the junior constables. Otherwise, it was a complete success.”
”Mhm.” Her eyes bored the back of his head.
He stilled for a moment, shifting on his foot to glance to Mrs Hudson,”How is..?”
”Oh, Miss Cai had been no trouble at all! A ghost, really. Spends all her time in her room. Writing, I expect,” She said, “though she did ask for you on Tuesday.”
He swallowed, turning away and back at fussing with the buttons, “Did she.”
”And on Wednesday. Thursday. Very concerned she was. Very sweet. Reminds me of my youngest niece. Gets her heart broken by a bad novel and mopes all day,” She sighed then added sweetly, “Kippers, Mister Holmes? You’re early for breakfast but I can bring a plate up directly.”
He finally shed his coat, draping it over his forearm, and the cane dangled uselessly over his wrist, “…Of course. Thank you, Mrs Hudson.”
As he began his ascent up the steps, his mind racing , Mrs Hudson called out, “Oh! And don’t mind the silence, little miss Cai didn’t feel like coming down for supper last night. Or breakfast this morning. I suppose it’ll only be one plate of kippers and single a cup of tea?”
“…If it’s no trouble.”
”No trouble at all!”
Holmes stood outside your door,his hat held in one hand with contrition. He had been pacing for a minute, going over the apology in his head. A miserably sniffle from behind the door stirred him. He raised his fist and knocked gently.
The sniffling stilled. A squeak sounded.
He swallowed, “Miss Cai?”
He knocked again. No sound. No eager footsteps. No happy, sunny rustle of skirts or peals of feminine giggle. Receiving no answer, and finding the door unlatched, he pushed it open slowly, “I am coming inside.”
The room was dim, curtains drawn, in the center of the bed was a blanket covered lump, trembling with profound indignation. Upon this very same lump of righteous woe was a grey, fluffy mouse, its wide eyes glaring at him. He noticed a wooden box in the corner.
He took tentative steps towards the bed. With every inch of him nearing, the mouse, puffed its fur with a low chitter.
“Watson would find the new decoration agreeable. He did always have an eye for the more brighter things,” His eyes swept over the pale yellow rug in the center of the room, canvases tucked away in the corner, the dressing table clearly, and newly painted with swirls of clouds, rainbows and whimsical mice patterns.
“Mrs Hudson informed me you did the shelving yourself,” He glanced over to a cabinet, still in the process of being built, “…If you need any help with the fittings, I shall be of service.”
He was at the bedside now, looming over the angry lump, which suppressed an angry an attempt of a nasally clogged sniffle. He was sure Mary Watson and the good doctor would have not only his head, but his soul. Cautiously, and ignoring the rodent that darted around on the lump, trying to deter him, he lowered himself to sit on the edge of the mattress. The lump flinched as the cushions dipped slightly beneath his weight.
The rodent now took its full vengeance. With a squeak it butted its head against his knee, and tugged on the folds of his trousers with its teeth. He looked down at the mouse, then to the lump. With a sigh, he carefully scooped up the mouse, set it on the floor by his oxfords and squarely placed his hat onto the angry creature. Followed by a book, neither heavy or light, on top to prevent it from tipping over and therefore, ripping his trousers. The hat jerked in small frantic circles.
“It seems,” He began quietly, “I owe you a grave apology and an explanation. You are under no obligation to hear the former, but I would ask of you to, at least, hear the latter. You must understand that my reasons for excluding your presence were never intended to cause you distress.”
The lump didn’t move.
“You have, perhaps, heard of Miss Joan Wilkins?” He said, shifting for a more comfortable position on the mattress, “She was found in her bathtub. One of Williams’s earlier victims. Murdered. Grotesquely. The laceration…” He began, and thought better of it. “I would spare you…the particulars as the scene was not fit for anyone. The junior constables had been jittery for several days after the sighe, pale as spoiled milk, and even I confessed to have not been able to keep such an intrusive image out of my mind.”
He continued, “My initial intention was to send a constable for you after four hours as promised. The paperwork to verify your presence as ‘essential’ to my investigation had been prepared for Lestrade. But, by that juncture…”
His voice became hushed “A witness under Scotland Yard’s protection had been silenced. His throat slit. A similar grotesque fate shared with that of Miss Wilkins. And then, more tragically, a constable Phelps. He had been recently married. His wife, entirely innocent and disconnected from the matter, had been strangled to death in her kitchen simply because her husband had nosed the right scent. Williams’s organization was not simply dangerous or criminal. They do not follow a set of rules, it simply targets vulnerability, and punish those, however innocent, involved.”
He leaned forward slightly, “To have brought you into that orbit, even as a mere observer would have been a profound act of negligence, on my part. It was not merely unwise, it was an impossibility I could not risk.”
He let the words sink in before continuing, “For that decision—the exclusion of your presence from such a vileness—I am not apologetic. But, for the manner in which I did so, the evasion, the delay, I am profoundly so. I could have sent for you a letter. Or a card. A telegram. But I have not. It was a cowardly strategy born of desire to avoid difficult conversation. It is disrespectful to your intelligence and to our arrangement. Will you…” He said tentatively, “Can you find it in your heart to forgive this foolish detective, my dear girl?”
”Yes.”
He blinked, momentarily wrong-footed by the sheer abrupt simplicity of it, “Yes..?”
”Yes, I forgive you.” The lump clipped out, thick with restrained fury, “I forgive that old foolish detective.”
He kept quiet. He knew you did not. The lump gave angry tremble. Then, the blanket was thrown away. You emerged, hair wide, cheeks blotched with stained tears, “I wasn’t angry that I didn’t get to go!”
You landed a weak fist against his arm.
Thump.
“I was angry because you didn’t trust me!”
Thump.
”And that I had to know indirectly through a second person! A sweet messenger boy!”
Thump.
Holmes winced.
You plowed on, batting your fists weakly against his chest, “We had an arrangement! A promise! A proper bargain! And you lied to me as if I were some gullible, naive puppy who needed this medicine coated in sugar—“
”I did not think of you that way, my dear—“
”Quiet!”
He snapped his mouth shut, chastened. You wiped your face with the back of your hand, smearing tears, snot and all—a rumpled undignified sight, you were before a gentleman, utterly pathetic in your rage but the fury was too consuming for shame.
“I could’ve— I would have understood if you just told me. Instead I sat like a foolish terrier waiting for its owner, who’ll never come, to play fetch! I imagined you hurt! I imagined you dead! Worse I even told Mrs Hudson to prayed for you, you absolute wretched liar—“
”I am sorry,” He said solemnly.
Your breaths came in ragged, heaving gulps. ”You’re not.”
“I am not.” He waited then, still and patient, as your sobs and sniffled gradually subsided into hiccups and shudders.
He reached into his breast pocket and offered you his handkerchief which you batted it away with a furious hand.
“Don’t you dare be nice to me, now!” You spun, presenting him the trembling furious sight of your back and sat there for a long wounded silence.
The mouse finally nudged the book off the hat. It landed on the rug with a soft thump. The hat bowled over. It took in the scene managed to knock the book over and it took in the sight of you. It squeaked softly and jumped to the bed, scuttling across the blanket and under the shelter of your arms. You brought Pippa to your face and nuzzled the soft fur of her belly, its tiny, cold claws against your damp cheek. Patting, consoling. Slowly, the tension in your shoulders began to ebb away.
“Where did you stay all those days?” You asked, hoarse, still facing away. “In some wooden barrel behind a pub.”
“In a small hotel near the Yard,” He replied.
”Without a change of clothes?”
”Yes.”
”For eight days.”
”Yes.”
You sniffled, “That’s not hygienic.”
He smiled ruefully, “I try my best.”
“Well,” You said with a slow turn, the glare was still there, just slight, “It’s not your best if you reek.”
”Do I?” He sniffed his collar curiously.
“You smell like dishonesty.”
He let out a breath through his nose, not entirely denying, “Perhaps the odor will dissipate once I have convinced you to come downstairs for breakfast,” He reached over and laid a hand on the blanket just beside your skirt, “And I believe I owe you a recollection of the events transpired.”
”You do. All of it,” You said accusingly, “Not a detail spared.”
”Precisely,” He stood up, fetching his hat, and looked down on the mouse now cradled in your lap, “And, perhaps, in exchange a recollection of yours.”
”It’s a long one,” You sniffed and swung your legs over the edge of the bed. The blanket pooled around your waist.
You had forgotten, at the moment, that you were still in your white, thin sleeping chemise. Holmes, with a flush in his neck, reverted his gaze with respectful haste. He spotted a dressing gown draped over your chair and handed it to you without looking.
You slid your arms though the sleeves.
“Her name is Pippa,” You said, scooping the mouse into your palms, “Pippa, baby, say hello to the bad man.”
Pippa did not. Likely a direct result of the many colorful condemnations you had uttered just the day before. Pippa simply glared up. He stretched out a finger, intending for a gentle rub but she bared her little teeth. He preferred his finger intact and simply drew it away.
“She’ll warm up to you,” You stood on your unsteady feet.
”No doubt she will, in time” He mused, as you padded over to the elaborate enclosed of planks and nails, “I suppose she’ll be expecting to contribute to her share towards her lodgings soon?”
You bent and placed her on the miniature bed where she primly burrowed under the newly knitted coverlet with exhaustion. You straightened back up, exhausted as well, sticky and utterly ravenous.
”Don’t you worry about Pippa,” You said, smoothing your gown, “She’s got a day job. Pays quite well in crumbs and affections.”
His eyes then swept over to the corner. Where his effigy—now rendered unrecognizable in sad small heaps of fabric and stuffings—had been torn up by vengeance, “Oh, dear. It appears she prefers a certain kind of decoration.”
”Nothing important!” you said quickly and grabbed his elbow, steering him to the door, cheeks flaming “Now! About that breakfast. Have you ever tried honey with cheese?”
The strange disappearance of Evelyn Hagrief leads you, a nurse, and the consulting detective Sherlock Holmes down a strange, if not, peculiar winding road.
Fast flowing—a stream. It’s head is under, submerged and smothered and vines, like its fingers were, writhe for sojourn, but nothing is in reach. It’s nails swipe, remiss. Fingertips, bare.
The Lapis sky gleams overhead in unmoving ripples. Only hollow marbles from its lips form, white outlines, the size of irises floating above to the horizon. Then, its lungs cool, a menthol-like sensation in its throat, prickling fire and sore. It’s mouth opens, but words elude, it eludes much so, for the throat is then wrenched open and filled in with abrupt gushes of water.
Slowly, the eye-lids flutter. It drags down, heavy, somnolent. It is drowsy. It drifts below, and further down into the eventual, cold arms of an embrace.
And soon, It is gone.
Winter, 1893. The Countryside. Caenes.
PECULIAR THINGS, or the abnormalities considered just so are simply ignorance and mortification of the unknown, projected.
It was a line from a gothic novel you have read.
You were also the complete the opposite of such wisdom—a dastardly coward, if any braver folks were to make of you. Though ,with this prudence, you would have been lost, if not for the notebook you snatched in time from your room upon leaving the flat in haste—for the flower seemed to have taken a strange modification beyond science.
Which led you to wonder: how often do peculiar objects transect your path?
You settled into a crouching position, arranged the satchel—which hung over your shoulder—aside for the ease of kneeling on the snow, and gave the beauty a rea and proper look. The flower was near glass-like. Only in view, though. As even if the petals were translucent, the stem gleaming, it was quite pliable to the touch. Cool, too. Almost rubbery.
And look! It sways! Along the gentle wind.
To you, it is plain as a pikestaff to not have seen anything like this before. You have got a good memory, yourself, and can’t quite hark back to a study done on such bloom. Unless, of course, some poor scholar is still out there, in the process of drafting up a monograph, and being all stingy about their finds.
Well,wouldn’t hurt to count another presence in on the knowledge, you hope.
A few distance over, Minnie, with her glossy chestnut finish, and reins roped round a fence, snorted a peevish whinny. She brought her head down with a dramatic sneeze, a betoken she is very not amused by all the waiting. An impatient one, she is. When you first had bought her, she beguiled herself in snatching off Holmes’s hat with her teeth and, yet again, sneezing at your face. Fergie, though, was less of a trouble, preferring to chew her hay in peace.
“Almost done,” You called out, “A few more minutes and we’ll be good to go, alright?”
A disgruntled huff, albeit a resigned one, and a clop of her hoofs sounded.
When Minnie is considerably less impatient, you fished out a notebook from the satchel. Then, balancing it on your lap, you plucked out a 4B pencil from the pouch and began sketching the plant.
The sky was mellow. No clouds in sight, just a bleak, grey stretch of color, reflecting much of the snow’s somnolent propensity. It was frankly not an ideal place to be painting in—the lush greens of spring and sparkles from streams were a better fit—but alas, time moves on, and so does spring.
Winter, however, was prickly. So much so as that Holmes—your employer, conferring with a client nearby, right on the footsteps of his house—stood just a slight hunched, tucking his gloved hands into the pocket of his overcoat. His hat was tipped down , shadowing his features, a thick black woollen scarf was wrapped around his neck muffling his nose and mouth. His grey eyes peeked above the fabric, set alight with interest.
A hound in black, Watson once mused. You were quite similar. Not a hound perhaps, but an artic hare. If Holmes were to turn around and regard you now, all he would discern is a mound of white on the snow—cap, scarf, coat and all—save for your brown walking boots.
Now, you may daringly ask: what is a consulting detective and his nurse doing out here in The Welsh Marshes plenty of miles from London? Their initial case was in a town, a dainty one that you quite had forgotten the name of—Oh! You remember! It was Falwile, which a few good miles from here. It took a week to have solved the problem, and once after the results were given, and Holmes was awarded with praises and pennies—a blizzard struck.
You both veered out of the intended direction towards London and settled here for a day, a little village down south of Caenes.
And that was then a bearded twenty or so Mr Hagrief, who lived up to his name—and forgive your impertinent jest—grieving, introduced himself. Apparently, his wife was missing for days since she stormed out of their house during a quarrel.
After examining the house, the farm, and finding nothing of interest, Holmes was now on his elbows and knees on the ground, nose inches away from a pair of women’s leather shoes that were perfectly perched on top of the snow. Hagrief stood behind, sniffling, snuffling and all that sort.
“You understand,” Hagrief began,“ I am not usually one to get my nerves about in a lather. But there’s no telling what she's thinking when that woman is as mad and poppin’ as a kettle can boil.”
“People rarely think when they are in such a state.” Holmes murmured without looking up, “Though, it can be certainly argued otherwise. In a fit of passion, one can think too much and it all goes askew.”
“I suppose it makes sense, in a way.”
“Indeed,” His eyes flickered up, “you might have heard of the common saying that a person’s true thoughts can be revealed more honestly during a fit than any calm deliberation ever could. Have you a role in the matter, Mr Hagrief?”
“What, that I drove my wife to madness? Is that it?” Hagrief grew a little defensive, his blue eyes pointed. “It’s a quarrel sir, we’ve both a role but I’ll let you know I did not intend to have set her off deliberately-like, if that’s what you mean.”
Holmes simply smiled, turning a shoe over in one hand as he stood up.
“I take your meaning perfectly ,” He said, “And forgive me for saying so, however, as I have observed—there are usually two sides of a coin during a quarrel, the most common being it originates from the object itself.”
Hagrief was visibly puzzled. “I don’t quite follow, sir.”
“You will, in a moment.” He held up the leather shoe, presenting the sole to the man. “Do you, perhaps, notice something peculiar about this?”
“Peculiar!” Hagrief appeared impatient, “Why, sir, everything about this whole business is peculiar! I should not have called upon you if I knew what to make of it!”
Holmes opened a palm, “Humor me, Mr Hagrief. Please, if you will. The shoe?”
After a long moment, the man does, begrudgingly so in a manner, as his eyes scanned the shoe from top to bottom.
“All I see is the end of a shoe, Mr Holmes,” He said, with a hint of cynicism, “What’s so peculiar about it?”
“The ridges. Do you see them?”
There were indeed ridges on the flats. Deep, wavy protruding ridges—quite unlike those of a typical lady’s walk-wear.
“Aye, those things,” He huffed, shuffling on the spot, “We live on a high platform, sir, and on a farm, to boot. To make ends meet we tramp around the field day and night, hour after hour. We cannot afford to slip and break our necks, you see. We have too plenty of work to do in little time.
If you look ahead there, over that hill—a minor slope will tumble you down to a good ravine,” Hagrief pointed somewhere behind his house, “And the closest is a roll down the fields to the lowest platform. You’d break your neck with all those little mounds of rock. So, those ridges are the least of the mystery you’ll be solving, Sir.”
“I see,” Holmes stared at the man for a moment, “How long have you been living in this area?”
Hagrief was taken aback by the sudden change in question, “At the farm? Er, around seven years, sir. After we married. Why?”
“The main village doesn’t seem so far from here,” Holmes went on, “A few miles approximate. Do you visit it often?”
“No, not quite,” said he, “My Evie reckons we’ve got everything here if we can make do with the resources we have.”
“So—your wife who dislikes social communes and prefers the seclusion of her farm and house, suddenly goes missing with only her shoes seen atop the snow,” Holmes said, “I implore you, deeply, Mr Hagrief, that there is obviously nowhere else she would go despite your insistence to the contrary.”
He bristled, baffled“Why! I never insisted—“
“You did not,” Holmes cut him off with a pointed look “But you are convinced—and I deduced as much from your countenance—that she did away with a lover the moment I brought the shoes to your attention.”
“And what makes you so certain of how I feel?”
“Similarly in a way I have solved plenty of cases, Mr Hagrief,” His eyes grew cold, “Mr Hagrief, you have summoned me here to locate your missing wife. And by all means necessarily will I do so. Otherwise, if you are reluctant to be honest with me, I shall see myself out—“
A hand reached out to grab his wrist. “Now, wait here, sir!”
Holmes twisted away from his grip, “Honesty is all I ask, Mr Hagrief.”
“Straight from the shoulder, I am!”
Holmes gave the man a long pointed look and it was enough to crumble every last bit of his gaurd.
“What else would I think?” He cried, “My Evie for all her gruffness is the loveliest creature in all of Britain! Men have been known to break their necks for a glimpse of her face when she’s about. And tell me, how would I have felt, knowing she could pick and choose any man from all levels of society who desires her heart—but she settled for a poor oaf like me?”
Holmes narrowed his eyes, glancing at the flats, “You are saying these shoes are new.”
“I am saying those shoes are unlike her!” He cried, “She’s a stubborn believer in holding onto the constant, you see. Always wearing the same clothes. Same skirts. Same everything. These shoes? I have never in my life laid my eyes on them before. She always wore the flats her mother had given her before she passed.”
“The mystery lies not in the shoes themselves, but of the quality,” Holmes turned it over again, “This appears newly made. There are no visible marks of frequent use, nor weathering of the fabric. I assume Mrs Hagrief makes her own footwear?”
“Rarely. But when she does, something must have troubled her mind.” He said, “And naturally, I—“
“Mr Hagrief,” Holmes interrupted, “this is a crucial point of information. Why have you not brought it to my attention until now?”
Hagrief’s mouth worked for a moment, “Like you said, sir,” He said quietly, “A man’s imagination runs wild when they see something peculiar about his woman. If you had a wife, you’d understand. I didn’t want you thinking I was some typical madman with murderous urges on account after an unfaithful wife.”
“And do you?”
“Do I?”
“Believe your wife is unfaithful?”
“I have not!”
“You understand,” Holmes said mildly, “That in my experiences the majority of arguments between a couple that followed the other one dead, usually points to the spouse as a priority suspect.”
“And I cannot dispute that for those are your experiences. But I would have to tell you mine.” Hagrief paused for a moment, taking a deep breath and turned, “Walk with me, Sir? To the bench. I should think sitting down would do us both good. I am a little light-headed with all that has happened.”
“Of course, Mr Hagrief.” He gestured to the nearby bench outside the house. “Please.”
“She knows me”, Hagrief began as they walked, the snow crunching beneath their boots, “and the farm like the back of her hand. A crazy woman, she is—when a bobby once said something about funny to me, she near flew at him.”
“I am not a simple minded man, Mr Holmes, A rueful smile played on his lips, “I would ask no woman else to be my wife if I’d never met my Evie. If she were unfaithful, I find that I’d rather she be happy, than dead in my arms. If she has some man else, then so be it. There is no point breaking your heart over somebody who loves you no longer.”
“You appear not to be quite convinced by it.” Holmes remarked.
“Quite right,” He said, “Even before the argument we had, she’s been all sorts of queer lately. The unfaithfulness, to be frank, was a shallow initial thinking. I had other convictions of myself, sir.”
As Hagrief slumped down onto the bench, Holmes plucked out a small black leather notebook in his pocket, opting to stand.
He glanced at your back for a moment—you were still hunched over, scribbling—then back. “Pray, continue when you are ready.”
“It’s been a long problem, this one. But I suppose I shall start where it is simple enough for you to understand,” He took in a deep breath, “ I had been drinking a few weeks before, and I still am drinking now. You should know, I wasn’t always this avid of a drinker, as the first ripple in our pond was when we lost one of our farm dogs.
My Pam, sir. A lovely border collie. She was mauled to death by the wolves when protecting our stock, and succumbed from the cold and her wounds.
We cared for her a great deal when she was a wee baby, and even now when she was older. She was given to us by a breeder who remarked she wouldn’t make it to her teens since she was separated from her mother at too early an age.
Evie was distraught, did her best to keep the pup alive. Day and night she slept beside her, feeding, monitoring her bowels and such. From a despondent baby to an energetic creature trampling over flowerbeds and licking our faces, Pam lived up to her teens and now,” Hagrief gestured across the horizons. “As you can see, under a burial of snow.“
“Forgive my interruption. When was this?”
Hagrief thought for a moment, wiping his eyes. “A few months ago, sir. The body is well gone to dust, I think.”
“Please, continue.” Holmes held up a hand.
“I had buried her body myself, and I did not want Evie seeing it, knowing how well she’d be in contempt of the world and her thoughts. It was the first mistake I made—sheltering her from the worst of scenes.
Since then, she was always outside. Gone for hours, which was unusual during winters, since we had less work as it was cold, and the snow didn’t give us any chores to boot. She would come home at late nights, silent and brooding. Then she would become herself a few minutes later, in light spirits. You can imagine how my first thoughts were of a man.”
“You’ve mentioned her mother.” Holmes said, “How did she respond to her death?”
Hagrief shook his head, “It was before Pam died, two years ago. She pretended that her mother either did not exist or was on some holiday she from which she would return. Writing her letters in that little notebook I bought her. Murmuring to her pictures when she was alone. And it struck me, if she thought some bloke took her Pam away, then so be it, if it makes my wife a little saner,”
He stopped for a moment, swallowing, and collecting his thoughts.
“Back then I wasn’t so concerned,” He wiped the tears off his face, “for she was always carrying her little notebook with her—as I have mentioned, a pale lavender color, that I bought her for her birthday— writing her thoughts, I would assume, and simply sketching.
So, I foolishly assumed she would be well. After all, she is grieving, as I have thought, through appropriate channels. Until a few days ago when she found out I had been drinking….”
He trailed off, his voice trembling, “I was a fool, Mr Holmes. The biggest one on this land. I wish to god we had not quarreled because by now she would still be beside me.”
“What happened, Mr Hagrief?” Holmes prompted.
He took in a shaky sniff, “ She never liked it when I drank, and in all honesty, that was my fault entirely for I promised her I would quit the day I offered her my hand.
She stormed out of the house, simple as that. And I was pretty worked up myself, sir. The stress, my Pam, the farm. I couldn’t control my temper and—a row followed. After I calmed myself down a deal I went to look after the missus,” He said, “ We’ve been married a good eight years, so I know how she works, sir. And I know she sulked round the barn, as she always does when she’s piping mad.
But a blizzard struck, you see. So I had to stay in, worrying my wits away, making mental promises to stop drinking and beg her for forgiveness in my mind. However, right after it ended, I was about to head off to the barn when I opened the front door and saw the shoes on the snow. I checked the barn. Searched the whole place down from top to bottom. Not a sight of my Evie. None at all.”
He gestured with a trembling hand to the other flat on the snow, “And I left it there until I could get a constable to make sense about it.”
Holmes went quiet for a moment, tapping the pen against his notebook, “The dog. Pam. Was there a reason you hid the body?”
“I wish to heaven I had never seen the body, sir. It’s mauled, all grisly like,” Hagrief winced, shaking his head.
“Was there anything unusual that day, when Pam was supposedly mauled?”
“Not at all—“ Hagrief paused, then turned the question over in his head, “Aye, come to think of it. We did not hear anything that night. The dog’s shed was not so far from our cabin, and it was easy enough to hear things from there.”
Holmes narrowed his eyes, visibly puzzled. “Not a sound at all?”
“Not a sound, sir,” He said, “That’s why it has been so queer. I was a heavy sleeper, I’ll grant you, but not my wife. She’s got an ear for these kind of things. You could say it was paranoia, but it was her ears that deterred bandits and predators. My wife would have heard it but she said she did not.”
“A curious thing, that is.” Holmes murmured.
“What do you reckon it is?”
“It, Mr Hagrief?”
“Well—a man,” He shrugged, “,or maybe a different sort of wolf, the more sharp-minded ones, is what I’m asking. Do you perhaps have a clue, who?”
Holmes shook his head, “I’m afraid I am still in the dark. It is not appropriate to ask for my opinion when I am still in the process of constructing one.”
“Right,” He became sheepish, scratching the back of his head, “Real sorry about that.”
“It is of no consequences,” He waved him off, “One more question, Mr Hagrief—her notebook, have you seen it?”
The question made Hagrief blink, as though the thought, until that moment, had not occurred to him, “Why, come to think of it! It was gone as well, sir.”
“It was not in the cabin?”
“I know, because our house does not possess many things,” He said, “ You think she disappeared with it?”
“That is the only conclusion we can make at the moment,” Holmes glanced down at his notebook, made a few markings, before snapping the book shut.
“Well? Mr Holmes?” Hagrief stood up, hopefully.
“There are no signs of a body hereabouts,” said Holmes, “Which means she is either alive, or lost in the snow. I have no theories as yet regarding the shoes, nor the dog shed, which I have briefly examined—“ Holmes paused, “Did you tear down the shed after she passed? This one appears new.”
“Why, yes we did sir! My wife could not bear to see the old shed, so we naturally took it down.”
“I see,” He thought for a moment, “There is not much I can do now. I wish to consult my mind before I offer you a proper opinion. For now, the only course of action is to alert the constable for a missing person, keep your thoughts easy and attend the farm.”
“I can’t possibly do that!” He cried, “My wife is out there and you think—“
“Mr Hagrief,” Holmes said firmly, “the circumstances are narrow. The blizzard has covered much of her tracks and it is difficult to find evidence in the cold.”
“But you could do something, man!” He clasped Holmes’s hands desperately, “You are the finest in London!”
“What I can do,” He said slowly, easing out his hand from his grip and laying it on the man’s shoulders instead, “for now, is surmise her direction from the particulars you’ve given me. Given her disposition, your wife must have not gone far, of that I assure you.”
Hagrief paused, his shoulder rising and lowering steadily.
“You really do?” He said hopefully, “You really do think so, Mr Holmes?”
Holmes paused for a moment, and inclined his head, “I cannot think of anything otherwise.”
“Oh—god!” He crumpled to the ground, sobbing, clutching Holmes’s trousers, “You cannot imagine my relief, when you—by Jove! Thank you, thank you, man!”
Holmes leaned down and gently pulled him up by the shoulders, “Easy, easy, now.”
“Thank you, thank you! I have lost my Pam, god forbid I lose another!” He sobbed, shoulders shaking.
Holmes patted his arm, and after a moment said, “It is not wise to be alone, at this hour. Take a walk. Head to the village, spend the night there if it helps.”
“I have to remain here if my Evie finds herself back home,” His voice was unsteady, “Who will greet her if she does?”
“Then, stay.” Holmes said, “I shall depart now. For it is easier to locate her whereabouts when the sun is still overhead.”
“Of course, of course! I will not keep you, Mr Holmes. I swear to it I will not—“ Hagrief let out a sound, “Hold! I have something!” He disappeared into the cabin and returned some moments later, pressing something soft and warm, wrapped in a cloth into Holmes’s hand. “For the journey, sir. And your hard work. Pastries. Bread and all the like. My wife’s delicacy.”
Holmes offered a smile and accepted it with some reluctantance, “My most appreciation, Mr Hagrief. Have a good day.”
With a few departing words, he stowed the wrapped goods into the satchel on Fergie. Minnie stamped a hoof in impatience and he patted her mane, swiftly unfurling the reins where they were roped around the fence. He gathered the leather straps in one gloved hand and led the horses towards you.
You were still hunched low, so absorbed in your work that the soft crunch of boots, and clops of hooves, upon snow did not register— until a warm nose nudged your back. You started, then laughed, turning around to see Minnie and her impatient sniffs against your face.
Beside her, Holmes stood with the reins of both horses in hand, his grey eyes travelling from the flower you were sketching, to your pad, and then to your face.
“Mother nature has made its calling, I see,” He observed. “You’ve been at that for some time since we came.”
“Indeed,” You sheepishly turn to the plant, “the epidermis is quite translucent if you could lean in a bit. Rubbery-like, too. The mechanics are all very interesting. I suppose I should call upon a note to a friend at the university for remarks. Though, I am certain I am not the first to perceive it.”
He tilted his head slightly to chance on a glimpse of the plant, he appeared puzzled, “I have yet to lay my eyes upon a blossom as beautiful and rare—a name, you would make of yourself if it were to be disclosed—what makes you say so?”
“Why, I can barely scarcely make of it!” You said, “A strange little blossom, this one. As you have said, a name I would make. However, if I am the first to nose out such plant and have up to nil clue of what it may be—the next person that does on both accounts, might be the first.”
“You cannot mean that.”
“Well—to put it plain and simple,” You said, poking the stem and the flower bobbled, “It is like finding bread in the pantry but you’ve not a clue what it’s for.”
“I should think of the matter otherwise,” He said, a twinkle in his eye, “You have discovered the bread in the pantry, while somebody else had made the bread but you were the figure to get wind of the fact it is in the pantry. Perhaps, it should remain there for further investigation. The world does not need to be aware of its existence yet, would you reckon?”
You prodded your chin with the back of the pencil, still turning the words over. “It would be unfair for the scholars…”
“I was merely jesting,” He extended one of the reins to you, “You can do what you will with that fact.”
You quickly stowed away the materials into your satchel, and rose, taking the straps from him.
“Come,” He said, “Perhaps we’ll find more of those blossoms along the way. For now, I need a moment to myself, and forgive me, nurse, if I am out of touch my surroundings. We will talk while we head to the village.”
“Village, sir?” You asked, laying a hand on Minnie’s mane.
“Still missing,” was a note of frustration in his voice, “But an interesting case nonetheless despite the ordinary particulars. One can simply point to murder, and the husband, in an effort to clear his name, would call upon a constable to prove his alibi before anyone can.”
“But?”
“But that would all be very simple would it not? And many contradictions would come to light, some of which contradict other contradictions,” He said, “Fill up your water tank, Seda. We are heading east. I have consulted my map, and not too far is there a village along the way. Perhaps, she would have taken refuge there during the blizzard.”
“And if she is not there?”
He smiled, just slightly, “We have to start somewhere, don’t we, nurse? After all, a woman doesn’t simply disappear without a trace,” Then his voice lowered, “but do not regard of that fact too loudly. Something is very strange with this town. We will talk once the grounds are enough covered.”
You nodded as you both turned to walk away from Hagrief’s cabin. Holmes began to remark about a topic else, as he would usually do when he sought refuge from the more complicated mechanics of his mind. You discreetly looked over your shoulder. Hagrief was on his knees, clutching the shoes to his chest.
You are a journalist of five and twenty, determined to make a name for yourself.
(a/n) this was originally a rewrite draft for Brain Drain becuase I was really disappointed with how it went, but it after a lot of rereading the old chapters, I actually do kind of love it in a silly way and so, well, here you have it. It’s a separate fanfic. Some character backgrounds of with placeholder names Cai and Noi might be similar to BD but the story and dynamic is different!!
RIGHT after winter, spring blossomed promptly out of the marsh snow with its delicate ruffle of greens, and it was around May 1892, when the sun was particularly bright, that you had gathered enough courage to approach Mary’s study.
You did not open the door. Instead, you wrung your gloved hands together. It squeaked under the twists and turns as you vacillated back and forth on the carpet. Four pace forwards; stop, then, four paces backwards; stop, turn— repeat. At a glance, to see such a young woman muttering under her breath with her eyes darting about, you did not blame no person if they think you were mad.
The fact is for the first time, you’ve acted beneath the character of, whom many wrongly believed, a woman with demure disposition. Indeed, it was all new. The concept—the very idea— had been elusive, initially. All those years brought up with the Watsons, they’ve never seen a bit of bad blood in you—not even a tantrum for toys or a wail for muffins—except for the occasional bouts of sulks when pastries were denied after eight pm.
It all came down to the promise you swore to your parents the day you’ve been handed over: the Watsons were to never experience a foul hour within the radius of your persons even once. If they did, they could simply return you to Sussex, and you would live in a remote, worn down building as an orphan for the rest of your life.
The moment you opened the door, Mary stood at the other end of the room, with her back postured rigidly towards you.
“Ah, Noi,” You heard the rustle of a page turning, “Good evening, the sun is almost gone.”
Indeed, it was. Through the arched window near the bookshelf, the sky had turned a bruise of pink and purple; the clouds, white, soggy smears across the horizon.
You bowed apologetically as you closed the door, “The hour must’ve slipped my mind, Mary.”
“Well, best bask in it before it does,” She remarked brightly, “I don’t know what you’ve been up to these late nights but you should know how paltry this kind of opportunity is. London and its great gray pallor of skies are worse than John’s anemic patients, I tell you! I reckon you’d get sick just by being cooped up in that dainty bed all day. Well?” She turned her head just so, enough you discerned the outline of her nose and the glance of her eye, “Don’t you have something to say?”
Oh, you do. Plenty. Mary had always had the unconventional kind of foresight to predict the most unappealing; Watson never bothered informing her of his ailments, either pending or hidden, as she often knew it beforehand.
This was perhaps one of those days.
“I should think over a cup of tea would be more palatable.” You gestured with an unsteady hand towards the armchairs by the coffee table, “To calm the mind, you see.”
“So, I thought,” She closed the book with a plap and returned it to the bookshelf, the slot she had plucked it from. “I have been waiting for this day since you’ve picked up a quilt, darling. I’ve seen the look in your eyes before, the kind that can start a hearth with a single glance. So! No point stretching it out about. Might as well cut it short and lay it out plain and simple. I have no interest in sullying my mood if you intend to wait before Tuesday, you see.” She added eagerly upon your questioning look, “The Opera with John, if you remember.”
“Ah,I do,” You had the grace to look chagrined, “Also must’ve slipped my mind. Pardon me.”
“With problems so collossal these days, it is difficult not to. Now!” She bustled over to the drink cabinet, “Tea? Or Cocoa? They are the best remedy for stress, I heard.”
“Cocoa would help,” You tucked your skirt under your thighs and sat down, “But I suppose a little cocoa and more milk, for I need a clear mind, and a clear mind should I have, now, if I am to convince you of this matter.”
“Matter?” Mary mused, stirring a cup, “What kind of matter would I need such convincing, for you to speak as though a hot, good mug of cocoa were a pint of brandy?”
“Sugar usuallly does feel like brandy.” You scratched your cheek, “It gets me all jittery, if you’ll believe it. Like putting too much coal in a train and blocking the chute with a thick rod.”
“Oh, I know what you are like,” She tapped the rim with a spoon, “ You get the little shakes in you that’s hard to keep down. I know because I’ve seen it a few times, myself, though I don’t say it—never do—because I’ve learned that there are some things you can’t run your mouth about in this world. He’s a sweetheart, that John, but he can be a terrible tyrant if you’ve a flu from a trivial.”
“He’s a doctor, after all.” You muttered.
“Indeed, he is,” She turned around and walked over, settling an ample cup of cocoa on the table in front of you. The steam rose above the milky brown in wisps, “Just the other day, I heard Elsie gasping about a spilled inkwell. It has gotten worse, has it?”
You had drank coffee with apparent too much cubes of sugar, on an empty stomach to boot, and assumed it would provide you enough energy to finish a draft. The energy was there, however, mediated through the wrong channels.
“Not by a long chalk, I daresay,” You cleared your throat, “Though, it is pretty manageable if I am responsible with my intake.”
She sighed, “That is what I am concerned about.”
“Which part?” You reached for the mug.
“Being responsible,” She sat down in the armchair before you with a slump, “I can’t say I have ever relied on your instincts to keep yourself safe.”
“Now, Mary,” You sat a bit straighter, “you don’t mean that.”
She opened her palms, “What else do you suppose I mean?”
“That I may be clumsy, a clown, and other days an utter absolute menace, which you are not wrong to say, as I admit myself—I certainly am—but you can’t mean I am an invalid!” You leaned forward, both hands on your knees, “I’ll have you know, my archery is quite—”
“Yes, I know,” She waved you off with an irritated hand, “Quite dashing you’ve once said. If dashing meant you had almost plunged the arrow into the crowd.”
“A freak accident is what it is!” You purport, “I—that is to say—do not have any intent of gunning down innocents. Even if there was a Miss Topps who was among the few of them, and even if she had been mean to Elsie. But no matter— I would never think the worst of her to do such a thing!”
Though, you had, on occasion, thrown eggs at her window. But that was all. Like Mary said, there are some things the world does not need to know about.
“I am not purporting you have a murderous streak, what I am claiming, however, is that you simply do not have the constitution to uphold yourself in a scene of murder,” She said.“If that is not convincing enough, shall I remind you of the cry you’ve had at the sight of dead rats in an alleyway? Or weeping at the sight of bundled up pigs in a wagon?”
“They’re such darling beings!” You protested, warming your hands with the mug, “Who wouldn’t weep with the way they are treated?”
“You are right, who wouldn’t? But I can deduce a few things, and a few things more, and tell you why it is different with the case of you.” She listed off, “Let’s get the facts. You like facts don’t you, child?”
The mug rose halfway to your lips. “Not exactly—“
“You are utterly terrible at calisthenics. Your physical education—kaput. Your homeroom teacher was once concerned you had a hidden heart condition I had not disclosed to them, so open-mouthed and panting were you, like a stray dog, within two minutes of jogging.”
“But that was all before!” You rose to your feet, crossed to her, and perched upon the arm of her chair. “That was all when I was the ripe age of seven! Have I been acting strangely of late?” You poked her arm when she affected not to have heard you.
You prodded her again with a forefinger. “Have I, Mary? Have I?”
She kept quiet for a good long moment, begrudgingly considering. “No,” she said at last. “You have not.”
“Oh, blow me if I don’t! And you know I have grown, yes?”
“Any fellow with eyes can tell.”
“Perfect! So I am a grown woman of five-and-twenty. Obviously I must leave this wobbly constitution of mine behind. How shall I ever live upon the streets if I do not? I can prove a great deal to you, if you would but let me.”
“Alright, then.” She gestured with a resigned palm. “If you are so grandly insistent that you are a big girl—then prove it to me.”
“That is the very thing! I cannot prove myself to you if you have not approved my request.” You leaned down until your chin rested upon the crown of her head.
“Please?” You wound your arms about her shoulder, your cheek against her own. “I wish to heaven I never ask of you something so severe a second time. Would you be so very kind as to let me go?” Then, for good measure, you added, more dolefully still, “Please, Mary?”
“I have never experienced a worse kind of emotion than today, I tell you,” Mary said, quite ominously, in one of their outings a few days later as she sipped her tea, eyes fixed upon the window.
Across her, in a booth within the bustling hour of a Marylebone café, sat the consulting detective Sherlock Holmes, who, upon her words, stayed the raising of his espresso to his lips. Earlier, John had excused himself to confer with a fellow physician outside, and it was only then that Mary’s bearing shifted considerably.
“You seem troubled,” said he.
She answered only with a long-suffering look.
“There is no great difficulty,” he went on, watching the animated discourse of his colleague with another beyond the glass, “in deducing that it is not matters of the heart which betoken your present dour disposition.”
“Oh, I look quite dour, have I?” she remarked, returning her gaze to him. “John tells me I appear rather sickly, and yes—you are quite right, as you always are. I have a problem. The problem, simply put, is you.”
He regarded her with a puzzled air. “Me?”
“Yes, you.” She sipped again, pointedly. “Being the worst sort of inspiration for young ladies—that is what you have done. Not that my Cai knows you well enough, but it is inspiration all the same, drawn extensively from Watson’s published chronicles.”
“Ah,” he said simply. “I see.”
Upon the rare occasions he visited the Watsons, he was ordinarily shown to the good doctor’s study, never elsewhere. And when, under special circumstance, he was invited to dine, he had caught but meagre glimpses of the lady. Mary would have her dine before the adults and send her off to bed early, Elsie had once told him. He had assumed Mary did so on account of his sex, and that she did not quite naturally trust a man of his years—though a family friend—with a young lady in the house.
“There are plenty of points from which to draw inspiration,” he said, sipping his espresso. He was a private man, and fame was that which he desperately avoided. “I can only hope it is not the less legal aspects of my work with which she finds herself considerably convinced.”
“She wishes to join a club, Holmes,” she sighed—a long, suffering exhalation. “A journalism club, or some such, reporting on crime. Criminal activities. Murder. The dangerous, investigative kind. It rose to prominence after the ‘Algernin’ case, when Joan Wilkes—an American journalist—tracked down a murderer. The Pennes, they call themselves. Are you acquainted with the name?”
He considered a moment, then inclined his head. “Remarkably little.”
“I am in the same vessel, Holmes,” she went on ruefully. “But what I do know is merely that which everyone knows. It is an all-ladies club. A dangerous crew of hard-willed girls with a passion for reporting. To be admitted, one requires an ample enough portfolio to prove one’s worth. Most are upper-class, or middle-to-upper-class ladies.
We were not so badly off ourselves—well provided for from my father’s inheritance, if you recall. She begged me to let Watson vouch for her, as he has had fathers with daughters among the group as his former patients.”
“Ah, the dismal reality of networking,” said Holmes, his mouth twitching. “And what said he?”
“Before I had well got into that, we spoke a moment more,” she went on. “Cai was terribly convincing—terrible, you should have seen her. Gesturing. Bright eyes. So I relented, eventually, for it does no good to dally on a conversation I would rather not have.
‘Fine,’ said I. ‘Did you ask him? He is, after all, second to me, and it is only appropriate that he have something to say upon the matter.’
She gave me a smile—the brightest a girl you have raised from your heart can give—and said, ‘Well! He says it is very good I have a hobby to keep myself busy, as he himself writes, and he grew all weepy because I might take up his work as a future chronicler, if I wished it.
But he turned white as a sheet upon my request concerning the club, looked round as though you were there, and asked me if I was mad.’
‘And?’ said I. ‘What said John to this?’
‘Would not touch the idea with a poker, is what he said. Anything to do with me and a request from you, apparently. I reckon he is outside the door now, listening.’
‘A good man,’ I said so and shot a warning glance toward the keyhole. ‘He and I shall have a proper conversation upon this later.’
And by now you should know: I have no business restricting her freedom, for I am not her natural mother. And even were I so, it gives me no comfort to think upon crushing this ambition of hers, however strange it may be.
John would hate me for it, were I to do so, and I would rather not have my two moons abhor me. So I did nothing of that sort, and simply told John to bring her to that club she had been raving about. His cheeks swelled as large as ripe fruit, and he took her off quickly to finish the application before I might change my mind.”
Mary, exhausted from the entire endeavour, leaned against her seat. “And that was simply the end of it.”
Holmes stirred his drink in silence.
“Is there anything you would have me do?” he asked, after a moment. “After all, what purpose would it serve, to tell me all this and expect nothing?”
“Always about solutions, this man!” A bitter laugh escaped her. “Oh, there is nothing you can do. No, I simply wanted to—” She rubbed her temples. “—I do not know. It is unreasonable for me to stop her. You said so yourself.”
“Have I.”
“A few years back,” she said with a rueful smile. “You likely do not remember, but you said—and I recall it quite specifically—that when a person sets their mind to lighting a candle, no matter how hard the wind blows, the wick must burn.”
“Yes, well. Frankly speaking, that was concerning an arsonist, and not a woman of five-and-twenty with ambitions,” he replied. “I had imagined you would be less lenient.”
“Indeed. Perhaps, in another life, I should be.” Her eyes fell upon him, sad, but fond. “You will understand, when you have a daughter, Holmes.”
He was about to speak when the café door opened with the clink of a bell. Watson returned, striding toward them in light spirits. Mary merely smiled.
“How was it, darling?” she said, though a visible tremor shook her hands as she lifted her tea.
“Riveting! But perhaps not so riveting as the conversations I share with you both.” He laid a hand upon the back of hers and turned to Holmes. “Apologies for the wait, my dear fellow. Now! You were saying, about the case down at Hoxon…”
And the conversation was simply forgotten. Or, at the least, shelved.
You are a journalist of five and twenty, determined to make a name for yourself.
(a/n) this was originally a rewrite draft for Brain Drain becuase I didn’t really like it that much. B it after a lot of rereading the old chapters, I actually do kind of love it and so, well, here you have it. It’s a separate fanfic. Some character backgrounds of with placeholder names Cai and Noi might be similar to BD but the story and dynamic is different!!
SUMMARY, “The year is 1890. A young woman of five and twenty. You’re a writer with a particular problem: a massive brain drain of a writing block that haunted you for days without end. So, in order to rectify such a suffering, you’ve decided to move in with Britain’s greatest, if not most eccentric, consulting detective.”
one, two, three
— Chapter One
YOUR father, as he always does upon too many fingers of whiskey, would repeat an old, yet amusing tale he would entertain himself over.
“When I was a boy in my old town,” he’d say, “I’d walk home down this path. Long, muddy, sticky. None of those proper walkways we have now, you see. You kids ought to be grateful.” He’d wag a finger at you and your sisters as though you were personally to blame for the late arrival of pavements.
“On my—was it my right?” he murmured thoughtfully, “Ah, yes. On my right was a doctor’s practice. Owner was… Old Jones, I think? And on my left was a funeral home. A good few meters across each other.”
“What’s a funeral home, Papa?”
“Where we do our taxes, Cai. Now, one morning, a nasty business happened at a construction site a few blocks over. Something to do with building a pump. Constables wheeled a poor fellow straight into Old Jones’s place. Jones asked him, ‘Why, my dear good fellow! You’ve a terrible wound! Have you the shillings for the treatment?’ The man, barely even breathing, shook his head no. So they wheeled him right back out—still with that rod through his throat, mind you—and left him at the funeral home to finish the job. Hah!”
You felt your blood leaving your fingers, “Someone saved him right, papa?”
He barked a laugh, “Why, little mouse. He died!”
You couldn’t sleep for days.
That particular memory was sparked when you arrived at the cafe, a few years later, now five-and-twenty. A young woman, you were. The cafe down at Regent street bore quite the quaint name. Better than any name, perhaps. It resided just beside a Mrs Meyer’s jewellery shop, called The Ruse. All red and cream. Lovely arched windows and whatnot.
You lingered for a moment on the pavement, head tilted upwards, hands primly folded. What, you wondered, had the owner been thinking, naming a cafe like that just across from an explosives supplier down the street?
The door tinkled wit a bell when you pushed it open. A handsome fellow smiled politely and you almost tripped over your feet. Inside, the space bustled with the patter of feet, and the low chatter of patrons. The rich smell of coffee hung in the air, underpinned by the scent of what would, inevitably, be disappointment.
“Ah! Cai!” You spotted Mary at the corner of the booth, donned in a green walking dress, her lovely face bright and beckoning.
“Is there really no one remarkable?” you inquired again, wringing your gloved hands.
They gave a pleasant, squeaky protest. Tweak-tweak. Pale blue leather against pale blue leather. The circumstance that made the sound possible, however, was decidedly less pleasant. Across the table, Mary Watson stopped stirring her tea. Her expression was one of bewildered disbelief.
“My dear girl,” she said slowly, choosing her words with care, “I really do not wish to remind you of your situation.”
You closed your eyes. Nobody really does.
“I understand it is not so—”
“You are an unmarried young lady, alone in London “Your position is as unremarkable as they come! What on God’s greenest earth are you thinking?” She leaned in, placing a hand over yours. “You naive girl! Are you quite sure you wish for a flat? A flat to share? Can’t you stay with me and John?”
Oh, dear. The good doctor and the sweet, lovely Mary Watson. You adored them with all your heart, of course. They were like your aunt and your uncle if your aunt and your uncle had cared less about murdering relatives over estates and wills. But they could not possibly understand this particular problem you’re facing. It’s a battle of sheer wills.A—you don’t know—creative, intellectual brain-drain? Presented with the sheer size of their affection, you felt like nothing but a foolish, inconsolable child.
It’s such a simple concept, you felt like bursting into tears.
You sniffled.
“It’s not that I wouldn’t,” you said, looking down at your hands as you twisted the squeaky hem of a glove. Some of the colour had rubbed off. “I would love to stay, truly. However…”
“However?”
Your shoulders sank. You were sure if you laid a palm on your forehead, it would burn.
You cleared your throat and attempted a firm, “However.” The steeliness was muddled by the way you peeked up at her from under your lashes, looking less like a determined young lady and utterly more like a child who had tripped into a puddle.
“The environment… at your house would not be… quite remarkable enough for my mind. Or for my… lifetime’s work,”
She gawked, scandalized. “Your hobby!”
“My child!” you retorted, drawing disapproving looks from the surrounding tables. Chastised, you sank further into the cushion of your chair. “Sorry.”
“Writing cannot possibly be—” She stopped at the exacerbated, doleful look on your face. “I… that is to say… darling, writing a novel, however great, is not enough reason to endanger your life!”
“I have the revolver my father gave me.”
“You can’t even aim.”
“I’ll try to!”
“It’s not about trying!” She leaned back with a huff, “ It’s about your future! Think clearly, and think hard. I am not about to return to your mother and inform her that her daughter is… milling about in some flat, alone, and entirely lacking in self-preservation!”
You peeked up, “But you do know someone, don’t you?”
She narrowed her eyes, “Know what, exactly.”
“A tenant. Who needs a flatmate.”
“What makes you say that?”
“I heard Doctor Watson was complaining about his friend being…” You paused, wrinkling your nose. “How did he put it?—”
“Isolated. Anti-socially isolated,” she supplied, though she didn’t seem to like John’s wording.
“Ah, yes. That. In his flat. A half empty flat who needs a tenant.”
“He’s bored, not lonely. Though I suppose company could do him some good from time to time.” She sighed, a little less scandalized, and raised a brow. “Don’t tell me you’re considering him.”
“Why, is he strange?”
“Not in the way that you’d think. There are some people, and that ‘some’ people are gentlemen like my husband who are able to adapt to such eccentricities. I think you’ll fit right in like a ceramic cup in a construction site.”
You considered it for a moment, “Well, I heard he’s pleasant.”
“Cordial, at best.”
“Then, that’s not a problem! My parents are quite well-off. They won’t mind sending me shillings a few shillings per month for the rent.”
“To live with an unmarried man.”
“All the more reason to hope he gets married quickly, then.”
“Cai!” she exclaimed, once again drawing looks from the other tables.
“Well, it can’t be so bad, can it?” You leaned forward, eager. Eyes sparkling. “Can’t you see? He’s a consulting detective! He’s eccentric, and his adventures are even more so! Can you imagine what it would do for my books? The inspiration?”
“You shudder at the sight of a rat in an alleyway. You wept when the lamps went out. I am sure a dead body is perfectly better.”
Oh, god. The bodies.
“I can… manage.” You swallowed.
“Sensitive creatures like you are also quite possibly his least tolerated aspect of society.
“I'm only human!”
“Alright, alright. I’ll ask.”
You blinked, nonplussed. “Really?” You breathed.
Mrs. Watson palmed her face.“I trust him with you more than I trust any other man in this bloody country. He’s a good man. A good one. But if he says no, it’s a no. And you, young lady, are coming to stay with me.”
You beamed, a sunny expression breaking across your face and you leaned forward to wrap your arms around her neck. “That is utterly wonderful!—“ Mary, meanwhile, let out a soft ‘oof!’ as you embraced her, “ Just you wait! My child will prosper!”
.
.
.
The meeting was arranged with swift efficiency via telegram from Mary, sent to your current lodgings—a quaint and lovely little place on Grafton Street. The maid, Elsie, knocked and handed you the card.
‘JUST. STOP. COME. STOP.’
“Awfully demanding, isn’t she?” you mused.
Elsie returned a bland look.
She had every reason to think you were mad. And you, admittedly, did not blame her.
.
.
.
The next morning, you descended from a hansom in a pale yellow walking dress and were led up to the Baker Street flat by a sweet old lady—Mrs. Hudson, you gathered from a man’s sharp bark upstairs.
She gave you an exasperatedly fond look, “Now, don’t let him frighten you, sweetheart. He’s a few clowns short of a circus, bless him. But he’s got a good heart in him, I tell you. Provided you don’t mind the occasional explosions round teatime.”
You paled, “Explosions?”
”And do steer clear of the icebox. Some things aren’t for eating. And if it smells…independent, also best not to investigate.
You nodded, wide eyed. “Yes. Independent.”
”You’ll get used to it, poppet,” She chuckled warmly, “Now in you go and chin up. Do try to keep your wits about you. There’s a whole education waiting for you upstairs.”
A rat scurried past your boots.
“Lovely meeting you, Mrs Hudson.” You fought off the shudder.
You climbed the stairs and entered a room to find Mrs. Watson standing before a man by the hearth. He was tall and graceful, wearing a handsome tweed suit, his black hair slightly tousled. A pipe hung idly from his lips, and he looked thoroughly amused by Mary Watson’s evident distress.
“…It’s dreadful, I tell you,” she was saying. “First, the trip to the Thames—nearly drowned in the name of inspiration. Now she means to live alone, wants a flat to burrow into. She listens to no one but her own heart, and it will be the death of me! I cannot fathom how her own mother remains so untroubled…”
The man—Mr. Holmes—simply smiled. “My dear, if her heart cannot be silenced, then neither can her resolve. You ought to know; you’ve dealt with me.” He clapped his hands once and turned as you entered. “Now! Is this the singular young lady in question?”
Mary bustled over, “Goodness, girl. Come inside! I’ll get your coat.”
“Mary, good morning.” You held your head up high when you regarded him, but your voice wheedled out meek, “Er, yes. I am that lady, Sir. Pleasure to meet you,” You bowed, “Sir—Mister.”
“Sherlock Holmes,” He held out his hand. “And you, my dear, are?”
“I’m…” You thought for a long moment, “Actually, my…family calls me Cai.” You stare at his held out hand and patted it politely.
He turned his hand over to wrap his hand around yours and shook it, “Well! A pleasure to meet you, Cai. You came all the way from Sussex Downs?”
Your eyes brightened, “Yes! Just by the train several days ago! How…how did you know that?”
He opened his palms, “A lot of things are quite obvious even when you do not see it. But never mind that, for now we,” He turned to Mary who looked utterly apprehensive“, have other pressing matters to attend to. Such as the living space.” He gestured to the sofa, his eyes twinkling, “Sit down, dear. We have much to discuss.”
“They did not return home yet. You looked up to him curiously as he led you both to a remote, forested section of a park, where the trees parted open to reveal a lake, clear and sparkling under the sun. It was quite shallow, perfect for a wade.”
THE bakery was bustling with fellow locals lining up for their daily rations. Holmes, in his austere coat and fedora tipped low over his face, stared ahead in utter agonizing boredom. He only hoped that by the time they reached the front desk, the bread wouldn’t run out.
You, by contrast, stood beside him in all beige: coat, Mary Jane’s and scarf. A happy, warmed up bundle simply content to be there beside him. Since The Day (when you’ve gotten pregnant), he limited your walks to the nearby park and in the flat, never far enough into the city where most of the crumbling damages were. It was simply too hazardous for a pregnant woman like you to wander.
He could not risk it.
He had capitulated only when you gave a devastatingly tearful look—entirely rehearsed beforehand, by the looks of it—and even if he knew, he remembered John’s instructions on not to distress the mother. It would be terrible for the baby. And terrible for you.
“See there?” He lowered his voice, and pointed over the line of civlians to a man in a distinct navy blue coat, “The cuffs.”
You perked up, “What about them?”
“Observe the length of it.” He continued, “See the color? It is faded.”
“Perhaps he…just likes his coat..?”
“Perhaps. But the other day when I came—you weren’t there—he donned a different color. A dark green.”
He watched as you frowned, trying to piece an explanation for the vague points, “Maybe he’s wealthy? A good change up can do wonders to your appearance.”
The knowing smile widened, a hound on a particularly pleasing scent, “Indeed. I have seen this man for several weeks now. His change of coats depends entirely on the environment. You see, if we were to come again tomorrow—“
“Really?” You said hopefully.
“No,” he said, “If I were to come tomorrow, I can predict that he will change his coat to green only because his wife is not there.” He leaned down, his voice a hushed conspiratorial whisper, “And only because his other wife will accompany him.”
You held a hand to your mouth to stifle your gasp, “You’re serious? Goodness, that’s— that terrible man!”
“Abhorrent.” He tilted his head to the man’s direction and the woman standing next to him, “See how he fusses when he is with his actual wife? It is very curious, indeed.”
You looked up, “Will you tell her? The wife?”
“Why, darling.” He said quietly, “I brought this up because I am the very man she appoints as her private investigator. She is coming for her dues tomorrow.”
“Serves him right!”
“I should like to see his excuses. One can wonder what kind of concoctions a cornered fool can procure…” He muttered then looked up. “Ah, our turn is here. Mr Schaefers! Good to see you again!”
Mr Schaefers was a ruddy, built man of fifty. His eyes were always crinkled and bright, voice as warm as a bonfire, “Mister Holmes!” He boomed, “And Mrs Holmes! Lovely to see you. Finally convinced the big bad tyrant to let you out?”
“I was hardly dictatorial.” He sniffed defensively.
“Took a great deal of tears,” You ignored him and whispered, “He doesn’t look like it but he’s very, very easy to convince.”
“I am not.”
“Husbands, I say!” He barked a laugh, “Right, right! This will be quick. Wouldn’t want you standing for long.” He fussed with the boxes below, “Peters is busy waiting up for the next batch. The dough just started rising. Hope a good few minutes isn’t too long, Mrs Holmes?”
Holmes looked down, “Will your feet hurt?”
“It’s quite alright.” You said “I’ve been sitting for far too much, standing is a better change.”
“Tell me when it hurts,”As Holmes took out his coupon book, he leaned forward, hushed, “About the offer you put up…”
The discussion was tuned out.
Old people talk, you mused. You looked around briefly for a moment, feeling restless, teetering on the soles of your shoes forward and backwards. Then, you noticed his hands were in his pockets, a sliver of pale skin peeking out. You smiled mischievously.
It’s interesting how everything works, nowadays. When you’re bored, what better to do than to fuss over your husband?
“Couldn’t ship it, too much of a problem with the border patrols,” Mr Schaefer sighed.
Holmes hummed thoughtfully, “Is that so?”
You reached into his coat pocket, took his left hand out and splayed his palms over yours. They were warm. So warm. He was always warmer than you. A large walking hot water bottle that smelled like tobacco and old sheaf of papers. It was always a tassle when he’d got up to work. Sometimes, you prayed, in those moments, you were a button-sized hamster so he could tuck you in his breast pocket and bring you wherever.
You liked it best when he’d gather you up in his arms. Against the warmth of his chest— a blanket around you—his cheek against the crown of your head.
You pressed his palm against the apple of your cold cheeks, hoping it’d transfer.
“It will improve over time, Mr Schaefer…” Holmes looked down, his eyes soft. Your own were closed, nose tucked under the thick, beige scarf. His thumb gave a press into your skin, before he resumed his discussion.
This hand, the left, you named it cub, wasn’t mottled with scars or bruises contrary to his dominant hand— which you called ‘bear’.
He took extra care of this one. Made it soft with lotion. Made sure he didn’t bruise it, hold his pipe, or weaponized it angainst unruly perpetrators. The hand he wore his ring on. The hand that held yours.
“This one is for you,” He flexed his left hand when you were tending the bruises on his right, “My right is my work. And my left is my life.”
“Silly man,”You’d chastised him. “Every hand is important. These make up your life.”
With the pad of your thumb, you slowly rubbed the bone of his knuckles. The muscles of his hand loosened , his fingers curling loosely over your hand. You traced one vein down the skin to his wrist. He turned his hand, palms up. You slotted your own into his.
You looked up, “Finished?”
On his other hand was a brown bag, filled with bread, and with a tip on your toes, you made out three demure blueberry tarts discreetly tucked inside.
“Mr Schaefer’s treats.” He whispered, a finger to his lips. “Now, let’s go before Lestrade finds out.”
“Hurry!” You giggled, “Hurry!”
.
.
.
They did not return home yet. You looked up to him curiously as he led you both to a remote, forested section of a park, where the trees parted open to reveal a lake, clear and sparkling under the sun. It was quite shallow, perfect for a wade.
“Wait a moment,” He said and began the simple task—if not appreciative to her eyes, alone—of undressing.
He took off his coat, folded it carefully, and laid it on the ground. His fedora followed, plopped onto his coat; watch peeled off and tucked into the pocket; cuffs unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up to his forearms; boots off. You were captivated, intently observing his arms with nothing but an appreciative stare.
Then, you heard the clink. The specific clink of his belt. His hands drifted from his arms and lower. Oh! Your face burned furiously. You whirled around with a sound of protest and hid your face into your palms, one hand outstretched. “Wait!“
His eyebrows raised far up into his forehead, stilling. He was quiet for a moment, watching you—his wife of five years—flustered by the very notion of him adjusting his pants.
“If I were to wade into the water with my trouser ends unrolled….” He said slowly, “It will be wet, it will irritate my skin and cause a rash. And I will be in agony for days.” He paused, “Open your eyes, sparrow.”
You peeked cautiously through the cracks of your fingers. He stood there, fondly exasperatedly with his hands on his hips. His pants were there, the bottom rolled up to his shin just like he said. Not taken off.
“Oh…” You said quietly, heart still hammering. You would not survive if he had done what you thought he’d do.
His lips curled and he shook his head.“Yes, ‘Oh’, you silly, silly thing. Come here.” He opened his arms.
You ambled towards him, not able to look at his eyes, and he took off your coat and scarf, bundling it up with his.
“Sorry,” You muttered, “Force of habit.”
“There’s nothing quite habitual about being skittish at the very sight of your husband’s skin,” He knelt to untie your Mary Janes, and your face grew defiantly warmer when he lowered his voice, “Or have you developed a slight revulsion to my legs? I thought you quite liked them.”
You sputtered, “It’s not like that, you impossible man! You can’t just!—in the middle of the field!—”
He laughed so suddenly that your stammer died off. The sound was a warm thing that made the austere lines of his face soften and crinkle, eyes sparkling with mirth. He rose “I was only jesting.”
“Hmph.”
He opened his palms in capitulation, “Now, shall we? Before the night grows cold.”
“But my dress is long.” You tugged at the flowy fabric, “The ends will get wet.”
He thought for a moment.
“Here,” He came behind her, with one hand, bunching the back of her dress in a small clump and raised it up until the hem of her dress were slightly above her shin. “Now walk, I will guide you.”
They ambled slowly towards the water, the grass a cool wet patch of curls under their bare feet.
“Oh!” She made a delighted sound, wiggling her toes into the biting water, “It’s—oh! It’s so cold!”
“Is this alright?” He leaned over, a palm curled protectively over her stomach.
“She loves it. I can feel her kicking!” She tilted her head back enough to see his face and laid her hands on his forearms, clutching the sleeves, pulling his chest closer against her back. “It’s perfect.”
He stared at the clear water, looking at the pebbles: some round, some jagged. His mind, once a creative vice, imagined a slight slip, or a trip that would send them both tumbling into the water.
“There!” She remained eager, tugging him forward, “Just a little more! I want it up my knees.”.
“We shouldn’t stay here for long.” His lips curled, “You’ll get cold feet.”
“I always do,” She sloshed her feet back and forth in the water. “It’s not a new occurrence anyway so you will bring me to the middle.”
There was no reasoning with the determined tyrant of bakerstreet. Even with kisses and delightful, tasty treats.
“Whatever the conductor says,” He smiled.
And so they begin waddling towards the middle of the shallow lake.
.
.
.
“William, look!” You pointed.
He had been feeling the gentle dance of the sun on his face when you said it. He opened his eyes, turned his gaze from the sky and down to a brown duck, a good feet away, wiggling on the water towards them. It looked up, curious at the two giants.
“I am quite sure it is not pleased with us,” He remarked.
“What do you think it’s saying?”
“It is displeased by the abhorrent sight of our feet dipped in to the water.” He said, leaning down, his cheek against her cold ones, “Observe its expression. ‘You are soiling my home and my life—leave before I will bite your ankles.’”
“Oh, poor thing!” You tilted your face to the side, bumping his nose with yours, his breaths a a tickling warm puff against your jaw.“Tell the Sir Duckling, me and my husband will soon depart and that I will provide him crumbs for his infinite patience.”
“Blasted husband.” He muttered.
“You take that back!
“Only if you hand over the blueberry tarts in the bag.”
She gasped, “I could possibly not!”
“Whyever so?”
“They cost a good fortune!”
“And what does it have to do with me?” He lowered his voice, squeezing her shoulders. “You barge into my home and demand I capitulate?”
“There has to be something!” You looked around and plunged your hand into his trouser pocket, wriggling your fingers around and produced a piece of grape. “It’s a good thing my husband loves his breakfast dry and contaminated.” She held it up to his nose, “Will this do, oh Sir Duckling?”
“Hm,” Holmes sniffed and thought for a long moment, “That will do.”
The duck had already wiggled away, irritated by the chattering giants, and the grape was safely tucked back into his pocket.
.
.
.
By the time they waded back to the bank , shivering, the sky bloomed into a warm, golden hue.
He bundled himself and you into your respective coats, wrapping the scarf back around your neck. He went to his knees, the coat pooling around him, and began patting your feet dry with the ends of his coat. You looked down at the top of his head, the curls of his hair falling forward.
The things you do for me. You thought. Always on your knees, even when you’re tired.
After putting on his oxfords and toeing on your Mary Janes, he rose.
“We should go,” he looked into the horizon, his hand blindly reaching out for yours, “Mrs Hudson would round up the constables by now if we returned any later.”
He was about to walk forward, when you said, “William.”
“Hm?” He turned.
You stood there, under the evening light, staring up to him with such adoring reverence that he felt his neck warm. You inched closer and leaned up on your toes. He bent down to meet you halfway and felt the soft, wet press of your lips against his. You smell, he noted delightfully, like lemons. And tasted like so. You pressed another kiss to his temple before teetering back onto your heels, leaving the great Sherlock Holmes flushed by a wifely kiss. Lestrade would have a field day if he knew.
“Mrs Hudson is waiting,” You took his hand, “Let’s go.”
SUMMARY, “The year is 1890. A young woman of five and twenty. You’re a writer with a particular problem: a massive brain drain of a writing block that haunted you for days without end. So, in order to rectify such a suffering, you’ve decided to move in with Britain’s greatest, if not most eccentric, consulting detective.”
two, three, four
—Chapter Three
EVERYONE above the age of five and twenty were all pretentious, conniving six-foot liars. You knew because a pretentious conniving six foot liar proved exactly that—a pretentious conniving six foot liar.
Days prior, you had relocated to your new little chamber upstairs—a considerably sized bedroom with a lovely bed in the corner, near the window, perfectly positioned for reading during languid mornings. A dressing table stood adjacent, complete with mirrors and proper pretty drawers with flowers engraved, and a spacious closet promising ample room for your clothes.
So eager were you that the entire endeavor were completely under a day. Consequently, you found yourself dressed and ready by the next hour of the ungodly hour of five. By half past, you were all but primly dressed, perched on the main sitting-room sofa.
The room was still dim, the early morning a dull grey peeking through the cracks of the curtain. You heard the occasional grunt of a carriage, the clomp of hooves on cobble.
Early morning risers.
Early morning work.
You had your hands folded on your lap, listening to the slow tick of the grandfather clock, the exact spitting image of a behaved writer inclined to follow his instructions explicitly.
At seven, his door clicked open.
He emerged, primly dressed, in a perfectly fitting tweed-suit, shrugging his great coat on. He had been reaching for his travelling cap and cane near the stand when his eyes caught yours. There. Sitting on the sofa. A happy, eager mouse. Also primly dressed, your nose tipped up and waiting.
He stared, utterly nonplussed.
This is it. The first morning. Don’t be a nuisance, Cai.
You kept quiet, peeking under your lashes, but your mind began racing, “Morning, mister Holmes.”
“…Morning.”
Stare.
Shuffle.
Stare.
“…The…” He began, adjusting his cuffs unnecessarily, eyes fixed at a point somewhere above the sofa, and straight into the kitchen.
He then looked down and off to the side. The silence was profound, too silent you could hear faint rustle of his tweed suit with every movement.
After a moment he cleared his throat.
“The, ah, matter at Whitechapel is of a most pressing nature,” He said, “A coordinated surveillance with the help of Scotland Yard.”
You held his gaze, utterly absorbed.
He continued, “Have you any familiarity with the name of Reeding Williams?”
You sat up straighter. You were sure your nose would reach the moon, “I have. Dreadful business.”
See? You were knowledgeable. You were proper.
Take me with you.
“ For first few days,” he placed the traveling hat on his head and reached for his cane.
He took two paces and stood before the sofa, looking down, and bent a little, “I trust you will not object waiting here? For a few hours, no more. I shall return to collect you for the arrangement. I hope you understand the necessity of the delay?”
Your eyes had foolishly brightened, if you had a tail, it would wag, profusely. “Of course sir. No problem. I shall await.”
”No problem at all?” He pressed, strange intensity in his gaze.
”No,” you vowed, shaking your head with earnest vigor.
”Good girl,”He drew himself up, nodding, “Do not wait for me at luncheon. I shall be engaged at least for four hours. Remember our promise.”
“Goodbye, Mister Holmes.”
”Goodbye.”
As the door began to swing shut, you called out, peering over the sofa.
”And stay safe!”
A muffled, ”I shall!” Floated back.
And so the moment he left, you sat on the couch. You sat with perfect posture for one hour, fists on your lap. You read a book to the second hour. You watched the patterns of dust in the sunbeam for the third.
He was probably late.
The clock ticked past the four hour mark.
Then five.
Then six.
He was gone for a week.
.
.
.
By the second day you gave up waiting and paced the length of the sitting-room, twisting your gloves in anxious knots.
Had something gone wrong? Was he injured in some alleyway, bleeding out, and injured in a ditch, with nobody the wiser? Mr Holmes had said Lestrade was quite incompetent. You’ve never met the Inspector, but could he truly be that bad?
You scarcely missed Mrs Hudson’s sympathetic glance when she brought you your meals.
On that evening, she came again, with a tray for dinner.
”Oh, cheer up, poppet,” She said, setting the tray down with the soft clatter of China.
“Thank you, Mrs Hudson.” Your voice was a little hoarse, and took your seat, “Chicken?”
”Roasted sweet just as you like it, po.”
You managed a wide, grateful smile,“It’s perfect.”
“Now, that’s more like it!” She bustled over and, to your utter horror, began to dissect the chicken for you, “Don’t mope around for too long, dear. You’ll sulk away all the prettiness right out of your face.”
Your hands fluttered helplessly, “Mrs Hudson! Oh, really, that’s quite alright. I can—“
“Nonsense!” She slapped your hands away and placed a perfectly carved chicken thigh on your plate, “Now go on. Eat! Save your strength. And don’t you mind that Mr Holmes,” She added with a hint of an edge you didn’t quite catch, “He is always like that.”
“I’m sure he’ll be safe,” You said, chewing sunnily.
She let out a grunt that sounded anything but convinced.
.
.
.
Third day.
You were on your hands and knees in the kitchen, peering under the cabinets for a final check. Standing, you patted dust off your skirt and gave the room one last, sweeping look.
Scarf on the table, within arm’s reach.
Check.
The traps set—large wooden bowls propped up with chopsticks.
Check.
A morsel of cheese beneath each one.
Check.
Rustle. Rustle.
Ah! The infantry approaches!
You whirled around and darted for the open cupboard—a space big enough for you, but certainly not for Holmes—and pulled the door shut, leaving only a crack. Through the slats, you watched, your own breathing loud in the box.
Rustle. Rustle.
Tiny feet scampered across the floorboard above. The attic. The room beside yours.
Rustle. Scratch.
A flash of movement under the pantry. Your eyes snapped to the sink. The noise skittered there, to the cabinets, then—
A small fluffy grey bolt shot out from beneath.
—And right into the nearest, propped up bowl.
”Oh, blast!” You launched from the cupboard, throwing your full weight into a slide across the floorboards. Both hands slapped down onto the bowl just as it began to roll, trapping the mouse inside.
You felt your ribs give for a moment, a tight sensation against your diaphragm, making you wheeze.
You’ve got it! A little, whiskered friend!
The door to the flat bursted open. It was only Mrs Hudson, drawn by the ungodly sound.
“Miss Cai?!” She cried, “Dear?! Are you quite alright?! Don’t go offing yourself, now! Mister Holmes will surely remember you! He’ll come back, I swear it!”
”In here, Mrs Hudson!” You called out, slightly strained.
There was the confused, frantic tapping of shoes in the sitting room, “Where?!”
“Kitchen!” You strained.
The tapping then immediately hastened towards you. Distracted, you had loosened your elbows, your guard dropping for a second. In that instant, the wooden bowl bucked violently. The mouse squeaked and darted around frantically, throwing its little body against the wooden walls.
”Sorry!” You cried, bowing over the bowl with your full weight, “I’m so sorry! Just hold on a moment!”
On your knees, you began an ungainly crawl towards the table, moving the bowl along the floorboard. With an arm pinning it down, the other stretched and reached up blindly, patting the tabletop until your fingers snagged on the woolen scarf. The moment you lifted up the bowl a fraction, you quickly—with surprising gentleness—bundled little creature into wriggling parcel. You carefully gathered it into your arms.
”Now, what in heaven’s name are you doing, down there?!” She cried from the doorway, a hand against her chest, “Goodness, child! Look at the state of you!”
Indeed you were. Your dress was likely dusted, hem of the skirt darkened with dirt, your cheek even had a smudge of dirt from the scuffle. You really need a bath, after.
“Did a coordinated surveillance of my own!” You slowly stood up, trying to balance on your feet as your arms clamped around the wriggling bundle, “Er, well, singular coordination.”
Her eyes narrowed, moving from your dirt smudged face to the bundle,“I do hope this surveillance of yours isn’t carrying any life threatening diseases?”
“No worries!” You declared and the bundle let out a frightful squeak, “I’ll see to it that my surveillance is properly managed.”
Mrs Hudson did not look convinced. In fact her expression settled into a familiar, long-suffering exasperated—the very same she reserved for a certain eccentric detective.
“I’ll promise, Mrs H,” You added softly, shifting the bundle in your arms, “I’ve got a bit of experience back when I was a girl. My sisters would gather round the mice in our pantry and look after it. We’d fix them little beds in boxes. If there’s anything about disease, i’ll take it straight to the veterinarian surgeon, give it shots and all. You won’t have to worry a thing.”
Her eye fell to the resigned bundle, letting out weak chitters, “Well! You can’t very well keep it healthy if you don’t know what it eats, can you? It needs proper sustenance!”
She bent down to pick up the bowl, “I’ll go see if I can find some books on the subject. Though I’m sure Mister Holmes would have a volume somewhere. You may have to look around for a while.”
.
.
.
Fourth.
You named her Pippa.
The mouse.
She was a fluffy grey little thing. Wide eyes that were perpetually always on the verge of tears. A disposition of a crumpled bit of tissue paper—fragile, tremulous, prone to jumps of terror.
You managed to calm her down and set her down in the temporary make-shift cage (a hastily concoction of hammered nails and wooden planks you salvaged from the attic). She now pressed herself against the farthest corner, a tiny, trembling mound. Her little body quick with fast, little breaths.
“Where’s your mama, pip?” You asked softly, settling on the floor in front of the cage, not quite looming.
“Lost?” You offered, “Gone? How about your papa?”
She answered with a weak squeak.
”Don’t know either,” You sighed, tucking your legs to your chest, chin on your knees, “We don’t know about anything, really. I didn’t know my uncle was a swindler. So I don’t blame you.”
You paused for a moment. Pippa began to calm, but her eyes remained on you, cautious.
“But there must be something you know,” You muttered, “What do you fancy eating? I imagine you’d be hungry after all that excitement. Real sorry about the scarf by the way. It’s a necessary evil.”
You gestured to the small plate beside you. There was an assortment of scavenged provisions you took from the kitchen and, with silent permission, from Mrs Hudson’s pantry.
Pippa flinched when you moved your hand.
”It’s quite alright,” You said softly, “I’m just fetching the cheese. See?” As slow as slow can be you plucked a tiny slice of cheddar from the plate, “You love these don’t you? I heard Holmes was always complaining about the cheese being stolen. Strategic raids, yes?”
She squeaked.
“But don’t worry, I won’t tell,” You carefully placed the cheddar onto the floor of her enclosure.
Pippa looked at the offering, her little nose twitching. Then her eyes hesitantly turned to you.
“Go on,” You urge gently, “There’s honey too, would you prefer that? I’ve never tried honey with cheese…but I suppose we could be pioneers.”
Pippa finally let out a quiet considering squeak. She probably didn’t like the idea of honey on cheese. Emboldened, she inched forward towards the cheddar, glanced at you, in case you did anything funny, and when you didn’t she snatched the cheese with her little paws, and began nibbling. Her cheeks puffed up with every bite.
Your heart swelled. Oh, Pippa. You carefully extended a finger and placed it on her furry head, between the twitching ears, then gave it a gentle rub.
.
.
.
Sixth day.
You granted Pippa the liberty of exploring your room. You made sure there were no holes in the corners and walls she could slip away to. Currently, you were curled up on your bed, knitting a pale yellow coverlet for her own mini-bed, and a rug to go with it. You figured when you had time you’ll have to go shopping for toys.
Now, she played under the blanket, a curious squeaky thing as she bumped your knee.
Then, you heard Mrs hudson, “Young Wiggins for you, dear!”
Wiggins? Your chest gave a dreadful lurch.
”I’ll be right down!” You threw on your dressing gown and gave hushed instructions for Pippa to not claw up your pillows.
Her nose twitched in response.
You quickly slipped downstairs to the sitting room.
Peering through the eye-hole, you felt uneasy. Mrs Hudson said Wiggins would only appear when the situation was dire—a messenger of mayhem, blood or worse.
Your imagination, entirely.
You opened the door. He scuttled in without much ceremony, moving past you and began looking around.
You wrung your hands nervously, “Is Mister Holmes alright?”
You imagined he was at the hospital, unable to move, clever fingers bashed in and broken like matchsticks. His head swathed with a bandage.
“His papers? Medical papers? I think he keeps them in his desk,”You hurried over to the desk, pulling the drawers open, “What hospital is he in? Perhaps I can cover the cost.”
Your papa’s coffers, you knew, wouldn’t be questioned for this.
”No miss,” He said, “Document papers. Warrant o’ arrest for Reeding’ Williams. E’s goin’ ta’ Old Bailey in a few days.”
You stopped, hands clutching a sheaf of papers. ”Court….at the Old Bailey?”
”Yeah. They managed ta’ break into ‘is warehouse this mornin’. Sir Holmes led the raid ‘imself.”
The imaginary cloud of bubble, of Holmes in a hospital bed, injured, wisped away.
”….So he’s okay.” You said quietly.
Wiggins seemed confused, ”Right as rain, Miss. Just needed the warrant.”
”Oh…”
“Um, Miss?”
“Right! Of course.” You managed to locate the embossed document and handed it over to the boy, hands trembling faintly, “Did he have any messages?”
”Message?”
”For…for someone perhaps. Did he have any? A note or a late card?”
”Not that I know of, miss.”
“…I see. Well! There you go.” You then pressed a shilling into his palm and fumbled into the pocket of your palm for wrapped peppermints, “Stay safe, Wiggins.”
His eyes brightened, “Thanks a lot, Miss,” Then his face turned into concern, “Say, you look awfully pale. Peaky.”
”Why, I’m quite alright!” You pinched his cheek, “Don’t go around asking pretty ladies that they’ll go mad. The draft is…messing with my head,” You led him to the door, “A long nap will set me right.”
”Goodbye, Miss!”
You could barely hold it together, “Bye, darling!”
When the door clicked shut, your composure shattered. You flew up the stairs, threw your bedroom door open and slammed it shut—Pippa squeaked in surprise and jumped a meter off the bed, startled.
“I’m sorry!” You cried and flung yourself face down onto the bed.
A fool! You were but a fool!
Pippa watched as you let out a gut wrenching, a rather undignified and pathetic, wail into the blanket, flailing and kicking against the mattress like a trout on land. You cried, hot, angry humiliated tears. Then, with a furious swipe of your arm, you snatched the leather bound journal by the nightstand.
May sixth, you wrote furiously, sniffling and hiccuping, William Scott Sherlock Holmes is a conniving six foot TWAT.
