Library-2 (AU EMPT)
Disclaimer: the characters are Doyle’s, though the style isn’t.
A/N: this is a chapter of a fic I have hopes to unfreeze; it also can be read as “The First Time I Was Immortalized” and an AU for the EMPT, and is compatible with “Library” - well, you have been warned! Enjoy 8)
For me, it all began with a neatly written note.
"Come tonight at 5.30 to Baker St. Important matters to discuss. M.H."
The summons was brought to my consulting-room by an officially looking delivery-boy, one that my maid tried and couldn't describe save that he had "a smart head on his shoulders"; and while usually it would instantly rouse my suspicions - Mycroft Holmes never sent notes - I confess to complying unquestioningly.
For it was April 1894, and if there is anything worse than having lost one's dearest friend so that not even his body could be interred in his native land, undoubtedly it is to disobey his brother on the anniversary of his death.
I didn't send an answer, as Mr. Holmes apparently didn't need one, and resignedly treated my scheduled patients in a (hopefully) polite and harmless way (my wife would have smiled at my efforts, since she never forgot my strychnine panegyric).
The day was as ordinary as a pea in a pod, and yet a gargoyle of unburied grief perched on my shoulder. In my faintheartedness, I craved for a distraction, maybe visiting the crime scene in Park Lane, where, as most of reading population of London surely remembers, a strange murder had been committed several days earlier; but the task of crossing the threshold I thought to be forever left behind in favour of a cemetery bench was too much to play a detective for old times' sake. And so I stayed at home until five, when a cab took me to that fateful address.
The street, despite not having been lived at by a universally known and esteemed sleuth and practical joker for quite some time, looked to me just as it did three years ago, when Mrs. Hudson sobbed into my coat, and told me I was not to blame and to keep my keys.
There was light in the sitting room, and someone's silhouette moving too far from the window to be distinguishable.
I stopped, memories screaming in my face like so many witches proclaiming a king to come. Only he would not, and it was my fault.
The cabby asked if I needed something. I shook my head and entered the haunted house, only to receive a crushing blow from behind. I haven't even thought anything; there was a moment of stupid amazement, a fleeting flash of an ambush, and then everything went black.
***
When I came to, I found myself tied hand and foot to a somewhat familiar straight-backed chair. There was no gag in my mouth, from what I deduced that it would be safer to stay silent. It was difficult to tell how much time has passed; the room - the pantry, judging from the heavyish odour of damp flour - was pitch dark. I had only my aching head to reassure me, with unnecessary insistence, that I was indeed conscious.
The room felt otherwise empty, and after a minute of playing an unfeeling body I tugged at my ropes. They were secured in a way that suggested a diligent, if somewhat inexperienced, abductor whose purpose was more likely not to impede my freeing myself from the offence of being bound to my least favorite article of furniture in the house, but to make the process long and unforgettable. Nevertheless, I set out to do just that, thanking Holmes for teaching me how to untie one's self when one's mobility is limited. I wondered if it wasn't the very chair he used to drum the lesson into my woefully not-criminal head.
I was, so to speak, barely calm; shame, alarm, regret and fear could and would wait for a better time. Random things popped into my mind; who posed for Mycroft Holmes, or, to be exact, for his delivery-boy, and was Mrs. Hudson likewise a prisoner (most likely, she was confined to her kitchen - the good woman rarely left it if a gathering was due and shortbread was expected to be in high demand, so it would be a kind gesture to leave her in a natural environment). Though with so many pointy things in the kitchen, they would not dare.
Eventually, the rope binding my hands to the back of the chair gave in. Chewing through the one holding my wrists together made for a dull, if productive, pastime, and finally I felt blood rushing to the tips of my fingers. After that, I was free in no time; and the very easiness of it filled me with suspicion. I could swear I heard the voice of my late friend, whispering into my ears to not rush things and be careful.
My first concern was to find my former landlady and send her away if she were in any condition to make it - a trick Holmes often pulled at me with varying success. As I knew nothing about the fiendish plot unfolding around us - I could only assume it was some kind of revenge - I wasn't sure if it were more dangerous to leave the building or to stay. And that decision would be a matter of life and death…
It never occurred to me before how exposed one can feel when they enter a room. Certainly a few hairs on my head lost their colour in waiting for any sign that my escape had been noticed; however, nothing stirred, and I noiselessly closed the door. It was weird, to be captured and run away at 221b, Baker Street, a place letters were still sent to with pleas for a - dead - detective's help.
I turned to the front door. No; I couldn't call for help before ensuring that Mrs. Hudson was fine, or at least not in any immediate danger. Searching the flat for its missing owner would be much easier if I had light, or indeed knew that she hadn't been taken away.
Gropingly, I made my way through the rooms, few that they were. The first floor yielded nothing, but there still was a sliver of light from the sitting-room, where the door stood ajar. I picked an umbrella from the stand - thanks to Mycroft, there were not only the old monstrosities Mrs. Hudson insisted on being handy, but also the ones Holmes used when the weather didn't allow him any leeway. I tried to remember how to fence with it - another survival technique my friend for some reason forbade me to describe in my stories; it still seemed juvenile, and so I crept upstairs, ready to duck from a bullet or a knife.
What I wasn't ready for, was my bust in Holmes's armchair, gagged, draped in Holmes's gown, and set upon a pole so the head was raised higher then it naturally would be and inclined as if in exhaustion.
And then, I heard a throat being cleared right behind me.
***
Reflexes spun me around, and the umbrella's tip stuck. Holmes must have sharpened it, I thought in mortification, going red in the face and stepping back so nobody could creep on me from behind.
The man smiled tentatively, as if mistaking my embarrassment for fury. I was fairly sure we had never met before. There was something of "Dr. Livingston, I presume?" in his face, hidden in the shadow. There was also a revolver in his hand, a most valid argument when you are only three yards apart.
- Dr. Watson? - He whispered hopefully.
- Who are you? And what is the meaning of all this? - I whispered back, letting go of the unwieldy thing beginning to rip the carpet, but he blanched at the soft thump and tried to look past me.
The man was experienced enough not to allow me access to his trembling Webley even for this split of second. Later, I was told that being a full-time member of a criminal organization fasters certain stereotypes that tend to come in useful in awkward situations.
Apparently, he was satisfied with whatever didn't happen, because he lowered his revolver fractionally, turned to me and mumbled gravely:
- Hush, until the glass is broken.
By this time, I had had enough.
- Where's Mrs. Hudson? And what is all this about?
- The lady is in her bedroom. She's not hurt, I swear. I only made sure she doesn't leave it until we all are safe. - Here his voice broke, and I believed him - instinctively and forever believed him to be the victim. He was younger than I supposed, and terrified out of his mind.
- Is there a place where you can explain to me the meaning of all this? - I asked somewhat more dryly than I used to, the bump on my head making me irritable and weary.
- We can't miss the shot, - apologized he. - If it is fired, and we don't know... or if it's not - I'm a goner, Doctor! You probably can hold your own against a gang of the worst thugs in London, - the gang, actually, - but me - they'll tear me to shreds!
I sighed.
- Then if we can't miss - the shot, is it? - we'll just go here, and sit, and you will tell me everything about what is going on?
He grabbed my arm so suddenly I recoiled, and was painfully reminded of the wall I chose as my rear-guard.
- We can't! Dr. Watson - we can't move from the spot! Promise me you won't, please? Or he will have my hide, if you get yourself killed tonight.
It was odd - his begging voice and his incongruously alert eyes and twitching ears. He was not mad - though for some time I entertained the notion; or if he were, there was a method to his madness - I clearly saw the barrel of the gun never swerving from my general direction. I slowly sat down near the threshold. He did the same, only so that he could peek inside, and nodded to me to continue.
- Explain. Why. And who. Is behind. All of this?
- Why! Mr. Holmes, naturally.
He chuckled at some private joke.
- He is always behind... there's nothing he isn't.
There was no chance of me interesting Mr. Myctoft Holmes in such capacity so he couldn't see me in more comfortable accommodations, I thought.
- Well. So he ordered you to come here, strike me, tie me, lock Mrs. Hudson, pose a - bust, I suppose, - in Holmes's armchair... is there any purpose to all this mayhem?
Something made his eyes narrow while I spoke, and then widen.
- You really don't know?
- Really, - I agreed, curbing my impatience. - Pray enlighten me of whatever it is I don't know.
He hid his Webley in his hip pocket and pursed his lips.
- Ah. I can't tell you my name - forgive me, Doctor, but if we're still alive by dawn, one word of yours will ruin my - precarious position.
- I can see how you don't relish that outcome.
- Hee, hee.
- It wasn't what I asked you about, as well you know.
He hunched miserably. I felt the back of my head; a bruise.
- You said there would be a shot. Who is the target?
- Nothing to worry about! We only wait for the glass to break, and then you will blow this, - he showed me a police whistle. - 'Tisn't poisoned.
- Thank you. I appreciate your concern.
- And when they bring Colonel and - Mr. Holmes - here, I slip out and you never inquire about me.
He must have come to his senses, to remember a word like "inquire". A slim fellow, balding, obviously short-sided; an illustration of “ordinary”.
I decided to play along. It would be easy to overpower him - but while I wasn't aware he had a confederate somewhere nearby, it didn't mean there wasn't one. How I wished for my friend's advice!
- Colonel?..
- Moran. Colonel Moran. He shot the Honorable Ronald Adair.
- What!
- With his rifle - his air-gun, - here his words became jumbled and hurried. - And he thinks he'll have you murdered by it, too.
I leaned at the banister, as tired as I have ever been.
- But I won't be.
- No! ‘Course not! That is what the thing is for, - he glanced back inside.
- He will shoot this?
- It’s enough if he breaks the window...
- Why?
- Because then it will be an assault! But he won't miss; he's the best marksman I ever heard of.
- Reassuring... Does it mean we are to wait for his attempt? Why is he so interested in my death?
His whole body jerked.
- Because... because... he blackmails Mr. Holmes with it.
I was flabbergasted.
- Heavens! We must stop him!
- No! I mean... he is blackmailing Mr. Holmes with it right now.
- Good Lord!
- I'm sure he has everything under control, - he finished lamely.
And then we heard a faint jingle, and he hurled the whistle at me and made a dash down our seventeen-steps-long stairs, nearly tripping in his haste. I blew it mechanically and hesitated whether to go after him. A look into the room proved that he at least didn’t overestimate this Moran’s prowess; my double now had a hole in his wax forehead.
There was a commotion outside, lights flashing through the opposite building’s empty windows. I shook myself, grabbed a poker and ran there with little regard to my own safety.
It was packed with police, someone was struggling ahead of me, but as I was recognized they parted, and finally I came face to face with two people I never expected to meet that evening.
The one I didn’t know must have been the Colonel. He was held by several constables, and Lestrade - how didn’t I recognize him at once? - was merrily handcuffing him, so engrossed that he didn’t even turn when everything quieted around them.
The other was Sherlock Holmes.
***
There are different fractions of seconds.
When you block a blow with a bayonet, there is a moment of two weapons colliding and bouncing; no matter how strong your hands, you can't foresee the force of the impact.
When you look into a comrade's eyes to see if life hasn't left them, there is this terrible - though routine - indecision.
I had once been quite used to both these varieties, but rarely did they coincide. I peered in his face, but it was poorly lit.
- Holmes...
My voice broke the spell. Moran stilled, Lestrade jumped, and the man with a strange metallic construction in his hands swore in the voice I would recognize anywhere. I stepped forward, numbly.
- Ah. You are one lucky man, Doctor, - remarked the Colonel, looking for all the world like some mediaeval duke offering hands for rabble to kiss. Lestrade straightened out, tugging at the derbies.
- Good and proper, - he muttered, and glanced awkwardly at me and at the ghost on the floor.
- Holmes?.. - I made another step, the poker clanging down from my unfeeling fingers.
- Why are you here?.. Oh damn, damn, damn! - He threw the thing away. His face was pinched; I fancied I saw irritation, worry, and - fear... It was too much; I might have gone raving mad, but to have him loathing me was worse than I could imagine. I staggered, and someone righted me.
- Because obviously, foolishness is infectious... - Moran drawled, staring at the shadow of my gagged tweedledum.
Holmes hit the wall with his fist, snarled something to Lestrade, grabbed me by my right shoulder and propelled outside. I didn't resist. I heard they are gentler if you don't resist, and I hoped to be spared the indignity of a strait-jacket.
- What are you doing here at all! You had no business in coming... I will throttle that vermin MYSELF! - He screamed. - Come; let them take care of the rest. No, Lestrade, come tomorrow…
- Holmes...
- I apologize for my rudeness; it is only out of consideration to your safety, dear friend, that I'm incensed so. Come, Mrs. Hudson will worry.
I waited at his side while he chose one of his skeleton-keys.
- Ah! You neglected to lock it, how careless, - there was a strain in his voice. I watched him checking for an ambush and suddenly, it was more than I could bear. I laughed as I never did before.
Holmes yanked me inside and deposited near the stairs to our sitting-room, barricaded the entryway, and dragged me upstairs. His face was drawn in a rictus of despair and irony.
When it became clear that my hysterics were in no way subsiding, he forced a glass of whiskey down my throat, nearly drowning me in the process. That had the desirable effect of calming me down a notch, though he himself grew even more agitated. Unable to meet my stare, he fled to rescue Mrs. Hudson. In a minute, I heard their raised voices. It meant either that my hallucinations were progressing - a reasonable if not pleasant explanation - or…
I didn’t want to dwell on the other possibility.
However, life rarely follows our desires.
- Here you are, - said Holmes, bringing a towel and a pitcher of water. - I assume that Porlock wasn’t overly considerate in his haste…
He stopped mid-sentence, and for a minute we both were silent. Than I asked, steadily:
- Is it really you?
He dipped the towel in the water, and gave it to me.
- Yes.
***
Later, when the sky was already graying, we sat near the fireplace. Not a word was said after his admission. I was tired, but I didn’t want to forget this miracle even for a couple of hours. Of course, I didn’t know what to do with it, either. It felt hollow, somehow, like I prepaid for a costly book, and then saw it in another shop for a tenth of the price.
Finally discarding his briar pipe, he stood up and addressed me.
- You would like to hear my reasoning behind this - charade?
I nodded. If anything, it would help me to stay awake… soon I would have to go…
- I have been hiding for the last three years, - he briskly stated. - To come back, I needed to secure the last member of Moriarty’s vast organization still at large, the despicable Colonel Moran. I couldn’t do it alone, especially since he knew I was after him. Fortunately, I had an ally in the gang, a fellow by name of -
- Porlock, - I mumbled.
- The very, - he jerked his head, seemingly impatient with the interruption. - He had to place your sculpture in the armchair, and to ensure that despite any Colonel’s moves, you yourself would not become involved.
- He attacked me.
- I suppose he wasn’t sure who it was he attacked… Moran found a way to lure you?..
- I received a note by “M. H.” -
- Yes, yes, that would be most convenient. So here you came, to the very house in all of London where I specifically didn’t want you to turn up -
I caught myself standing.
- Oh, forgive me, my friend, I wasn’t angry with you.
I was shaking, deafened by the wailing crescendo in my breast. There were no words he could say to appease me; not that he realized the fact.
- Watson! Hear me out. Had I not ambushed him yesterday, you most probably wouldn’t be alive tomorrow!
I sat back. I could listen; I owed him that much.
- Briefly, Moran shot Adair from the opposite window - clever dog, he is - and prepared to negotiate with me. We had to meet in the house across the road - his choice, though fortunately I knew what he had in mind; taking you hostage and killing in cold blood before my eyes.
He tucked his hands in his gown’s sleeves. There was a pause before he resumed his story.
- Naturally, he would not attempt shooting you himself; it would be far below his intelligence, which I’ve learned to take into account during the last years… He positioned a sniper. The man hadn’t the steadiness usually required to beat one’s mark. It was his loyalty that Colonel trusted.
Holmes smiled crookedly.
- I can’t help wondering how it would go if Moriarty didn’t present Porlock to Moran as his most reliable henchman.
- He gave you the rifle? - I half-stated.
- Exactly. Colonel was rather surprised with me overpowering his hidden help. Nevertheless, when I shot your bust - a beautiful thing, isn’t it? - and we heard the whistle, he knew it was over.
- You shot?
- Someone had to. He proved deucedly uncooperative… At least Porlock had enough time to escape.
- He would have had more, had I remained where I was.
He sighed.
- There’s nothing for it.
Silence descended upon the room, and then he spoke again.
- You don’t know how many times I regretted not letting you know about my survival. There were times when I bought Times instead of tobacco or bread. Once I let myself be kidnapped, to miss the steamship to England…
- It must have been difficult, - I agreed evenly.
He stared in the distance, and I didn't know what part he assumed I was playing.
- An ugly feeling... I can only hope you will never have to choose between worse and worse, without any idea about the consequences.
Anger blinded me for an instant, and then I understood - ground my teeth, but understood. I stood up and went to place the pitcher on the table.
- Of course.
He flinched.
- I know what you mean, - I continued in the same light tone. Somewhere in the back of my mind, conscience was raging; but this was no time for conscience. Were it so, I would probably shake some reason into the fool, and then flee to burn my journals.
- Watson...
My fingers clenched, I refused to meet his eyes. He made it easier by lowering them, for which I was thankful, as only a man intending to go in a minute and never return can be. There were wrinkles where my fingers dug in the tablecloth; it looked like our landlady'd taken out her finest linen to celebrate Holmes's return...
- Forgive me...
I didn’t. But when he touched my shoulder, I'm afraid I rumpled his shirt as badly as the tablecloth, because nothing could break my shaking embrace.