A Decided Genius, part four
Mar. 25th, 2008 07:54 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rabidsamfanLink to part one
To say that his voice cracked on the words would be untrue, but there was something about it which changed and warned me that he had at last come to the heart of the matter. A flatness to the note, as if he were summoning the words through a long speaking tube which had its opposite end in some place he had no desire again to visit. This time I did not prompt him when he fell silent, knowing somehow that he had already crossed the Rubicon. Eventually he spoke again in the same unnatural tone.
"We had undertaken a task which had necessitated our being where we had no right to be, and witnessed a murder which, if I have any power in this world, will never be solved by the official forces. The man killed had ruined many lives -- his own was no loss, I thought -- but he had a network of supporters, some nearly as clever as he was himself. And as Watson and I had fled the scene one of those supporters had nearly caught Watson. When, a week later, someone took a shot at Watson and missed as he was out on a visit to a patient - a fellow soldier from Afghanistan whom he had met at the Fleet -- I thought the matters were connected, that he had been recognized. That was my first mistake. I forbade Watson to go out alone, which was the second. Danger has never deterred him. We argued the matter and in the end I had to be content with setting my Irregulars to keeping the doctor under a discreet watch whenever he ventured out of the flat. It was the one thing I did right. Watson knew of the surveillance of course, and resented it, but the boys were so proud to be his bodyguards he had not the unkindness to do more than make them promise should anything happen that they would not put themselves at risk too."
"I myself went in disguise to try to penetrate the tangled strands of the dead blackmailer's web. It was not easy work, which is the only excuse I can offer for my failure to do no more than skim the reports my young friends wrote out about how Watson was spending his time. One matter should most certainly have caught my attention: the funeral of the soldier whom Watson had been visiting when the attack took place. But I passed the matter over, knowing the man had been ill. That was my third mistake."
"In my defense I can say only that there were indeed rumors that I had been involved in the matter of the murder, and that some of the criminals I had crossed in the past were looking forward to my downfall. So much I had learned, but had still found no evidence that anyone had acted upon the suspicion, when one evening -- the 17th of June -- I came home to find a pile of telegrams from Wiggins, each one increasingly desperate."
I felt such a chill as I listened to his narrative as had never gripped me before. His face had gone still, betraying no more emotion than an automaton, but I suspected that the outward appearance of calm was as fragile as glass. For all that I wanted nothing more than to wrap my shawl tighter around me, I dared not move.
"Watson had met another veteran of Maiwand at the funeral, a man called Peters, who was nearly as destitute as the fellow who had died, and arranged to come and visit him. But on the day of the appointment Peters stepped out to fetch back a jug of beer for them to share and never returned. His wife was worried. Peters had fallen into opium addiction, and she never knew when the fit would take him. So Watson said he would track the fellow down and bring him home, but when he found Peters the man panicked and ran, leading him from one low dive to another. Watson tried to send a message home to me that he would be late, via Wiggins, but in that he underestimated the tenacity of the boy, who sent the telegram and then resumed his task, adding more messages as Watson and Peters delved deeper into the tangle of streets and canals that lie east of the Tower."
"But even Wiggins has his limits, and at last it had grown so late and dark, and the neighborhood so unsavory that, remembering his promise not to take unnecessary risks, he chose to wait in one of the telegraph stations for a reply. I sent one at once, and followed myself in a cab without bothering to throw off my disguise. Another error. If I had thought to divert to Lambeth and fetch Toby, to bring along one of Watson's shoes to give him a scent, it might have saved more time than was lost to the delay. As it was I sent Wiggins home in the cab and took up the trail on my own, dependent on witnesses in increasing states of intoxication. The one advantage I had was that Peters was a huge man, standing six foot and seven inches, and so noticeable even to the most impaired of persons."
"I had come several miles, and the bells were chiming three of the clock when I caught a glimpse of them just turning the corner a few streets ahead of me. There was no mistake. Peters towered a full head over Watson, and Watson I knew even by the flicker of the gaslight. They were stumbling with exhaustion, but they took to their heels at the crash of a slate from a rooftop, running like men pursued. I ran after them. Having come so close I had no desire to lose them again. But I had got so caught up in the chase that I had forgotten that I wore a false beard -- that Watson would not recognize me by sight. And they were being pursued. Had been chivvied, indeed, through alleys and in and out of public houses and opium dens by a series of "accidents" that Peters had good reason to believe were no accident at all."
"I found out later that it was not the first time he had been so persecuted. At least five men who had made the retreat at Maiwand with Watson had landed in the slums of London. Three were already dead, hounded to their graves, and Peters was determined to find the last of them, thinking him to blame. He'd been driven more than half mad already, and had hauled Watson along on his flight as hostage as much as ally until the truth of the sniping attacks made it clear that his madness had a basis in truth. By the time I caught up to them on a wharf by the river, Watson was convinced. He saw me coming, drew his revolver, shouted a warning, and fired."
I could not help drawing a startled breath. For a moment, Holmes seemed to remember that he was not speaking to himself alone. His head slanted towards me. "If he had meant to kill me, I'd be dead," he said, as if it were a reassurance, and then looked again into the fog and past. "No, he meant only to warn me off. The bullet went over my head. And then, to my utter dismay, the shot was answered by the crack of a rifle."
"Peters cried out and fell into a huddle on the ground. Watson made no sound, but moved between the fallen man and the danger, firing again, this time deliberately, at the roof of the factory beside me. I sought safety beneath the wharf. The tide was going out and there was space enough between the deck and the water for an agile man to make his way between the pilings. I tore the beard from my chin; called to Watson to let him know that I was coming to his aid. He was glad to see me, but we had no time to exchange tales."
"The man on the roof changed position and fired again. Watson fired back, trying to keep him from putting out his head while I persuaded Peters down into the nearest skiff. He was not badly hurt -- the bullet had only grazed his hand -- but he was near paralyzed with fear. Watson followed us, and we took to the river as quietly as we could, hoping that the low mist on the water might keep us from the marksman's eye. Watson and I each took an oar -- we used them like the paddles of a Red Indian canoe, one on each side. We were working our way into the main current of the river, when we disturbed a family of ducks that had been sleeping in the lee of a barge. The noise attracted another rifle shot. Peters began to babble and wail that it was the Ghazis, come all the way from Afghanistan to finish their murderous work."
"I tried to tell him it was nonsense, but Watson flatly contradicted me, saying it was a jezail rifle being fired without question, as plainly different to his ear as any two cigar ashes would be to my eye. He ordered Peters to silence and then rose to pass me his oar so as to have both hands free that he might deal with Peters's injury. At that moment the rifle spoke again. Watson was hit. He lost his balance and went overboard. I heard his head strike the gunwale as he fell."
I bade myself remember that John had survived whatever ordeal was still to come, folded my hands more tightly together to keep them from trembling. I would not, could not, interrupt this tale. But I closed my eyes, and saw beneath my lids the desperate night.
"In my haste to catch Watson before he could sink beneath the black water I lost both oars. Peters was of no help. He scrambled to get Watson's revolver from where it had fallen, and fired it until the hammer fell uselessly on empty chambers, before crumbling again. But by chance my weight and Watson's combined where I held onto him over the one side of the boat had raised the other side enough to act as a barrier to the next shot from the sniper. By the time he had managed to reload again the current had caught us and we were moving downstream with the tide. The next bullet hit the water several feet away. Another shot missed us entirely, and at that point I judged it safe to pull Watson back aboard."
"It took much longer than it should have. He'd been unconscious in my grasp, with only the cough that rid him of the river water he'd swallowed to reassure me that he still lived. But as I tried to raise him the pain made him flinch away and struggle, and it was all I could do to keep from dropping him. It was only once he was awake enough to understand that I could wrestle him into the belly of the boat, and even then he could not help but cry out, drawing yet another bullet from the distance. Peters tried to muffle him, having finally understood that the sniper on the shore was shooting more by sound than sight. I think he would have smothered Watson if I hadn't struck him aside."
"Watson felt the danger too, and God knows he tried to keep his silence. But each small movement brought him fresh pain, and his blood was pooling in the bottom of the boat. I tried to see how badly he was hurt, but even the lightest touch on his leg meant agony."
"And so I made the worst mistake of all. I broke my promise."
continued
To say that his voice cracked on the words would be untrue, but there was something about it which changed and warned me that he had at last come to the heart of the matter. A flatness to the note, as if he were summoning the words through a long speaking tube which had its opposite end in some place he had no desire again to visit. This time I did not prompt him when he fell silent, knowing somehow that he had already crossed the Rubicon. Eventually he spoke again in the same unnatural tone.
"We had undertaken a task which had necessitated our being where we had no right to be, and witnessed a murder which, if I have any power in this world, will never be solved by the official forces. The man killed had ruined many lives -- his own was no loss, I thought -- but he had a network of supporters, some nearly as clever as he was himself. And as Watson and I had fled the scene one of those supporters had nearly caught Watson. When, a week later, someone took a shot at Watson and missed as he was out on a visit to a patient - a fellow soldier from Afghanistan whom he had met at the Fleet -- I thought the matters were connected, that he had been recognized. That was my first mistake. I forbade Watson to go out alone, which was the second. Danger has never deterred him. We argued the matter and in the end I had to be content with setting my Irregulars to keeping the doctor under a discreet watch whenever he ventured out of the flat. It was the one thing I did right. Watson knew of the surveillance of course, and resented it, but the boys were so proud to be his bodyguards he had not the unkindness to do more than make them promise should anything happen that they would not put themselves at risk too."
"I myself went in disguise to try to penetrate the tangled strands of the dead blackmailer's web. It was not easy work, which is the only excuse I can offer for my failure to do no more than skim the reports my young friends wrote out about how Watson was spending his time. One matter should most certainly have caught my attention: the funeral of the soldier whom Watson had been visiting when the attack took place. But I passed the matter over, knowing the man had been ill. That was my third mistake."
"In my defense I can say only that there were indeed rumors that I had been involved in the matter of the murder, and that some of the criminals I had crossed in the past were looking forward to my downfall. So much I had learned, but had still found no evidence that anyone had acted upon the suspicion, when one evening -- the 17th of June -- I came home to find a pile of telegrams from Wiggins, each one increasingly desperate."
I felt such a chill as I listened to his narrative as had never gripped me before. His face had gone still, betraying no more emotion than an automaton, but I suspected that the outward appearance of calm was as fragile as glass. For all that I wanted nothing more than to wrap my shawl tighter around me, I dared not move.
"Watson had met another veteran of Maiwand at the funeral, a man called Peters, who was nearly as destitute as the fellow who had died, and arranged to come and visit him. But on the day of the appointment Peters stepped out to fetch back a jug of beer for them to share and never returned. His wife was worried. Peters had fallen into opium addiction, and she never knew when the fit would take him. So Watson said he would track the fellow down and bring him home, but when he found Peters the man panicked and ran, leading him from one low dive to another. Watson tried to send a message home to me that he would be late, via Wiggins, but in that he underestimated the tenacity of the boy, who sent the telegram and then resumed his task, adding more messages as Watson and Peters delved deeper into the tangle of streets and canals that lie east of the Tower."
"But even Wiggins has his limits, and at last it had grown so late and dark, and the neighborhood so unsavory that, remembering his promise not to take unnecessary risks, he chose to wait in one of the telegraph stations for a reply. I sent one at once, and followed myself in a cab without bothering to throw off my disguise. Another error. If I had thought to divert to Lambeth and fetch Toby, to bring along one of Watson's shoes to give him a scent, it might have saved more time than was lost to the delay. As it was I sent Wiggins home in the cab and took up the trail on my own, dependent on witnesses in increasing states of intoxication. The one advantage I had was that Peters was a huge man, standing six foot and seven inches, and so noticeable even to the most impaired of persons."
"I had come several miles, and the bells were chiming three of the clock when I caught a glimpse of them just turning the corner a few streets ahead of me. There was no mistake. Peters towered a full head over Watson, and Watson I knew even by the flicker of the gaslight. They were stumbling with exhaustion, but they took to their heels at the crash of a slate from a rooftop, running like men pursued. I ran after them. Having come so close I had no desire to lose them again. But I had got so caught up in the chase that I had forgotten that I wore a false beard -- that Watson would not recognize me by sight. And they were being pursued. Had been chivvied, indeed, through alleys and in and out of public houses and opium dens by a series of "accidents" that Peters had good reason to believe were no accident at all."
"I found out later that it was not the first time he had been so persecuted. At least five men who had made the retreat at Maiwand with Watson had landed in the slums of London. Three were already dead, hounded to their graves, and Peters was determined to find the last of them, thinking him to blame. He'd been driven more than half mad already, and had hauled Watson along on his flight as hostage as much as ally until the truth of the sniping attacks made it clear that his madness had a basis in truth. By the time I caught up to them on a wharf by the river, Watson was convinced. He saw me coming, drew his revolver, shouted a warning, and fired."
I could not help drawing a startled breath. For a moment, Holmes seemed to remember that he was not speaking to himself alone. His head slanted towards me. "If he had meant to kill me, I'd be dead," he said, as if it were a reassurance, and then looked again into the fog and past. "No, he meant only to warn me off. The bullet went over my head. And then, to my utter dismay, the shot was answered by the crack of a rifle."
"Peters cried out and fell into a huddle on the ground. Watson made no sound, but moved between the fallen man and the danger, firing again, this time deliberately, at the roof of the factory beside me. I sought safety beneath the wharf. The tide was going out and there was space enough between the deck and the water for an agile man to make his way between the pilings. I tore the beard from my chin; called to Watson to let him know that I was coming to his aid. He was glad to see me, but we had no time to exchange tales."
"The man on the roof changed position and fired again. Watson fired back, trying to keep him from putting out his head while I persuaded Peters down into the nearest skiff. He was not badly hurt -- the bullet had only grazed his hand -- but he was near paralyzed with fear. Watson followed us, and we took to the river as quietly as we could, hoping that the low mist on the water might keep us from the marksman's eye. Watson and I each took an oar -- we used them like the paddles of a Red Indian canoe, one on each side. We were working our way into the main current of the river, when we disturbed a family of ducks that had been sleeping in the lee of a barge. The noise attracted another rifle shot. Peters began to babble and wail that it was the Ghazis, come all the way from Afghanistan to finish their murderous work."
"I tried to tell him it was nonsense, but Watson flatly contradicted me, saying it was a jezail rifle being fired without question, as plainly different to his ear as any two cigar ashes would be to my eye. He ordered Peters to silence and then rose to pass me his oar so as to have both hands free that he might deal with Peters's injury. At that moment the rifle spoke again. Watson was hit. He lost his balance and went overboard. I heard his head strike the gunwale as he fell."
I bade myself remember that John had survived whatever ordeal was still to come, folded my hands more tightly together to keep them from trembling. I would not, could not, interrupt this tale. But I closed my eyes, and saw beneath my lids the desperate night.
"In my haste to catch Watson before he could sink beneath the black water I lost both oars. Peters was of no help. He scrambled to get Watson's revolver from where it had fallen, and fired it until the hammer fell uselessly on empty chambers, before crumbling again. But by chance my weight and Watson's combined where I held onto him over the one side of the boat had raised the other side enough to act as a barrier to the next shot from the sniper. By the time he had managed to reload again the current had caught us and we were moving downstream with the tide. The next bullet hit the water several feet away. Another shot missed us entirely, and at that point I judged it safe to pull Watson back aboard."
"It took much longer than it should have. He'd been unconscious in my grasp, with only the cough that rid him of the river water he'd swallowed to reassure me that he still lived. But as I tried to raise him the pain made him flinch away and struggle, and it was all I could do to keep from dropping him. It was only once he was awake enough to understand that I could wrestle him into the belly of the boat, and even then he could not help but cry out, drawing yet another bullet from the distance. Peters tried to muffle him, having finally understood that the sniper on the shore was shooting more by sound than sight. I think he would have smothered Watson if I hadn't struck him aside."
"Watson felt the danger too, and God knows he tried to keep his silence. But each small movement brought him fresh pain, and his blood was pooling in the bottom of the boat. I tried to see how badly he was hurt, but even the lightest touch on his leg meant agony."
"And so I made the worst mistake of all. I broke my promise."
continued
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2008-03-25 01:37 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-03-25 02:04 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-03-25 03:45 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-03-25 11:56 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-03-26 12:43 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-03-26 01:25 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-03-27 03:16 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-03-27 03:25 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-05-20 06:32 am (UTC)Heh. Nice touches of sarcastic humor.
"If he had meant to kill me, I'd be dead," he said, as if it were a reassurance,
Love that.
I tried to tell him it was nonsense, but Watson flatly contradicted me, saying it was a jezail rifle being fired without question, as plainly different to his ear as any two cigar ashes would be to my eye.
And that, very much, where Holmes compares Watson's expertise respectfully with his own esoteric knowledge.
"And so I made the worst mistake of all. I broke my promise."
...Hadn't taken it willingly. Oh, shoot.