Work Text:
The orderly unlocked the barred door. "Call me when you're ready to leave, sirs. But she's mad – hysterical, delusional, babbles perverted fantasies. She'll tell you nothing useful."
Mrs. Elizabeth Grace sat on her cot, wearing a yellowed gown. Her head jerked up as we approached, her eyes those of a doe facing hungry wolves.
That look pierced my heart. Without thinking I laid a hand on Holmes' elbow, halting his advance. Ignoring Holmes' startled sidelong glance, I addressed the woman gripping her cot. "Mrs. Grace. I am John Watson. This is Mr. Sherlock Holmes. If you wish us not to be in the room with you, we will leave and speak through the door. It is your choice."
She was stock-still, eyes terrified. But she blinked. "Please. Outside, sirs, please. I'm not contradicting you, I'm not disobeying."
I nodded and indicated the door to Holmes. His quick grey eyes flickered back and forth, then narrowed; he followed me back out the door, where he conducted his questioning about her estate's layout.
Holmes glared straight ahead as we left. "Her husband committed her for promiscuity. She was taken against her will by a friend of his. He doesn't believe her."
"And she's called mad for telling the truth." Raging and helpless, I signaled the orderly. "Give her paper and pens. And books."