Chapter Text
I found that the hardest part was folding his limbs inwards.
An unconscious body is a helplessly uncoordinated one, you must know.
It droops and refuses to support its own weight, dragging you down no matter how you manipulate it under your fingers — mine own fumbled from within their gloves, struggling to maintain their grip on his wrists. I did not relent, did not spare a shred of sympathy, only griped and wrestled with the marionette even as my fingers threatened to suffocate its pulse.
Pausing momentarily, I huffed to myself. I repeated a mantra in my brain, that it was worth it, worth it, that she deserved it, and that I would see the fruits of my efforts eventually.
It kept me stable through the maneuvering and fumbling, stable as I smeared the blood cascading down my nose and heaved the crate up to sit amongst the rest. I wiped the sweat off my forehead, observing in something akin to interest as his nose started to redden, his skin becoming pale and ashen, as if it would scrape off like dry wallpaper if I dared to drag a fingernail down it.
I almost did.
I sincerely almost did. I wanted to gaze emptily as his blood gathered underneath my nail, underneath all the dirt and grime and worthless weeks of waiting , of planning—
But I didn’t.
I took a moment to myself before securing the bolt latch back in place. I took it in mockery, a sort of send-off, a last prayer before I sealed his fate inside, comfortably knowing his passage would be fitful and unmerciful.
The stars welcomed me with a cautious gaze and faltering arms as I finally stepped outside. I relished the way they twinkled; they could do nothing but watch, observe, witness my ‘Rache’.
As I advanced down the road, the air continued to cool — a shivering child awaiting the return of the sun.
Holmes tutted at me from across the table, “Oh, no no no– you were incredibly helpful, Watson: do not undermine your own abilities. You know how deeply I disagree with modesty. I wish to relive the look on Lestrade’s face upon having his pursuit interrupted by you tackling the man to the ground,” he said sublimely, a twinkle to his eye.
I subconsciously rubbed my rather sore elbow, partly from embarrassment, my shoulder aching all the while, “I was awfully angry with him. I may have underestimated my strength.”
Holmes tilted his head, “Well. He was a blaggard. I am delighted to say that his wife struck him upon sight; and in police presence, at that.”
I raised an eyebrow, pausing my chewing. “ Did she now?”
“Lestrade was almost caught in the line of fire, poor man,” he hummed with little of the sympathy he spoke of, “You shall be pleased to know her money was returned, as was befitting. I heard so from one of our boys.”
“Very good,” I said, “I trust we will be receiving a letter in the post soon, in that case. You have done remarkably, Holmes,” and flashing him a genuine, softer smile that I found taking place on my features more often through the years, looked up at him. I was rewarded by the visible tremor of his lips as he fought his own, ducking his head to fiddle with the silverware.
There was that glimmer in his eyes, still, from the aftermath of the case — it turned the shadowed, smoky rings of his irises to the curl of vapour as it rose from candles, sweet and twirling amongst the flames.
I huffed fondly and emphasised with my fork, pushing the untouched plate towards him.
“And, now, for the love of all that is holy, eat. ”
Holmes sighed in a quiet, all too put-upon manner, although the genuinely abashed smile still on his lips betrayed the display.
As Mrs. Hudson was absent for that morning, we had chosen to have breakfast elsewhere; not only for we were both worn from exertion after the conclusion of the last case and therefore unwilling to cook anything ourselves (Holmes had slept like the dead after collapsing into his room, and I crumpled similarly), but I thought that the fresh meal would do Holmes’ starving body and exhausted mind a world of good. He acquiesced thoughtfully, hiding a craving he was unwilling to directly admit.
Our walk had been pleasant, the early winter bringing puffs of snow to rest along the park hedges, hanging onto the wind’s coattails as they winded between the city houses and threaded through the windows. A few drifted to lay atop Holmes’ hat, and it was only after he caught me staring fondly that he caught on and brushed them off — I had portrayed otherworldly disappointment, and his huff was ruined by the twitch of his lips. It was a stark contrast, but a welcome one, to the exciting yet gruelling chase of the last few days.
We dined in relative silence, Holmes absorbed with his breakfast of bacon and eggs and I with my toast. I caught him surveying the coffeehouse and civilians passing by amicably outside, an endless stream that cascaded gradually with the rising of the sun, evidently picking apart whichever miniscule details he could deduce from their attire and character. He offered me one of his eggs, and I hummed my approval.
“I am surprised we haven’t been here before,” I mused, watching as the staff bustled around, setting tables and cleaning crevices for the business day unfolding before them. We were one of few customers as of yet, given the early hour.
Holmes followed my eye, “It re-opened recently. I don’t know why it closed, but it clearly went through significant changes — observe how crisp the aprons are, and the fresh polish of the wood. The wallpaper is clean and recent. Perhaps a change in ownership, hm?”
“Do you know who from?”
He shrugged loosely. I raised an eyebrow, to which he smiled, “A few things slip through the cracks of my mind attic, Watson. This is relatively distant from Baker Street. I do not know the ownership of every store.”
“Right, of course not,” I muttered, to which he let out a short laugh.
“I am flattered, Watson, but alas. Though the quality of the service has been admirable: I imagine they are fit for the role.”
“Would you open one?” I wondered aloud, leaning on my hand.
“Me?” I raised my eyebrows shortly. Holmes sat back, “Well, provided that the crime rate of London suddenly capsizes overnight, although I would be more confident in the sun spontaneously imploding. I don’t know. I have never…imagined myself doing anything else. I do not think I would cook in the kitchen.”
“Good.”
His contemplating gaze drifted back to me. A brief furrow grazed his brows. “Whatever do you mean, ‘good’?”
I took another bite of my toast as an excuse to not answer, however I failed to hide a chuckle when I caught his utterly dismayed expression. Holmes sighed with the theatrical nature that bestowed him, eyebrows raised and stabbing a fork into his bacon. “You must appreciate my housekeeping skills more, Watson. It is a travesty that you forgo them in your writing.”
“I say this with as much respect befitting for a friend, Holmes,” he looked at me doubtfully here, “but if the majority of your experiments conclude in some type of hazard I fear for—”
“I work with chemicals quite skilfully, Watson. It is the same thing, ” he argued, swiping his fork amongst the air, “Merely different ingredients.” I looked pointedly at his bandaged finger. “Oh , I am not a master of all crafts. I can make a decent meal provided I have a recipe. You would most likely be more equipped.”
“Me?” I asked incredulously.
“You already know how to use a scalpel. A knife is not dissimilar.”
I shifted to stare at him, burying down the urge to wince as the minor movement pulled rather harshly on my shoulder. “And I would imagine experience with a bunsen burner, which I have watched you use to light your cigars, might I add, would prevent you from burning food,” I teased, then gasped as he darted over and pilfered a piece of my waffle with his knife, proceeding to sit back and eat it in front of me.
He beamed unapologetically, and I failed to squash the pull of my lips. It was not a loss on my part — he was eating, regardless of whether or not it sacrificed a piece of my breakfast.
I raised my left arm to reach for the butter, when a sharp bolt of pain skewered through the muscles along the entirety of its side, impaling them into rigid place. Just barely, I managed to dull my reaction, although I had to lower it in disguise of picking a crumb off the tablecloth. I looked up at Holmes through my lashes. He was still gazing out of the window.
I returned it to my side stiffly. I bit my lip as I settled my hand on my lap. Aching throbs wove through my shoulder in pulses, as if stitching flesh together from the inside. I kept it gingerly still as I reached for the butter with my other hand. It was further away than I anticipated, by my friend’s elbow.
“That woman is having an affair ,” Holmes drawled distractedly, and slid the small plate towards me with his eyes trained on the street all the while.
I thanked him quietly, then followed his gaze. His words registered a second later: my shoulder had arrogantly occupied the previous one. “There’s— she's what?”
Holmes pointed to a lady wearing a sleek fur coat, currently intertwined with a man of taller stature who was looking at her with utmost attention. She laughed and happened to glance backwards.
I tore my gaze from the window and saw Holmes smoothly snap his hand away with a murmur. He dug a fork rather intently into his food, and I snickered under my breath.
“You are the subtlest man in London.”
He tutted once, “She was awfully distracted by him a moment ago. They were blocking the stream of passersby. Could it not wait?”
I looked from the corner of my eyes. “Well, she isn’t any longer — the lady is looking directly at us,” I murmured.
Holmes pursed his lips.
I raised my head, swallowing a bite of toast. “An affair , really?”
“Notice how skittish she seems, looking to and fro as if expecting something to happen. She covers the band on her ring finger and tilts her oversized hat downwards to obscure her face — taking the former off may warrant suspicion from her husband if he catches her,” and true to his word they were huddled now in a secluded area to the side.
“Even more likely considering the slight dirt on her boots looks too dark to be from London; perhaps— no, maybe from higher North, but I really can’t tell from this distance. They were whispering furiously, perhaps about plans. They did not meet at his house, for— or is it that they’re both having an affair?”
“Or that is her husband,” I muttered drily, nonetheless intrigued.
“No, no– his band is different to hers, and it is important to note that she is dressed in an entirely different style of attire. Usually, at least some part of similarity will join them together by region, and yet they appear to be from completely different areas. Note how hers looks more fitting to belong in the countryside; she has not visited London frequently enough to know what to wear amongst the city.”
I had trouble focusing on his deductions, for with every slight shift a twinge of agony would pierce my shoulder again; the pain had emerged as a small shadow in the morning light, and since advanced to a creature that screwed its fingers into the tendons. I fixed my gaze intently on the wall. Perhaps I had pulled something? But then I would have noticed immediately. My leg was beginning to ache in chorus, however I did not know if that was merely from sitting down.
“...—’tson. Watson? Are you listening?”
I blinked, sniffing. Holmes’ brows were creased, his attention entirely on me now. I would have shifted under the scrutiny of his piercing eyes if I were capable of doing so.
“Is something troubling you?”
I determinedly did not move, nor look to my wounds. I would simply rest upon returning home. There was not much Holmes could do for me, regardless. “No, I apologise. A trivial matter invaded my thoughts; what was your last sentence, dear fellow?”
His eyes narrowed momentarily. “You are sure?” Before his gaze lowered. Understanding flashed across his features, softening them minutely. Looking up, he inquired: “It is your wound, is it not?”
I debated arguing, but upon the pain and sincerity of the question I deflated. I nodded shortly. He hummed, “I noted willow tea upon the list of menu items: would you like me to order some? I ought to refill my coffee anyway.”
I found a surprised smile to pull at my features. “Thanks awfully, dear fellow.”
Holmes nodded, satisfied, patting my hand once before rising to speak with the lady at the counter. I absently soothed circles into the ache with my palm, as I had learned was a small relief. It lessened the pain, if only slightly. Rain had coveted the streets a mere few days ago: it lingered in my shoulder, where I could not usher it to leave. A sore hurt persisted in place of the throb, which radiated discomfort yet signified that the cold would depart soon.
The coffee warmed me, and the sun leisurely ambled back into the high skies. I glanced towards Holmes: he was leaning against the counter, most likely watching the kitchen just out of my view. His fingers tapped on the wood in a rhythm I felt was familiar but was too distracted to place.
I carefully manoeuvred my shoulder for a few minutes, breathing carefully — perhaps it were like a placebo, but the edges of agony had abided to a low simmer.
My eyes were drawn back to Holmes upon the sound of porcelain clattering. He received the cups from the young lady — auburn hair, spring green dress, delicate yet confident features, a distinctly kind smile — with polite thanks. A responding smile graced his features. I was momentarily caught in the simplicity of it all.
But then she startled abruptly, and so did Holmes. He steadied the saucer she nearly dropped. His ears pricked up like a hound’s.
A shrill scream pierced through the comfort of the morning, before choking off as if restrained by a hand. A chorus of shouts and curses responded from the kitchen, footfalls audible on the tiles. They singed the blood in my veins, too horrific to be from a simple oven burn or hot spill.
Holmes’ eyes darted to mine. Instinct surged me into action, and we both immediately ran to the opening in the counter. The girl had already retreated to the commotion at once. A young couple to my right looked as if they were debating to follow.
Holmes fiddled uselessly with the latch for a moment, unsure how to open it, before giving up and vaulting over. I stared at his retreating form: he reminded me of a shadow at times, with how the man slinked through streets and darkened alleys as if he were a mere shape on the wall.
Concern thrummed enough to overpower my exasperation. I effectively ducked underneath. The racket had not subsided; as we drew closer, the cacophony of sound rose in fright. I prepared for the worst.
I almost crashed into Holmes. He subconsciously held a hand out to me, the other already on the shoulder of a shaken young woman, who could be no older than twenty. Those soothing tones my friend so skilfully employed were only barely enough to force the words back into her mouth: she swallowed forcibly and glanced backwards with glistening eyes. Panicked voices clambered over each other.
“He’s…” Chest stuttering, she rapidly looked back again, before meeting both our eyes in turn. Perhaps there was recognition, or it was only helplessness. “I don’t— we don’t know who he is— he’s dead . There’s a - a corpse in the kitchen, I just opened the crate and—” Her gasps choked off.
I placed a hand on her shoulder, my wide eyes meeting Holmes’. A glimmering thread of thrill was spinning within his pupils, but apprehension intertwined it: he sprinted away at once, and after a regretful squeeze I pursued.
It did not take us long to find the room. Although frantic, the few employees situated around parted for us — one, a fairly well-built gentleman who looked to be the oldest of the group, surveyed us with a terrible combination of relief and horror, ushering the cashier lady beside him away with a whisper. He exhaled and cursed.
We stepped into the threshold of the small room beside the kitchen, just near the main oven. Several stacks of barrels, crates and flour bags covered the walls: Holmes glanced over them briefly.
But the object that caught our attention was positioned to the side of the room — in a puddle of water was stationed a seemingly airtight crate, open and visibly soaked through, a deep umber. I already knew (and I heard Holmes shift beside me) what was inside.
Calmly, Holmes approached, and after a moment so did I.
Nestled into the crate, limbs intertwining and unnaturally bending over each other, was a man of an age no more than twenty five. His skin was pale, taking on an almost sapphire tint that conflicted sharply with the orange glows of the bakery. Not a wound or fracture, no bump in the skin adorned him — he was completely markless, slick in water and hair fussed from the moisture. A taut strip of fabric bit into his mouth, and lengths of rope dug into his wrists and shins.
I pressed two fingers to his neck, even as I already knew the answer. Not a wisp of breath tickled the back of my hand. I shook my head at Holmes.
His jaw clicked. A certain steel had inflamed his eyes, irises surveying the area like a cool machine; although I detected the slight frown to his lips, the unease. He met my eyes strongly. “Make sure none of the customers leave, Watson: be as commanding as you must. Call for the police. A telegram will have to be sent to Lestrade.”
Then, turning to our small audience, asked “Did any of you see anyone come and go within the past few hours? What happened?”
Silence resumed for a few moments. There were only three — the gentleman, and two young ladies. A deathly paleness had descended upon them all as if a great plague had swept through the windows. Holmes lowered his voice, “Any detail at all. I can guarantee safety with me, and my dear friend Dr. Watson.”
The room eased minutely: times such as these portrayed how Holmes’ name as a known force about London’s streets could be an advantage. “No one,” murmured the youngest, who we had bumped into earlier. A bright-eyed girl, her fingers passing frayed tassels of dress between them. They flicked to the innocent crate in the corner. “My friend— we opened the crate. It was meant to have eggs, but—”
The gentleman beside her settled a hand on her shoulder. She swallowed, and Holmes nodded. “Who is the owner of the coffeehouse?”
“Miss Croft. She ste…”
Their voices faded away as I swiftly exited the room, winding through the corridors to the main coffeehouse again. At times like these I found my old military training to rekindle in my chest; I utilised my sturdiest voice, addressing the apprehensive few customers stationed around:
“A crime has been committed in the kitchen. One of you, kindly step outside and call for the police. Tell them that Sherlock Holmes is already at the site, and to contact an Inspector Lestrade. Also, flip that sign to ‘closed’, thank you sir — no one should leave until the police have examined the crime scene,” and as I spoke the young man left his partner’s side to yell into the street. I heard commotion, and deeming it safe went to retreat.
“Excuse me,” chimed a pompous old gentleman, seated leisurely by the window, “But exactly what right do you have to keep us here?”
The woman, freckle-faced and bright, responded before I could, and harsher than I expected from her gentle features. “Did you not hear the screaming? I’ve never bloody heard anything like it,” and turning to me, inquired worriedly, “how grave is the crime? Is it…”
He made to leave, gesturing agitatedly. “Oh, the constables shall deal with it! I have a business to get back to, this is no concern to me: a girl most likely burnt herself and blamed it on someone else, they're never the type to take responsibility,” and as I blocked him off, spat, “Who the hell are you? For God’s sake, let me leave—”
“Doctor Watson. And unless you would like to become suspect of a murder charge , I advise you stay here, sir, ” I said tersely. “It would prove awful for business, and worse for the appearance of your character.” The man clicked his jaw and stiffened, and upon the look of horror of the few other customers, I lowered my voice and added, “We will sort this out, not to worry. Stay here and tell the police where to enter when they arrive. I’ll come back with more information shortly, I apologise.”
I departed quickly, leaving behind the sound of frantic whispering. There were smoother ways to go about announcing such a travesty, but I was not currently concerned with formalities when a dead body sat curled in the back of the coffeehouse; upon my return to the scene, I found that Holmes was still garnering witness accounts, and that there was now another woman amidst the group.
With her back turned, I could not see her expression, only Holmes’ keen eyes boring into mine. I nodded, and he turned back to the employees. I placed a hand on her trembling shoulders. The young woman’s chest heaved with suppressed gasps, and I could see the glisten of a tear on her cheek. I noted that her uniform was different to that of her colleagues; she must have been Miss Croft.
She spared me a watery look, although her eyes did not quite focus on my features: I frowned.
“Allow me to recount the facts for my friend,” Holmes continued lowly, his fingers meeting below his chin, “There has been nothing amiss, nor any unfamiliar face in the kitchen, nor any signs of break-in or disturbance. Miss…Jones,” and the youngest nodded once.
“You presume you recollect seeing this man once perhaps a few weeks ago, although he was merely a customer. This is a new crate, delivered in the early hours of the morning by your supplier, and was dragged into the kitchen for use upon opening at 7 this morning but only accessed a few moments ago.”
I took this in, although my attention remained partly on Miss Croft; I could feel the throes of panic tremor beneath my fingers, and recognise the fear that caused her eyes to appear so distant. I looked into her dilated, darting pupils. She lingered on the precipice of hyperventilating, and whilst I understood the horror of finding a body within her establishment, I sensed that there was a deeper turmoil there through the desperation in her gaze.
I met Holmes’ eye briefly. “At what time did each of you arrive?”
“Just after six this morning,” breathed Miss Croft, “Nothing was out of place when I entered. I checked that - I checked that the delivery had been made suitably, and started preparing for opening.”
The older gentleman spoke up next, “I was in seven sharp, and Miss Jones entered a step behind me,” to which the cashier added:
“I moved the egg crate from the supply room to the kitchen when I got in — it’s more useful if we have those at disposal whilst making the pastries. But I didn’t open it, honest.”
“Who did?”
“Me,” whispered Miss Jones, “I got in at around 10 past, and I opened the crate a few minutes ago to start on the cakes. He was just—” she worked her mouth, looking from me to Holmes, “There wasn’t anything over top, nothing covering him. I had to break the seal.”
“So it had not been opened since it was first filled,” Holmes concluded. “I see. We will have to examine the crate and its contents more thoroughly — I believe the constables are outside, now, and they will take you all to the station.”
True to his word, the sound of commotion crept upon us. The man huddled Miss Jones closer to himself, a set to his jaw, whilst the cashier inhaled shakily. I sent what I hoped was a reassuring look, before turning my attention back to Miss Croft. Tremors still wracked her frame, but it was clear that she was attempting composure.
Lestrade entered first. He took one sweeping glance, lingering on the innocent crate in the corner, before locking eyes with Holmes. “We’re taking the customers to the station for brief interviews. How the devil did you get here before us?”
“We have been here for over an hour,” said Holmes succinctly. He stepped aside to allow the constables to examine the scene, although his expression conveyed distaste. “The body was found a few minutes ago. I shall fill you in on the details later — I would like to examine it before your officers trample the evidence.”
“Crime seems to follow you, Mr. Holmes,” Lestrade murmured after a moment, and if not for the professionalism of his demeanor I would almost describe him as exasperated, “I hope this is a sign that you are fit to lead the investigation,” he then addressed the room at large, “If you kindly come with us, we will need some questions answered.”
As they began to file out, looking furtive and shaken, I watched Miss Croft leave. There she pressed her eyes closed. Tears streamed over her fingers, soaking through the flour on her hands and forming puffs of snow around the knuckles. I saw myself in the clench of her fists.
“Hang on a moment— Miss Croft?” Holmes spoke. Red-rimmed eyes met ours as she turned around, her posture straightening. They were green, but where the shade may have resembled spring fields it grew dull and stormy instead; it was as if she were trapped in a turbulent landscape beyond our vision before she returned to us. I saw myself, and could not look away.
“We will have to search your establishment thoroughly, you understand. It will also have to remain closed for several days whilst the investigation takes place.”
She swallowed once. “Yes, of course,” and seeming to remember herself drew a bundle of keys from her pocket. She handed them to Holmes with shaking fingers. “I imagine that will make things easier, for whatever you must do.”
He looked a note surprised, before regarding her soothingly. “Thank you, Miss Croft. We will get to the root of this, I promise you.”
And yet as she followed the constables, answering their inquiries dutifully, I turned back to meet Holmes’ eyes. I noted the crease to his brows after they skipped around the rooms, after he looked around for something, anything, a singular mark in the tiles or misplaced hair strand, the expression on his face when I met his gaze.
Holmes had not noticed anything amiss. The glimmer in his eyes was a touch gleeful, as it always was with a new, interesting case, but the lack of current evidence reflected in his tense posture.
I resigned myself to operating without the willow tea, and followed him.