Chapter Text
Was it possible to recognise a man from nothing but the sensation of his elbow jabbing into one's ribs? If so, what was being recognised? The elbow itself or the fact that the man the elbow was attached to was sitting close enough to do the jabbing at all?
John Watson jostled Sherlock Holmes awake all at once from his inadvertent slumber, and he jerked upright again to at least some form of attention.
Surely no one could blame him for nodding off on such a comfortable settee in this dimly lit and overly warm parlour of a dead woman, even if this was the second time it happened this morning. After all, he was being subjected to the interminable blather of both Inspector Lestrade, with his wholly incorrect interpretation of every individual piece of evidence of the crime, and the local constabulary, obsessing over the myriad irrelevant social consequences at hand.
Judging by the various disapproving faces around the room, including the one sitting beside him, that concept of life as it should be was merely wishful thinking.
"Are we boring you, Mr Holmes? If you would prefer to leave this investigation to the qualified professional police, feel free to make your way back to London."
"No, Lestrade. I am simply refreshed now to hear more of your voluminous thoughts so generously elucidated. By all means, continue."
"We don't need any more of your distractions or outlandish theories here. Mr Lyons was found standing over Mrs Trelawny's body with the knife that killed her in his hand. We already have the man in our custody. The case could not be clearer."
"Certainly it could not," Holmes replied. "On that, I can agree with you wholeheartedly. If you've no interest in my assistance, Inspector, I would ask you for one last indulgence before I gladly depart. Let us meet at Lyons' estate at noon, and we can finalise our understanding of the crime in question and the criminal at hand there and then. You may attempt to convince me of your position, and I, for my part, will make some small effort to convince you of mine. Are we agreed? I will take your resigned exasperation as acceptance. Excellent. Watson? Shall we?"
All the walk back to the inn where they were staying, Watson watched Holmes with a building anticipation.
"You're not showing all of your cards," he said, as ever far more bemused than frustrated by the obfuscation.
Holmes chuckled. "No, Doctor, I am not. Now, where can we find a little coffee? Something strong to perk us up and give us some energy. We have work to do on this grey morning."
"Work? What kind of work?"
"A variety of things, but first, we must march ourselves directly through the densest part of the forest hills, avoiding any and all travelled roads."
Watson's shocked face was worth the trek alone.
"Well, how else can we reach Lyons' estate early enough without alerting our dear inspector to our task?" Holmes asked with a wry smile. "I am up for suggestions. But over that cup of coffee, if you please. I just can't quite wake up yet from Lestrade's insipid prattle."
Two cups of inadequately invigorating coffee and three miles of an almost entirely uphill hike through the wilderness later, they arrived at the estate, somewhat worse for wear. A significant headache had Holmes' temples in a vice. As Watson rubbed at his aching leg, Holmes surveyed the house for entrances.
He did not bother to worry about being caught by the inhabitants. Tremont Lyons was famously demanding and stern to all others around him, and his long-suffering housekeepers and gardener took their chances to abandon his service when he was arrested for Belinda Trelawny's murder. The large house was empty and the grounds just as lonely. All the better for Holmes' purposes.
"Do you intend to tell me what we're looking for?" Watson asked.
"An open window. Barring that, a pickable lock on a door."
"And after that bit of breaking and entering?"
"I shall leave it for you to discover, Doctor."
Once inside via a challenging deadbolt on the back door, Holmes scanned each wall carefully with Watson close behind, trying to discern meaning from the method. The detective walked from one end of Lyons' home to the other, concentrating his interest on the man's secluded study upstairs. Holmes let his fingers glide along the spines of the antique books on the shelves, across the fine wood cabinetry, and around the displayed artworks. It was here, he was certain. All he had to do was find it.
"Mining has been lucrative," Watson said quietly, trying not to fully interrupt the investigation but it was asking too much of him to prevent comment on the sheer quantity of fine decadence on display all around them. Watson pushed open a door with a silver and opal handle to reveal the elegant balcony just off of the study. A breeze and the morning sun slipped inside as he peered out at the expansive view of the forest below. He left the door cracked for a bit more light.
"Lyons' mining affairs have made him a reasonable profit, yes, but his particular sideline interest is what made him the wealthy man he is today."
"What particular sideline interest would that be?"
"This one."
And Holmes turned an intricate engraving hanging on the wall ninety degrees to the right. The great oak pictured with its vast set of intertwining roots was felled and a latch behind it audibly clicked. With the soft sound of wood groaning and hinges shifting, a narrow section of the wall swung open.
"A secret room!" Watson dashed to Holmes' side at once and leaned in tentatively to peer into the revealed space. He was astonished, but Holmes was not. Everything here was precisely as expected.
"This is a laboratory?" the doctor asked.
"More a factory of sorts. Lyons is a fine artisan in some demand as well as an engineer, you see. There are no craftsmen of higher quality black-market explosive devices on this side of the Atlantic."
Watson's jaw fell open. "Bombs? He makes bombs in this place? How? Why?"
Holmes ducked to slip inside the small room, where a few narrow tables lined the walls with various parts and small machinery were neatly arranged, all the best that money could buy,
"The how is complex, but the why is simple. Tremont Lyons makes a remarkable amount of money quietly crafting explosives on demand for a variety of anarchist groups and the like both here in England and on the Continent. I have been in pursuit of the maker of these remarkable devices for over a year now. And of all the possible places, here in the distant countryside I have finally found him. Mind your step and do keep your hands to yourself. While everything else here is inert, the bomb you see on the workbench there is complete and armed as a security measure."
"My God! You have to stop this maniac, Holmes."
"Oh, he is already stopped. If I do nothing at all, Lyons will take the blame and the punishment for his lover's death, accidental though it was. But of course, I intend to connect him to all of his previous firebombings. Look at the exquisite workmanship in the timing system, Watson. I have only ever seen the mangled remains of these pieces of art. To see one in functional perfection is extraordinary."
"You will have plenty of time to admire it when you've defused it. You can defuse it, can't you?"
"Well, yes, of course I could disconnect the wires in the proper order and guarantee this exceptional device would never achieve its destructive potential. But do you see that slender glass tube there in the construction? Inside is an intensely concentrated caustic acid. As soon as the clock's movements stop for any reason, the vial will shatter, melting all of the intricate gears and machinery into a solid mass of unidentifiable and thus useless metal slag. I have two such fused wastes already in my possession at Baker Street, and they frustrate me every time I lay my eyes upon them. This is an extraordinary opportunity, Watson. Eleven separate cases across three countries could be closed in an instant by the preservation of the small device before us. I simply have to detach the detonator from the timing mechanism without disturbing the clockwork."
"That does not sound at all simple. You have your man, Holmes. You have everything else in this room. Why do you still need this device?"
"I can pin Lyons to some of the bombings, but not others. Not without this detonator."
"You surely cannot need all of them to put him away for the rest of his life, should he even have one given these crimes. This whole endeavour is unnecessary."
"Beside the point. I can have all of them, and I can have all of them right now. It would be far too much of a shame to waste this moment."
For all of Holmes' delight, Watson was not pleased by the situation in the least.
"Holmes, this is mad. Defuse the thing and be done with it. There is no reason to tempt this kind of danger for little more than personal pride. Don't do this."
"It is not merely pride, it is professional excellence and true justice served. It is one thing to know, Watson, but it is another thing entirely to be able to prove it. You are welcome to leave if you are uncomfortable observing. It certainly is the safest option if that is your only priority."
Frowning, Watson huffed a breath.
"I won't leave you here alone."
"I thought not. Good. You can make yourself useful. Fetch me that jeweller's loupe over there if you would, Doctor, so that we may have a closer look at our patient."
The thrill of exploring such a marvel of mechanics and crime was exquisite and Holmes savoured every second of it as he prepared. It was such a unique and rare pleasure as a scientist to dissect the brilliant engineering of a generational talent, in this case, a master of the art of bespoke bomb construction.
All Lyons' precision tools were at his fingertips, but even with them, the work was slow and demanding, particularly with his continuing obnoxious headache impeding the process. Behind him in Holmes' peripheral vision, Watson stood with his arms folded into a tight knot, radiating tension.
"You're not helping, Doctor," Holmes said without lifting his gaze from the work.
"Just finish it so we can leave this awful place."
That was not an instantaneous process. Deconstruction of a gifted craftsman's work could never be. He was dismantling machinery that was never meant to be taken apart, only obliterated. This was a duel between savants, and Holmes meant to win it.
It required some meticulous wiring work and the most delicate handling of the many sensitive fixtures, but at last the final conduit was rerouted into place. What he had to do now was indeed simple, the only truly simple part of the entire endeavour. He pulled at the small detonating mechanism slowly, gently. A slight more resistance than he expected gave him pause, but he twisted the device just a fraction of a degree further to the right until... just a little further... until... the detonator came free.
It lay there in his open hand, his pristine and damning prize, this perfect weapon made to kill, and indeed, it would fulfil that task. Holmes couldn't help but admire it, and himself for obtaining it. He would have his man for every last one of the bombing cases he'd been unable to solve. What lay in his palm was victory itself, and it was glorious.
But it was then that he heard it, the strange and barely audible hissing noise. No, sizzling. The stinging smell was when he knew.
"Holmes, it's smoking..."
"The acid!"
Freed from the detonator, the glass vial was exposed directly now to the explosive, and some unseen tiny damage meant its contents were slowly seeping out of containment. The unnatural noxious smell of it intensified as the acid burned through the protective casing of the dynamite.
"The vial must have cracked! We have but seconds. I'll try to stop it, go!" Holmes shouted without looking back at the doctor as he scrambled around the small laboratory space searching for water, something, anything to dilute the leak and at least attempt to prevent it from reaching the explosive. Using his sleeve to wipe the caustic away at the likely cost of his flesh was his next best worst option.
But strong hands fell on his shoulders and took fistfuls of his jacket to haul him to his feet. Watson shoved Holmes in front of him and pushed him stumbling into the study and out onto the balcony.
There was no time to think, much less say anything in protest or otherwise. They managed only a few steps past the doorway when the bomb detonated. The pressure wave of the explosion hit them along with the deafening sound and they were flung helplessly forward to the metal balcony railing and over it, tumbling into the air.
Time seemed to slow. Falling was an interminable wait, knowing the inevitable outcome. Holmes hit the ground hard on his left side. The impact knocked the wind out of his lungs and the side of his head against the dirt. Jaws and teeth clattered together. His shoulder dislocated at once. Crushed against his body, his wrist fractured, and a rib cracked along with it.
After furious motion, everything stopped. Everything excepting his lungs, which sucked in an involuntary gasp of as much grass and earth as air with his face pressed against the ground.
It took some time to do anything more than just continue to breathe. At length, Holmes managed to lift his head. With blurred vision and distorted hearing, he sat up slowly, wincing as he touched at the open wound on his throbbing temple.
Ahead of him, Lyons' estate burned, its top floor fully engulfed in flames with black smoke billowing upwards. Under the ringing in his ears, the expected roar of the blaze he found muffled to missing, and even his own voice sounded distant.
"Watson?"
Several feet away, Watson lay on his back, unconscious and unmoving. A pool of blood spread beneath him from the hidden but clearly severe wounds he sustained in the explosion. Wounds Holmes was spared only because Watson had shoved him out in front.
With difficulty, Holmes crawled close to lean over his friend's silent form. His fingers quivered and slipped in blood as he struggled to find a pulse in the doctor's throat. He tried again, pressing harder, repeating all that he could say, the only words that still existed.
"Watson. Watson, no."
Holmes' tight breath seized completely in his throat when Watson's eyes cracked slowly open. His lips moved as if to speak, but produced only silence and a few foamy red bubbles that appeared at the corner of his mouth.
Something soft brushed at Holmes' knee on the ground, and he instinctively looked down to see Watson's fingers barely moving there. He took Watson's hand at once and held it tight, but by the time he looked up to speak to him again, the doctor's eyes had already fallen shut.
A thin trail of blood trickled out of his mouth. He was as still now as the pulse in his wrist. Carefully, Holmes laid Watson's hand back down beside his body and he let himself fall backwards onto the grass of the lawn.
Above him, flames curled greedy blazing fingers toward the morning sun. Blood trickled down Holmes' temple into his hair, carving a path he could feel through the dirt ground into his skin.
This is worse, he thought. Dear God, this is worse than the last time.
Slowly he rose, struggling to stand. He swayed and wobbled as he walked unsupported toward the road. Inspector Lestrade would be coming this way soon regardless, but surely he would see the pillar of black smoke billowing up into the open sky and make some effort to hurry. Holmes would meet him on the road there. Or he would faint on the road there. It no longer mattered which.
His steps grew less coordinated and the world around him seemed as unsteady in his vision as he was on his feet. Although he was expecting its arrival, he barely noticed the approach of a carriage speeding toward the fire, and he stumbled as it raced by him. The wheels missed running him down by inches and he tumbled sideways instead, rolling into a ditch beside the road. Ahead, he heard the horses' whinnying in protest as the carriage skidded to a halt on the dirt.
For a time, he lay there, working at nothing more than slowly blinking bleary eyes, trying to clear them. Through the haze, he could just make out the form of the man he was waiting for running toward him and kneeling beside him.
"Mr Holmes! Bloody hell. What on Earth happened to you?" When Holmes did not respond immediately, Lestrade shouted over his shoulder back at a man still in the carriage. "Wilkinson! Come and help me! It's Sherlock Holmes!"
Holmes tried to speak, but his grasp on consciousness was tenuous now and ever slipping. "Watson," was the only word left to him at all.
"What about him? Is Dr Watson with you? Where is he, Holmes? Can you hear me? Holmes? Damn it." Lestrade turned and yelled back again. "Quickly, Mark! We need to get him to a doctor now!"
"Watson," Holmes said again, his voice nearly gone along with his breath. Everything around him began to fade into a black, silent void. There was no purpose left in fighting it.
Some unknown time later, when Holmes was able to open his eyes again, he found himself lying in an unfamiliar bedroom. His shoulder was freshly set back in its socket and his arm was wrapped and bound to his tightly bandaged chest. Above him, an aged, clearly retired doctor, the nearest and most quickly available medic, sewed the last stitches into the cut at his temple. The overstretched threads tugged at his skin. Laid and tied by overworked and arthritic fingers, they would leave scars.
In a chair at the foot of the bed, Inspector Lestrade leaned forward, at attention on Holmes' stirring. The stench of char still clung to the man's clothes, which meant at some point while Holmes was unconscious, Lestrade had gone to the ruins of Lyons' estate and he had seen all that was left and all that was gone. The inspector had cleaned up since then, but a smudge of ash still darkened the side of his cheek, a shadow gash.
"Mr Holmes, you're still with us. What a relief it is to see you awake."
It was not a relief to be awake. Every joint, every muscle, every breath hurt.
"Can you speak?"
Holmes' throat was parched gravel. Words emerged from it as mere whispers at first. The old physician answered for him as he held a small water glass to his patient's lips.
"Give him some time, Inspector. I am stunned that he is alert at all this soon."
"I am not. I know this man."
"Lestrade," Holmes managed to get out at last, and the inspector's tense rodential countenance softened.
"I'll say I've never been quite so pleased to hear your voice, Mr Holmes. You gave us the most terrible fright today. You are lucky to be alive, sir."
Lucky. Holmes shook his head what little he could. Of all the things he was now, lucky was not one of them.
"It was Watson."
"Watson? He... Oh, he protected you. Of course he did. Ah, I should have known. Dr Henning, could you give us a moment?"
"If you must, Inspector, but please do keep it brief. He's in a fragile state. I'll be just outside should I be required."
Once they were alone, Lestrade swallowed back the thick lump in his throat, steadying himself for the improvised eulogy he was so clearly about to deliver. If Holmes could have walked away from this situation, he would have. If he could have run, he would have. But with no choice left to him save to listen, he removed himself as much as he could by closing his eyes.
"We recovered the doctor's body at the estate, Mr Holmes. I want to tell you how sorry I am, for this is a tragedy. John Watson was a good man, honourable and, as he proved yet again today, a loyal friend. All of Scotland Yard will mourn this loss with you, sir. Over the years, we've come to consider the doctor almost as one of our own." The inspector's attempted authoritative voice faltered, then returned softer. "As we do you."
"I am as incompetent."
Lestrade inhaled sharply, but when he spoke, his words carried more regret than indignance.
"You should not blame yourself for what happened here, Mr Holmes. It isn't right."
"You don't know anything about this, Inspector."
"I don't know all the details, no. But I can manage a few meagre facts, I think. For one, I know that house did not just burn – it rightly exploded. And I know that Tremont Lyons happens to be not only a quick-tempered man known for his cruelty, but also a demolitions miner with over a decade's experience at the work. Now, you may not trust me to make many connections, but I do think you'll grant me that I am bright enough for that one. You did not make the explosive that caused this catastrophe. You were only there to suffer its effects. But that is not my only evidence. I have been acquainted with you and Dr Watson for quite a long while now. Certainly long enough to know that if you could have conceived any way at all to prevent this for him, you would have, no matter the cost. That you didn't means you couldn't, and that tells me all I need to know. What happened today was not your fault, Mr Holmes. I know that, and you should know it too."
Lestrade could hardly have been any more wrong, but there was no point in correcting him. Holmes did not have the energy to manage it in any case.
An uncomfortable quiet followed. In the colourless fog of Holmes' mind, no reply seemed suitable until a single clear thought finally shattered through, as brilliant and chilling as the winter sun. At last, he opened his eyes.
"But was it my fault the last time, do you think?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"It's what I thought, lying there afterward. 'This is worse than the last time.' It makes no sense, yet it is true. Somehow, I know it is true."
"What is true? I don't understand what you're saying, Mr Holmes. You must make an effort to calm yourself now. You are badly injured."
"I have no real evidence for it, but I am certain. The weight of this, of knowing... Yes, that I remember. Only the barest outline of a memory, but it is there, burned indelibly just the same. The details here are different, although I could not tell you in what way exactly. All I can tell you is yes, the last time was indeed. But the question now is, is it always? That I don't know. I can only speculate."
"What are you talking about? Is it always what? Your fault? No, Holmes, you need to stop with this. You have endured a serious trauma today, and you should try to rest."
"It sounds like madness to you, doesn't it? Nonsense on its face. But I know it to be true. I know it as surely as I know my own name, my own voice, even if I don't know how. The real question to answer is how many have there been? Because it was not 'the other time' I thought of, Inspector. No, it was very specifically 'the last time'. The last time I lost him. That phrasing by definition implies other occurrences. But if that is the case, and this event is merely the latest in a series, what happened in those prior occurrences? When were they? Where? Why and how would they be recurring at all, and how is it that I can recollect them now, even in such a limited capacity?"
"Mr Holmes, please stop. You really must. This entire line of thought is the product of a head wound, not your rational mind. I know it must seem real and logical to you now, this fantasy of possibility, but you are injured, sir, confused, and you are only upsetting yourself further. I beg you to rest."
Lestrade frowned and took a long moment before he continued.
"The pain you are feeling will subside in time. It will, even if you cannot yet bring yourself to believe that."
"What difference does it make, Lestrade? What difference in the slightest? Whatever useless emotion I happen to feel presently or at any other time is a petty point entirely beside the pressing matter at hand. It does not alter the mystery that must be addressed!"
"My friend, how you feel presently is the pressing matter at hand, and it is precisely what must be addressed."
Standing, Lestrade called toward the door.
"Dr Henning? Attend to your patient, please. He needs you."
The physician returned to the room with another bottle of antiseptic and a roll of fresh gauze. He squeezed Holmes' unbroken wrist and, displeased with his findings, filled a syringe. There was apology in his voice when he asked Lestrade to leave.
"There must be complete quiet for him now. I'll have to insist."
The inspector bowed his head quickly as acknowledgement and thanks.
"Mr Holmes, do rest well, sir. We will speak again soon, when you are stronger."
"I am strong enough now, Lestrade. It is only that I am making observations you are too timid and narrow-minded to confront!" Holmes shouted, but the stinging injection into the crook of his elbow made the first part of that statement instantly untrue.
The vehemence sustaining him fell out all at once with a heavy breath the instant the morphine hit his bloodstream. The physical pain eased, but never in Holmes' life had he felt as weak and powerless. It took a moment for him to even muster the energy to lift his eyes again, and by the time he did, Inspector Lestrade was gone. The physician pulled the curtains shut and departed too, leaving a weighted, voiceless darkness that closed in behind him. The room felt utterly empty, lacking now even light itself.
And, of course, the one man who was always so gifted at conducting it.
Tossing his bandaged head on a stranger's pillow, Holmes struggled to keep his dimming focus set on the elusive, provocative puzzle of again evaporating away in his drugged thoughts rather than the lead-heavy fact of alone crushing his chest and making it difficult to breathe. His heart physically ached inside his body. He had always believed that was a metaphor.
Sleep, when it arrived, was a welcomed abductor.