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Chapter Text

At bustling Euston Station, a warm summer’s evening had begun.

The hour nearly reached eight, well beyond the rush hour, and yet, those aged platforms were as busy as ever, teeming with passengers and their loved ones as they readied for the off. It was a kaleidoscopic society, giving one a view of the luckiest in life, from the gentry entering their first-class carriages to the poorest of men, like the odd busker near every exit onto London Town.

That was what the great station had become. With giant, dragon-like steam trains built with roaring furnaces, billowing chimneys, long bodies, conductors at every corner, and throngs of people, it was the heart of the capital, if a little manic. One could get lost in the crowds, forcing mothers to clutch their children’s hands and gentlemen to push their way to their destinations lest they miss their changeovers.

Euston is where our story begins, platform six, to be precise. On that unassuming Friday, the folk of London and visitors from afar flocked in their hundreds to that narrow stretch of concrete, providing no small work for the toiling porters. As they shifted the luggage from one carriage to another, men, women, and children hurried to the train waiting for them, and what a special one it was.

The destination was Scotland, a long, ordinary journey, delayed by many stops, yet popular, and they came by the dozen to find a seat. The passengers were varied, from third class to first, dim to highly intelligent, and none were more so than the Great Detective – or as he was better known in the newspapers – Sherlock Holmes.

“The more I observe, the more I understand the eight million people living in this great city of ours,” said the famed detective as he stared pensively at the crowded strip, occasionally jostled by the odd, overwrought commuter.

He did not mind, enjoying making little deductions about who they were, where they were from, what they were like, and why they were in such hurries. That was his pastime and profession – the cerebral science of deduction, and where better to study mankind than from such a spot?

To stand and observe, occasionally puffing on his favourite pipe, was practically an art form to him, although some begged to differ.

“My heart, it is rude to stare…” answered a softer voice from beside him, and Holmes, an externally hardened and emotionless man, glanced down with the fondest of expressions – one singularly reserved for the sole woman in London or the world, who could turn his head in a manner void of criminal interest.
Mrs (y/n) Holmes had a mysterious quality to her, one that drew her to him from the very moment they met many years ago.

She was neither titled nor exceptionally wealthy, well educated with a few good connections, but nothing to stir the aristocracy. She was well-dressed with a pretty face and a kind heart, but other than that, there was nothing inherently different about her compared to other young ladies her age, save for her peculiar intelligence.

And that was where the Great Detective fell to his knees for her. She, his wife, companion, and trusted confidant shared all parts of his life, including a bizarre love for the thrill of his adventures. Although, she was not so shamelessly enthusiastic as he.

“Do you not find it fascinating, my dear?” Asked Sherlock as he clutched a heavy suitcase and stared into her bright, inquisitive eyes, a bemused look on his handsome features. He so loved the flirtatious mental games between them.

“Perhaps…” (y/n) hummed momentarily, glancing off in thought before returning her gaze to the busy platform before them. It was true; the people made interesting observations, which she quickly became enthralled with when she noticed a slight commotion at the far end.

“That young lady over there makes for an interesting sight.”

“Yes…” Her husband agreed, seeing what she meant.

In the end carriage of their train, which they were shortly due to board, a group of workers hauled a simple, dark-wooded coffin into the luggage compartment, grunting and groaning from the weight of such a delicate operation.

That was not strange to witness, but the lady accompanying it was a rare beauty; she was evidently in mourning, fully dressed in black with a heavy veil over her face, but even so, her exquisite features were identifiable through the mesh. Her skirt suit was also impeccably tailored and of the latest style, giving her the air of a fashionable woman in grief – a peculiar mixture that one would only see in a train station.

That was not all. There was a plethora of others around her, some mundanely ordinary and others much more interesting, particularly one man. He stood adjacently to the grieving woman walking toward them in her high heels, and it looked as though he had stopped to catch his breath, judging by his laboured breathing and shining forehead.

“What do you make of the…shall we say…portly banker at the far end of the platform?”

“Do you mean the diabetic Freemason?” Said Mrs Holmes with a slight smirk, which matched his growing one when she read his mind almost precisely.

“And how did you come to that conclusion, my darling?” Asked Holmes, longing to understand her beautiful mind more than any other puzzle in the world. Not many intelligent beings could keep up with his prowess, and she did not boast of being a genius, but she saw things others did not, as did he.

“Well, if he is a banker, and I do not doubt you on that, Sherlock, given how he is dressed like a Bank of England clerk, he should be a rather affluent man, the kind who can afford trousers that fit,” answered the woman, speaking in hushed tones, so not to offend the man, who was indeed clad in a smart, black suit and expensive bowler hat.

“The fact that he keeps pulling them up like that, not to mention his obviously new braces, indicates a sudden weight loss, which most commonly occurs in the diabetic.”

“Excellent, Mrs Holmes…” His smile grew, propping the suitcase on the ground to pull her closer to his tall figure. He would excuse it by arguing that their surroundings were too much like Piccadilly Circus to stand so far apart, lest they get separated, but the surge of affection in his heart was to blame.

“Do go on. A Freemason?”

“He has a Masonic coin hanging from his watch chain,” said (y/n), her eyesight decent enough to see the golden chain against his waistcoat. There hung the unmistakable minted disc, moving frantically from his heaving body.

“Oh, and I think, from how he is swaying, he has spent a little too much time with his hip flask. A possible reason for his yellowish skin and painful liver.”

“Really, my darling, I couldn’t have done better myself,” replied the detective, and his praises left a pinkish hint on her cheeks. There was no prettier sight to Holmes’ mind, and he was flattered to realise that her anatomical knowledge had deepened since the last time her wits were tested.

“I see you have been rereading Watson’s medical journals.”

“They prove to be very interesting when I eventually tire of mathematics,” the lady answered quietly, placing her hand on her husband’s chest when her eye caught the large, mounted clock at the end of the train. “Speaking of the good doctor, I can’t think what is keeping him.”

“Neither can I, dear girl,” muttered Holmes’, but neither was disappointed or shocked. Their friend, the third member of their investigative trio, was infamous for his bumbling nature and clumsy ways; his lateness was expected.

It was a worry, however, as their arrival at Euston was for a specific purpose – a mission, one might say. Given its critical nature, they did not have time to spare for his mistakes. “And I can’t imagine where our host is. We were told to meet him here—“

“Mr Holmes?” Speak of the devil.

Just when Holmes was about to glance at his pocket watch, wondering where the young man who invited them on the train ride was, a soft, genteel voice called out to him. Turning around, lips clamped around his pipe, the mystery was solved as he and his darling wife saw an immaculately dressed, well-groomed young man smiling at them cordially.

“Hello!” Answered the detective, eyes crinkling as the young man elegantly walked up to them, having hurried along the platform.

“I was afraid you wouldn’t get here in time,” said the gentleman, formally titled The Honourable Roland Carstairs. He was young, wildly rich and respectable, and set to inherit one of the highest titles in the land once his father passed on. Truly, a fine young man to be in the company of.

“My wife and I were studying the faces of our fellow passengers…” said Holmes, glancing at the woman by his side before looking into the crowd again with a mischievous expression. “Fascinating hobby, and sometimes most enlightening.”

“Ah, yes. Mrs Holmes, isn’t it?”

“Indeed. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr Carstairs,” answered the lady when young Carstairs turned to her, offering a neat, perfectly manicured hand. She accepted it warmly, having heard so much about his influential family. “I believe our mothers were acquainted in their younger years.”

“Is that so?” He replied before Holmes reached for their suitcase, eager to get aboard.

“Lady Margaret is aboard the train, I presume?” Asked the detective; he was anxious to meet the formidable noblewoman, who was undoubtedly keen to return to their homeland – away from London’s rabble.

“Oh, yes. Mother is expecting you. I have reserved a compartment for you, your wife, and your friend, Doctor Watson,” said Mr Carstairs, which was most generous of him, although he had been the one to summon them to Euston at the last minute. “As a matter of fact, it’s in this coach here. Just ahead of the luggage van.”

“Day coach?” Asked Holmes as he observed the simplistic yet comfortable compartments through their windows, which a sleeper would not have had.

“Yes, the sleepers are all taken. Mother wasn’t interested in a bed so much as she was getting to Edinburgh.”

“So, naturally, it wasn’t very difficult to persuade her to travel in a day coach,” said (y/n) with a slight laugh, despite feeling her nerves grow the more she heard about Lady Carstairs. It was true that her mother knew her once upon a time, but that was a lifetime ago, and she had never met her ladyship – and her husband was not exactly trained in high societal etiquette.

“Exactly, Mrs Holmes. It had been opened to take on additional passengers,” answered Carstairs before he, Holmes, and the lady began walking down the platform toward the entrance to the carriage.

“So I observed.”

“I say, it was awfully decent of you to come, considering the fact I was so secretive about it all,” added the young man, who threw a grateful smile at the man and his wife, yet they were more than happy to help – some more than others at the whiff of adventure.

“My dear Mr Carstairs…” said Holmes, walking beside the man whilst his darling wife walked alongside, looping her arm through his. “There was no need for secrecy. I already knew.”

“You knew that Mother insisted on bringing the Star of Rhodesia with her to London?” The detective’s brilliant deduction brought a puzzled frown to the gentleman’s face because he had not told a soul about the jewel’s position in the capital.

The Star of Rhodesia, one of the largest and most valuable diamonds in all the world and his family’s greatest heirloom, was forever a target of theft and violence, so he asked for the very best protection. Sherlock Holmes could provide it, or so he thought – anything to get it home in one piece.

“And that while here, an attempt had been made to steal it,” Holmes answered with his usual deductive brilliance, and it was not atypical for his client to be speechless.

“Did Scotland Yard tell you that?” Asked Carstairs suspiciously, wondering if he could have known; it drew rapturous laughter from the couple.

“Oh, do not say that, Mr Carstairs,” said Mrs Holmes through her chuckles, knowing her lover’s love for scientific observation. “It would be a blow to my husband’s vanity.”

“The fact that your mother owns the famous diamond is common knowledge,” explained Holmes as they wandered the platform, and he made it sound so easy.

“She came down to London to attend the reception at Buckingham Palace and, quite naturally, wore the Star of Rhodesia. You want me to accompany you back to your home in Edinburgh. Therefore, an attempt must have been made to steal the Star of Rhodesia while you were here in London.”

“It sounds simple the way you explain it, Mr Holmes,” said Carstairs with a mildly bewildered smile, somewhat starstruck since he had heard of the man’s sharp mind.

“Thank you. If you don’t mind, we’ll wait here for our friend, Doctor Watson,” said Holmes once they reached the carriage’s door, but still, there was no sign of the good doctor and so close to the final whistle.

“I can’t think what’s keeping him. He’s never usually this late,” muttered (y/n) as she craned her neck to look down the platform for any sign of Watson, but there was no sight nor sound of him.

“Mother and I will be expecting you,” said Carstairs, shuffling on his feet before glancing at their bag. “Oh, could I take this for you?”

“Oh, I would be much obliged. Thank you,” answered the detective as he passed over the heavy suitcase, which the young man took onto the train, past the stout, moustached guard standing outside. “We’ll be in Compartment E.”

The couple watched Carstairs disappear into the carriage, leaving them alone again. As the seconds ticked by, the hands on the clock inching forward, they grew increasingly restless, wondering where Watson had gone. (y/n) could not help herself, almost willing him to appear as she spied all the entrances from the station building, and that was when she saw a familiar face – one she certainly would not have expected in such a place.

“Sherlock?”

“Yes, darling?” Said Holmes, too enraptured in her impish grin to notice their surroundings – a lamentable habit for one so astute. But she was genuinely radiant, even with the slight crease in her brows as she studied the mysterious man plodding toward them, laden with a few heavy bags, a coat over his arm, and a case full of fishing rods.

“Don’t look now, but I could swear Inspector Lestrade is coming our way,” answered the lady under her breath, not wishing to draw attention to themselves or the man in case it was not their old acquaintance.

“What?” Holmes, however, could not help himself, quickly looking at the man and realising it was indeed Lestrade, Scotland Yard’s finest detective inspector; he was an absolute imbecile at his job, but he had the tenacity of a lobster when it came to pinching criminals, which Holmes did not have the power to do.

They smiled at each other when Lestrade walked straight past them, never imagining the man and woman would happen to be on the same case as him – although he had never been particularly observant. He only stopped at the entrance to the carriage – the same as theirs, incidentally – when the guard asked for his ticket, forcing the inspector to drop his luggage and fish around in his top pocket for the small docket.

“Into the carriage, sir…” said the guard after checking it, and Lestrade was just about to step inside when a hand reached out and hooked his elbow.

“Well, well, well, look who’s here!” Said Holmes cheerfully, and (y/n) could not help but giggle when the severe and stout man gawped at her and her husband with an expression of utter surprise. “Inspector Lestrade!”

“Why, Mr ‘olmes!” Answered he, smirking at the detective with an authoritative air, but there was always a deep, mutual respect between the two men, just as Lestrade tipped his hat in the lady’s direction. “And Mrs ‘Olmes, too!”

“Are you taking a trip, inspector? Fishing, perhaps?” Asked (y/n) casually as she eyed the rods tucked under his arm, but it was obvious that she was prying a little – nearly as much as he was trying to hide his true purpose on the train.

“Bit of an ‘oliday…”

“Oh, that’s very nice,” replied the detective as he played along with his wife’s dull interest and Lestrade’s blatant tall tale. “Trout?”

“Eh?” His suggestion only confused the man, who frowned deeply and peered closer at the bemused man, only to understand when he finally gestured to his fishing rods. Mrs Holmes would wager good money that he did not know how to cast those lines and win a catch. “Oh! Yes! Yes!”

“Rather large rods for trout, aren’t they? Salmon, perhaps?” Holmes asked again, digging deeper with his trickery just to see the inspector squirm. He was a city man, Cockney through and through, and much like his wife, he suspected Lestrade was a fish out of water when it came to angling, shown by his total lack of knowledge.

“Well, as a matter of fact, I am going for the rest.” Still, he stuck to his story.

“You’re on a job for Scotland Yard, aren’t you?” Answered the lady teasingly, which did not please the inspector at all.

He hurriedly gathered his bags, rods, and other trinkets and stumbled into the carriage without another word, not wanting to say too much. She looked at her husband, chuckling with him at how pale Lestrade had turned under questioning, and even in his silence, he had revealed much. “I suppose we should feel all the better for having extra assistance on this case, ‘Lock.”

“Yes. Let’s just hope Lestrade is better at catching thieves than he is fish,” said Holmes through his quiet, deep laughter, drawing a wide-eyed smile from his wife as she shushed him.

“Sherlock, that is terrible! He might hear you!—” said the woman as she smacked his chest to try and quell his impish mockery, fearing Lestrade was only around that door, even if she did agree. But they were so busy joking with each other, standing idly before the door, that they did not see the next boarding passenger until he barged into them.

A stern, elderly gentleman stumbled into Holmes’ back with some force, almost toppling him over and taking his darling wife with him.

The man shuffled into the carriage whilst muttering to himself with all the cheeriness of a graveyard as the detective mildly glared at him. He, dressed in the smartest hat and clothes, had all the manners of a farmyard animal as he ignored the guards and the slightly winded lady.

“I trust this is the right carriage…” said the gentleman, only for Holmes to stand back with his wife tucked in his side, wildly gesturing toward the ticket officer.

“This is where we take care of the overflow, sir,” said the guard politely as he checked the man’s ticket. Everything was in order, and they still had a few minutes before departure, so there was no need to be so curt. “The porter will take your bags.”

“I’ll carry this myself if you don’t mind…” But the bespectacled man was as frosty as ever, all but shoving his largest bag into the poor porter’s hands when he reached for the smaller one under his arm. He seemed to guard the thing with his life, scowling at anyone who dared to come near it, and (y/n) felt sure she had seen his face somewhere before.

He and the porter disappeared onto the train as the conductor blew his whistle, the shrill, sharp noise indicating that it was nearly time to leave. They could not wait indefinitely, but it was a worry with no sign of Doctor Watson. As his wife continued scouring the platform for the bumbling man, Holmes swiftly and deftly unbuttoned his coat to reach for his pocket watch and check the time.

“Nearly ready to go, sir…” said the guard, who glanced at his timepiece after hearing the whistle. His was nothing compared to Holmes’, which was made from a high-carat gold with an exceptionally sentimental inscription on the inner cover. It was his wife’s gift to him on their wedding day, so he took it with him everywhere he went.

“Half past seven, eh?” He asked, noting the time before tucking the precious watch away

“We always leave on time,” answered the guard, who allowed the lady to enter the carriage first, then the toff, and then himself. The couple were deeply disturbed by the lack of Watson’s appearance but could not, nor did they want to, argue with the conductor as he shut the door behind them, ready for the off.

“Where is he, Sherlock?” Asked (y/n), and Holmes hated to hear the anxiety and panic in her voice. They would hate for him to miss the train, but it was looking more and more likely as the engine spluttered to life, breathing great plumes of steam and inching the brassy wheels forward.

“Mind your heads, sir…” They heard the guard behind them, but the couple did not care, poking their heads through the small window to continue staring down the platform for the last glimmer of hope.

It faded the more they inched down the platform to the tune of the chugging train and conductor’s whistle, and all they could see was the milling crowd and the odd person waving their loved ones goodbye. All seemed lost and pointless momentarily, with the last two carriages about to leave the platform when there was a tremendous row at the far end.

Two gentlemen pushed through the crowds with suitcases in their hands, running past anyone in their way as they chased the runaway locomotive. Despite their aged faces, the men were surprisingly light on their feet – perhaps due to the train’s idle speed – and they swiftly gained ground, nearing Holmes’ door until he could see their faces.

“Watson!” He shouted upon recognising the man in front – tallish, stoutish, somewhat clumsy, and certainly not used to sprinting. The man behind him was a stranger but no less nippy, striding down the platform as they raced to make it.

“Coming, Holmes!” Yelled the doctor, who clutched his fine walking stick as he ran, eyes suddenly set on his concerned friends.

“Oh my, Sherlock! He’ll never make it!” (y/n) gasped as she watched the ridiculous scene, and she swore the latecomers were too lumbering and bumbling to make it to their door, and indeed, they could not enter the luggage van. For all of Watson’s shouting, he could only run so fast, hindered by the various passengers obstructing his course, including one very haughty gentleman he happened to run into.

“I beg your pardon!”

“I beg yours!” Holmes and his wife heard them say, and despite the bump happening in the blink of an eye, the scowl did not leave the moustached man’s face.

Still, he was soon left behind, muttering about the rudeness of folk these days, when the good doctor and his companion neared the carriage’s door. Fortuitously, the guard was gracious enough to unlock it quickly, allowing Holmes to swing it open wide enough for Watson’s prominent figure to be hauled inside – just in the nick of time.

The same went for his friend, who, panting and groaning, accepted the hand offered to him moments before the train left the platform, although no one knew who he was.

“Thank you for your timely assistance,” said he politely, nodding his head toward Holmes, the guard, and the lady who had dragged him inside.

The unknown man was smartly dressed in clothes similar to Watson, who clearly knew him, or they would not have been so delayed. Yet, it was a relief to have them aboard, and once the door was firmly shut behind them, the detective turned to his exhausted friend.

“Really, Watson,” said Holmes with a slight smirk as it was like his colleague to cause such fuss, “aren’t you a little stuffed for this sort of thing?”

“Rubbish!” Answered Watson with a small scoff, although judging by the slight wheeze in his laboured breaths, he was not a natural athlete. “I’m the ideal weight for a man of my age.”

“Then, why, my dear doctor, are you so late?” Asked (y/n) without a hint of malice – more curiosity, which had undoubtedly grown since she married her husband. “And who is this gentleman?”

“Ran into an old friend of mine, Duncan-Bleek, major of the Fourth Indian Lancers,” said the doctor as his friends turned to the charismatic man. “Major Duncan-Bleek, Mr and Mrs Sherlock Holmes.”

He shook their hands warmly, and Holmes was always stunned to meet another of Watson’s many acquaintances, but he had to admit, the chap was an odd one for the army. He did not seem battle-hardened or sombre like most soldiers, but he was a doctor, not a fighter.

“How do you do, sir?”

“Delighted. I’ve heard quite a lot about you,” said Duncan-Bleek as the guard moved past them, not one to stand around and eavesdrop on passenger’s conversations when he had work to do.

“You were in India, major?” Asked (y/n) in her perfect, practised conversation whilst they followed the guard toward the compartments in their carriage.

The way was narrow and bumpy from the train’s movements, with barely enough room for one to walk down the aisle – maybe two if the persons were petite and skinny. Still, it was clean and comfortable, and they only had to endure a single night’s ride to Edinburgh.

“Retired fifteen years ago.”

“As a matter of fact, we were reminiscing about India and didn’t realise how late it was.” That did not surprise the couple, who followed the wistful doctor down the corridor as he recalled the blistering heat, exotic food, and seemingly endless days when he was a younger, starry-eyed man. “It stays light so long these days that we almost missed the train!”

“Yes, so we observed,” replied Holmes with a bemused smile before the guard called them over to their compartment adjacent to their client’s. They had much to do, and Watson did not even know half the story, so they left Duncan-Bleek in his room.

“Would you care to join me in a glass of whisky and a dash of soda before dinner?” The major offered before they left, which was, of course, most friendly of him.

“Good idea!” Said Watson over his shoulder, and Holmes ensured the fellow was safely inside his compartment, dreaming of whisky cocktails when his associate murmured under his breath… “What’s it all about, Holmes?”

“Did you ever hear about Lady Margaret Carstairs’ famous diamond, the Star of Rhodesia?” The detective enquired, taking Watson by the elbow as the three stood hunched in that narrow corridor. No one was about, but he was mindful of the walls having ears, and so, Holmes pulled his friends close, speaking barely above a whisper.

“There was something in last week’s talk about the old girl being in London with the bauble, wasn’t there?”

“Indeed, doctor,” replied (y/n), who chuckled at his lack of decorum and empathy.

They passed the first compartment, which she did not overlook and had its door ajar. Upon passing, she saw a veiled, black figure in the corner of her eye. Of course, it would be rude to stare, but she would guess it to be the lady in mourning they had seen earlier, and she did not seem averted to listening in.

“She’s on this train,” said Holmes, who became even quieter upon noticing the open door. “That’s why we’re here. To see that this bauble, as you call it, gets safely back to its fold in Edinburgh.”

“Sounds to me like a police routine job,” muttered Watson.

“That’s where you’re wrong, old fellow,” answered the detective, who curled a protective arm around his wife and helped her squeeze in when a passenger brushed past. “An attempt to make away with it in London was unsuccessful. The second attempt will, in all probability, be made on this train.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Well, it seems more than likely that the people who planned the first attempt will not be discouraged by one failure and will stop to ensure success the second time.”

“Sounds like Lestrade’s cup of tea to me,” said Watson after hearing all the details, and it provided enough glory and simplicity that he knew the grumpy inspector would accept it – especially if it involved a free trip up north. His suggestion made the couple chuckle, glancing at each other as they remembered the man’s ludicrous arrival.

“Lestrade? He’s on this train!” Exclaimed (y/n), much to the doctor’s amusement.

“Oh, is he?”

“Yes, and giving an excellent imitation of Izaak Walton,” joked the woman, sparing a laugh with her husband and friend as they reached the compartment of their esteemed clientele. Holmes did not even have to knock before the door opened and Mr Carstairs’ polite, smiling face could be seen, ready to welcome them inside to meet her ladyship.

They could only hope she would be so warm and inviting, and even more so, that her diamond would have a smooth journey.

Chapter Text

As the train pulled away from London, emerging from that gloomy, greyscale metropolis into the fine greenery of the English countryside, Holmes and his companions entered Compartment E.

They had to be on their best behaviour, comporting as demurely and respectfully as possible once they entered Lady Carstairs’ boudoir, and dear Lord, she was a remarkable woman.

With a distinguished air of authority, she carefully scrutinised the gentlemen invited by her beloved son and the slip of a girl who accompanied them. Her clothing was beautifully sewn and made of the most expensive materials, including a warm mink stole, which certainly had to be worth a hundred pounds, and her expression held a stiff upper lip only reserved for the very best of society.

Her ladyship was not fond of the constabulary and their penchant for all things rough and uncouth, but her greatest point of pride was the Star of Rhodesia. As much as she disliked external interference, Mr Carstairs convinced her of their necessity. However, she did not know why the girl had to be present.

“I thought it better to engage Mr Holmes after what happened in London,” said the young man to his mother, who did not seem happier for his explanation. If anything, (y/n) thought, it looked like she had a permanent bad smell under her nose, not that she would ever say anything so cheeky aloud.

“No doubt, you are an efficient person,” said Lady Margaret to Holmes, who heard the distrust and disregard in her tone but did not react to it, “but I don’t think there’s any need for a policeman.”

“Police?” Watson huffed as he found the old girl rude for all her wealth, status, and titles, yet his friends paid him no heed. They couldn’t, not in front of their esteemed clients, even if (y/n) was inclined to agree.

“How long have you been in possession of the Star of Rhodesia, Lady Margaret?” Asked Holmes as he sat beside his wife.

She was sandwiched between him and Watson with her hands folded neatly in her lap, using every bit of training she received at her infernal finishing school to appear ladylike. Across from them, the noblewoman’s almost disgusted sneer amused him, but he remained polite – always.

“Twenty-five years,” answered the lady as she adjusted her stole and frills, and (y/n) eyed it carefully, feeling like the poor animal was staring at her. She was not fond of clothes with faces, but that was by the by, so she plastered a soft, charming smile on her radiant features.

“It may seem strange to you, but neither I nor my husband have ever actually seen it,” she said, aware that it was daring to ask, but she was unlikely to get another opportunity. She glanced at Sherlock beside her, feeling rather cosy in the small compartment because they were packed like sardines.

“I suppose there’s no harm since we’re paying you to guard it.”

“Mother!” Exclaimed young Carstairs, scolding Lady Margaret for her cold frankness, which did not disguise her displeasure for the situation.

Still, it was in bad taste to be so emotionless and insensitive, not that she cared. She returned him an unbothered, blank stare as she fished around in her luxury handbag before pulling out a small jewellery box – and even that looked expensive. He unlocked and opened it, taking out the diamond in its smaller case like it was nothing more than tuppence, not the priceless treasure it was, handing it carefully to Holmes.

“May I?” Asked the detective, slightly apprehensive about holding the many thousands of pounds in his mortal hand.

“Do by all means,” replied Lady Carstairs, and Holmes opened the case.

Inside, he and his companions were astounded by the jewel they found; it sat there, glittering in even the dim light, round and large enough to snuggly fit in the palm of one’s hand, and that was merely the enormous centre stone.

That was set in platinum and surrounded by several small stones, all diamonds, of course, with a long, delicate chain trailing off so it could be worn around the neck. Although, from the look of it, the thing of beauty would weigh its wearer down, demanding attention from all who gazed upon it.

“Great, Scott!” Watson gasped, peering past (y/n) to look at the stone in Holmes’ grasp, and even the Great Detective was entranced by the sparkling jewel – and he was not one for gauche things.

“How beautiful…” said (y/n), smiling softly as was expected, but she did not know if she fancied having one of her own. Undoubtedly, she nor her husband could afford it, but if they could, she imagined such a treasure would be a target for violence. That, and she would be terrified of losing it on accident.

“What a remarkable stone…” Her husband agreed, tilting the case to admire how it caught and refracted the light.

“My husband gave it to me on our fifth wedding anniversary,” said Lady Margaret, who finally appeared anything but sombre now that she could sing her greatest possession’s praises. She soaked up the attention the famous diamond earned her, and even if she still disliked policemen, she never missed an opportunity to flaunt it.

“Four hundred and twenty-three carats, isn’t it?” Asked the young girl as her husband moved it closer to give her a better view.

“The original diamond was over seven hundred carats, my girl,” replied the lady before turning to her son with a proud smile that he knew and resented. Mr Carstairs often wondered where his mother placed more of her love. “Your father had it cut. Less ostentatious.”

“Ostentatious? It’s as big as a duck’s egg!” Muttered Watson incredulously, and thankfully, only his colleagues heard his disparaging comment. It had merit, of course, but they were polite and professional as always.

“Watson, please…” replied Holmes quietly as he slipped his arm from underneath his heavy overcoat.

(y/n) did think it was strange, swearing she saw a twinkle in his concealed palm as his hand returned to the Star of Rhodesia, adjusting its position in the case. He quickly snapped it shut after that, hiding the stone from view before she could see anything was amiss.

“Thank you, Lady Margaret,” said the detective as he returned the case to Mr Carstairs, who then returned it in the box. “We’ll try to be as unobtrusive as possible.”

“That would be a novelty from a policeman,” answered the lady in her haughty tone, her eye never straying too far from her beloved diamond when it was placed on the coffee table between them.

“Now, if you wouldn’t mind telling us where our compartment is.” Holmes rose from the cushioned bench with Mr Carstairs, facing him with a polite smile as his wife and colleague did the same. They were utterly following his lead, observing quietly whilst feeling relieved at the thought of their own space.

“Oh, I‘m sorry, Mr Holmes,” said the gentleman, pulling three train tickets from his pocket.

“Oh, thank you,” answered Holmes, who dipped his head toward her ladyship before stepping out the door. “Lady Margaret.”

“Goodnight, Mr Carstairs,” said (y/n) as she followed Sherlock onto the corridor. He returned the sentiment to her and Watson until they were outside, and the door slid shut behind them. Only then did Watson huff and roll his eyes, safe in the knowledge that he could now speak freely.

“Huh! The impertinence!”

“Whatever is the matter, my dear doctor?” Asked the woman; she quietly chuckled at his grumpy face, feeling her husband’s front pressed against her back – such was the lack of space in the corridor. They had to stand close, although maybe Holmes took some liberties when he rested his warm hand on her shoulder.

“She called us policemen!”

“And what’s wrong with being a policeman?” Asked a gruff voice out of nowhere, causing Mr and Mrs Holmes to look over Watson’s shoulder; the good doctor whipped around, too, to see an angry policeman glaring at his head.

Lestrade approached, seeming rather stern with his hands on his hips, and his frustration was directed at Watson, with whom he’d always shared a frosty relationship. They were equally infuriating to each other but often pushed together, thanks to their mutual friendship with Sherlock Holmes, who was happy to stand back and watch the scene unfold.

“Oh, hello, Lestrade!” Having heard a little about his glorious embarking on the train, Watson greeted him. “Where are you off to?”

“The inspector’s going to Scotland to fish for salmon,” said (y/n), fluttering her eyelashes innocently because she was merely the messenger, which was the story Lestrade had spun on the platform.

“Oh, really? The season does not start for another month, but you wouldn’t know that, would you?” Retorted the doctor with a smug expression. Like Holmes, he knew Lestrade was not an outdoorsman, which made his excuse more unbelievable and hilarious.

“Who says I’m going to fish for salmon?” Huffed the inspector, although his pink cheeks and warm ears were a dead giveaway for his embarrassment at being caught out.

“Who? Her!”

“Now, now, gentlemen…” said (y/n) firmly as their tempers began to flare; their glares were a little meaner, and she did not want to know what thoughtless things would be said in the heat of the moment. “There is no need to get so excited about a mere trifle.”

She also refused to be called her – that was the cat’s mother. It may have been funny to her husband, who she could sense laughing silently behind her, but that would encourage them. Luckily, their little spat was broken up when a lady came down the corridor, needing to pass their group, which, incidentally, was causing a bottleneck.

“Excuse me, please,” she said politely, squeezing past the men as they pressed their backs to the wall and sucked in their guts.

Holmes pulled his wife flush against him, resting his hands on her waist as the woman breezed past. He judged her to be not overly common, given her presence in the moderately priced carriage and decent enough clothing, but her voice gave away her lower-class background. She appeared pleasant enough, walking steadily to nearly the end of the corridor before disappearing into her compartment, glancing at them a final time before she did.

“Was it me, Sherlock, or did she seem rather curious about our presence?” Asked (y/n) quietly, glancing up at the detective as he smiled at her.

“Perhaps,” he replied, squeezing her shoulders soothingly since he did not want that pretty little head of hers to worry. “Although I should not fret about it too much, my dear.”

“If you say so…” She smiled, forever trusting in his judgement, and she supposed that woman was harmless enough. They still had a long night ahead of them, and with so many unfamiliar faces on the train, there was no telling where danger lurked.

Chapter Text

An hour or so later, after our companions retired to their compartment to freshen up, their dinner hour was upon them.

Watson went ahead, recalling his promise to his old friend, the Major Duncan-Bleek fellow, for their little tipple, so he pottered off. It left Holmes alone with his beloved wife, brushing down his smart suit before they headed for the dining carriage for the only sustenance they would receive that night – they intended to make the most of it.

As far as they were aware, the diamond remained in safe hands, still in young Carstairs’ possession as his mother headed to dinner. (y/n) wondered if she would find the food agreeable, but she would discover that sooner or later, touching up her flawless makeup in her delicate, mother-of-pearl compact mirror.

“Are your eyelashes particularly troublesome tonight, my darling?” Asked Holmes as he tucked his tie back into his jacket, becoming the dapper gentleman he always was.

He stood tall, cutting his usual handsome figure as he looked down at her, smiling fondly as the lady carefully brushed her eyelashes with her fingertip. Watching all the funny faces she pulled to achieve the right coverage was amusing – subtle but enough to elevate her natural prettiness.

“Sarcasm is not becoming, my dear Mr Holmes,” answered (y/n), glancing up through her thick lashes to smile and shake her head at him. She pretended to be unimpressed with a slight roll of her eyes, but he saw he heard her giggle, laughing, as she returned to separating them.

“I would never, Mrs Holmes, not with you,” said the man, and he told her nothing but the truth. A woman’s world was utterly unknown to him, and whilst he watched her nightly routines with all manner of lotions and potions, whatever she did was a mystery. “What are you doing?”

“Trying to look my best,” she replied, looking over her mirror with a mischievous expression. “With Her Ladyship around, I cannot let the side down.”

“Impossible, darling,” said Sherlock, who took her by the hand and pulled her onto her feet and into his arms. Looping her arms around his neck, she instinctively stood close to him, given the mercifully private setting, and his hands found her curves. The touch reddened her cheeks, which became a smile when he leaned down to her ear and murmured…

“You’re every bit as beautiful as the day I met you.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere, my heart…” said (y/n), raising her eyebrow because it was unusual – although not unheard of – for him to be so sentimental. Holmes never believed in words over actions, proving his deep affection for her merely by presenting her with those golden rings, but sometimes, he could still surprise his precious wife.

“In the past, it has gotten me everywhere…”

His lips tickled her ear, touch sliding up her waist as he enjoyed the small gasps that left her – the little squeals that made her writhe against him. If this were the only time he would get with her whilst, on board, he wanted to make the most of it, chuckling throatily against her cheek when she lightly pushed against his broad shoulders.

“Not when you are charged with protecting the bauble, as Watson calls it,” answered the lady, giving him a firm stare when he pecked her soft skin.

It would not do to be momentarily distracted and have the diamond pinched from under their noses – she did not even want to imagine what Lady Margaret would do – but Holmes appeared unconcerned, quietly confident in his abilities. He pulled back and gazed into her sparkling eyes, his smile comforting her more than anything, giving her the confidence to ask something.

“Speaking of which, my beloved husband…” Now, it was her turn to be cunning. Running her flat palms up the plain of his chest, her fingers found their way to the short, well-trimmed hair at the nape of his neck, soothingly scratching his scalp as she battered her eyelashes – all ploys to make him melt for her like no other.

Of course, Holmes had longed to learn all the signs, smirking as he held her waist again and waited for whatever she desired. If he could, he would grant it, but not without a small amount of teasing; he silently admitted to loving this minxish side of her.

“Who is flattering now, my wife?” Asked the detective, although she felt how he shuddered under her soft touch, arching into her womanly figure – he might be amused, but it was working.

“May I ask a question?” (y/n) smiled innocently, scarlet lips parting to allow her pinkish tongue to dart out and moisten them. She did not miss how his darkened gaze stared at that, Adam’s apple of his throat bobbing as he swallowed, but he nodded nevertheless.

“Of course.”

“The Star of Rhodesia, in their compartment…” said the woman, her exquisite features twisting into a minuscule frown as she tried to recall and make sense of what she saw. Him, removing his hand from his coat, placing it on the jewel, adjusting it, and then slipping his hand into his pocket later. It made her almost think that a bit of trickery had occurred. “I swear, I saw you—“

But she never got to ask. Before the question could leave her lips, he sealed them with his own, plucking her chin between his forefinger and thumb and tilting it to kiss her deeply. All the air left her lungs, leaving her head spinning and arms hanging loosely around his neck as he cradled her body, becoming weak at the knees.

There was a furious passion between them, led by him plundering for her honeyed taste as he moved much more deeply than usual, mainly since the compartment was not genuinely private.

They had no method of locking it; merely thin, veiled curtains obscured the view outside, restricting any passerby from seeing the Great Detective looming over his starstruck wife, filthy melding their mouths together. Anyone, including Watson or Lestrade, could walk in, but Sherlock paid no heed, lowly groaning as he guided her movements, cradling her jaw open as he pleased.

It was a desperate need for oxygen that pushed them apart, with the detective pulling away with a wild, primal stare of satisfaction when he looked upon his wife. Her cheeks were flushed, and her lips swollen, smudged with carmine, whilst her pupils were dilated with affection and desire.

If only she knew how that look made him wish for a sleeper compartment.

“Sherlock!” Gasped (y/n) once her senses returned, and her mind caught up with the whirlwind kiss. She stared at him in pure shock, not only by his utterly shameless actions but the fact he cut her off. It was unlike him in every way possible, but not unwanted, not when he held her tenderly.

“The walls have ears, my darling,” said Sherlock as he cupped her face and pressed a much lighter, softer kiss to her plump lips, grinning from ear to ear at how he rendered the most brilliant woman he knew speechless. “And it is a most agreeable method to safeguard our secrets, is it not?”

For a moment, she said nothing, practically pouting at how he refused to say anything else, but she supposed it was safest – if disappointing. Another kiss melted her frustration away, sighing into his mouth as his hand slipped to take hers, thatching their fingers together. His thumb found her palm, pressing against it twice when he pulled away to stare deeply into her eyes, and she knew.

She would take that as a yes.

“Yes, but you smudged my lipstick,” replied (y/n), already knowing they would be hideously late to dinner if her sticky lips were anything to go by. She dreaded to think what mess he had made, fuzzing her hair and getting powder marks all over his suit, but that was not the worst part.

That would have to be the twin ruby red stains around his lips, looking like a child after eating jam on toast. Her thumb brushed against his lower lip, smearing it onto the pad so she could show him, smirking at how he crooked an eyebrow and blushed.

“Red is not your colour, ‘Lock.”

Chapter Text

Having sorted themselves out after the little tryst, Mr and Mrs Holmes left their compartment for dinner.

Luckily, it was not far, merely the next carriage along after theirs, so, looking perfectly pristine and respectable, the detective led the way down the corridor with his wife following closely behind. They anticipated that Watson and his new friend would have dined without them, but that was all right – Holmes was not a man with a healthy appetite, anyway.

Upon entering the carriage, which was lined with comfortably plush booths and tables draped in white linen cloths, the waiter met the couple – a tall, thin fellow with slicked-back hair and a clean-shaven face.

“Mr and Mrs Holmes?”

“Yes.” The detective nodded, and the waiter showed them to their reserved table, which incidentally already seated Watson and Duncan-Bleek.

The gentlemen happily tucked into their food, content to have their backs turned on most of their fellow diners, but as (y/n) observed, the spot had the best view of the carriage, allowing her and her husband to view the packed table. She slid into the booth first – after Holmes gentlemanly offered it to her – sitting elegantly as the waiter passed them two menus.

“Ah, there you two are!” Said Watson politely as they glanced at the food, ranging from soup of the day to meat and potato pie – and it did not get more imaginative. The good doctor, however, went for curry as it suited his exotic palate, which grew to love the spicy dish after years abroad in the subcontinent.

“Try some of this curry! It’s excellent…”

“Steak and kidney pudding, please,” said Holmes to the waiter before returning his menu as he utterly ignored what his friend recommended. He, for one, was not so adventurous in his preferences, preferring to keep his food plain, simple, and quintessentially British.

“Make it two,” added (y/n) with a polite smile. Her preference was to keep things simple, and quite frankly, she was not such a picky eater, but that could be easily changed.

She quickly lost her appetite as she and Holmes swiped the napkins from the plates, ready to drape them over their knees, when a small card underneath the white cloth on his plate made her heart leap to her mouth. On it, there was the most sinister message in beautiful cursive, reading: ‘I would advise you to stop now, Mr Holmes’.

Holmes did not react, silently reading the message without alerting anyone in their surroundings, but that did not stop her hand from swiftly grasping his knee.

“Sherlock…” whispered the lady, knowing a murderous threat when she saw one, but the detective remained calm and collected.

“It’s all right, my dear…” Holmes replied lowly as he slid the note off his plate and hid it underneath the table. He patted her hand and unfolded his napkin as usual, leaving neither Watson, Duncan-Bleek, or anyone else none the wiser.

“Of course, the Bengal curry does not compare with that of Madras,” said the major as he and Watson enjoyed their curries, which, whilst not being the most authentic, retained a pleasing heat and flavour.

“It is the quality of the mutton that is the difference, don’t you think?” The conversation was dull and inconsequential to Holmes, who, after finding that note, could not help but stare at the faces of his fellow passengers to ascertain who left it.

Across the aisle, sitting alone at a table, the woman in mourning he had seen on the platform with the coffin drank a small glass of milk, waiting on her food. It was a small blessing; her veil was pulled away from her face for dinner, allowing him to study her exquisitely attractive face and gracefully cautious manners carefully. Holmes supposed she was a societal beauty, but there was an air of mystery and gloom about her that went beyond grief.

“The meat’s unimportant. It’s the spices that make the difference,” replied Watson, still lost in his world of curry as the handsome woman noticed Holmes staring at her.

The slight turn of her head caught (y/n)’s attention, too, who glanced up to see her husband staring at a younger, much more beautiful woman. She silently confessed to a flare of jealousy in her heart, returning to look at her plate since it was unpleasant to think her heart admired others, even if she logically knew it was purely for deductive reasons.

“Don’t you agree with me, Holmes?” Asked Watson, his voice snapping Holmes out of his curious daydream – thank God, (y/n) thought.

“What?” The detective frowned, glancing from the men’s plates to their faces to his expressionless wife, floundering from not listening. She offered him no explanation or council, perhaps a touch petulant after catching him leering at another woman – if it could be called that.

“I said we were discussing curry,” said Watson, to which Holmes analysed the orangish, creamy meat on their plates and turned his nose up.

“Oh, yes, curry. Horrible stuff,” he sneered, causing the gentlemen to blink and look at each other in surprise and mild offence.

“Oh, really? One man’s meat is another man’s poison,” huffed the doctor, and he happily returned to eating his curry, which tasted delicious, in his opinion. But Holmes was already distracted again, ignoring his friend to peer down the aisle to where the waiter was escorting another diner, and this time, she was much more critical.

“Whom are you staring at now, ‘Lock?” Asked (y/n), a hint of jealous childishness in her voice as she propped her chin up on her palm and stared at him. It was most unladylike, but she did not care, earning herself a small smile from her amused husband.

“Our client, my wife,” murmured Holmes, reaching under the table to discreetly take her hand, squeezing it gently as a reminder of her position. Despite his analysis of the other woman, it was always with cold, steely eyes, not the fondest gaze that he gave her before subtly gesturing to the distinguished woman nearing them.

“Lady Margaret…” muttered she, observing as her ladyship entered her booth and sat down, looking as regal as ever. Yet, most notably, she was alone, waited on hand and foot as she was handed a menu whilst finding her lorgnette in her handbag. “But where is Mr Carstairs?”

“There will be two of us, steward. My son will be here directly.” They heard the woman say as she scrutinised the menu.

“What do we do, ‘Lock?”

“Nothing, dear girl,” said Holmes to his troubled wife, who could not help the sinking feeling in her stomach as the minutes ticked by without the young man appearing. His mother did not seem overly worried, nor did the detective, resting a warm hand on her knee as he flashed her a gentle smile.

“We shall wait and see.” So, they did.

Dinner came and went, with Watson and Major Duncan-Bleek polishing off their curries and a generous serving of apple crumble and custard each. Mr and Mrs Holmes also ate quickly, savouring their steak and kidney puddings before the coffee was served, and their friends were generous enough to wait, so they all enjoyed it together.

And yet, in that half hour or so that passed, something gnawed at Holmes’ mind, troubling him as Lady Margaret ate and drank alone. Mr Carstairs did not arrive at the table directly as she told the steward; instead, her gaze darted to the door every few minutes, and eventually, she glanced at him with a questioning frown.

Just as another waiter brought the bill to their table, with Watson and Duncan-Bleek still bickering like children, Holmes finally decided to act.

“My dear fellow, I still insist the unpolished wild rice does make a considerable difference to a good curry,” said the major, his voice becoming a faint buzz in Holmes’ ear as he watched Lady Margaret peer through her lorgnette at him, possibly to check if her son had strayed to their table.

“I still can’t agree with you.”

“Take care of this for me, will you, Watson?” Asked Holmes as he tossed the bill to the doctor, who he was sure would settle it to be paid back later.

“Right you are, old fellow,” answered Watson as he took the paper, not batting an eyelid when the detective swiftly stood up and moved down the carriage. His instincts told him to check on young Carstairs, eyeing others, including Lady Margaret and the funny, old woman from earlier, as he headed for the door.

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” said (y/n) quietly to the men across from her as she swiftly slipped from their booth.

If her husband was off investigating, undoubtedly perturbed by the unusually quiet dinner, she wanted to follow, hurrying down the aisle with no shortage of attention. Like Holmes, she recognised a few familiar faces but ignored them, sneaking into the corridor without hearing the hushed voices behind her.

“That was one of them… And the girl…she’s with them.” A man looked at his wife; a dark expression clouded his typically carefree face.

Ignorant of that, (y/n) heard the steward shut the door behind her, but she focused on the shadowy passage she found herself in. A tall, lean figure a few feet away brought a smile to her face, seemingly chasing the darkness and tension away, even if he failed to notice her presence.

“Sherlock!” Whispered the lady, trying to be as loud but quiet as possible – an impossible oxymoron necessary during the hunt – as she tiptoed toward him.

“(y/n)?” Holmes frowned, turning around to see her slinking up to him with all the stealth and poise of a panther. Unsurprised that she followed him, he did not push her away, yet it was always a worry to lead her into danger. “Do you not want to remain in the dining carriage?”

“What? With Mr Carstairs missing and you on the scent? Certainly not,” replied (y/n) firmly, grabbing his jacket sleeve like a little girl to show she would not budge.

“Very well,” said her husband, who removed the hand on his arm and instead held it in his hand, smiling at her resolve. “Come along, then.”

Leading his wife past numerous compartments, Holmes strode quickly to E. That woman – the grieving, brunette beauty – was also nippy on her feet, lingering near her open doors as they walked along, staring at them curiously. Still, they ignored her, although maybe (y/n)’s expression was slightly scarier than usual – until they saw Lestrade loitering like a lemon, looking utterly lost.

“Was young Carstairs in the dining car with you?” Asked the inspector, his stern face twisted into a concerned frown once they reached him.

“No. Lady Margaret came in alone,” said Mrs Holmes as the sinking feeling returned to her gut. She did not like the crease in Lestrade’s brow and observed a slight stiffening of her husband’s back – imperceptible to most, but she knew him too well.

“Well, I was in my compartment just now, having a bite to eat, and I heard a crash in here,” answered Lestrade, whose words caused a stab of alarm in Holmes. He instantly reached for the door handles of the compartment, knowing his instincts were correct, only for the man to admonish him.

“It’s locked,” said the inspector, having already tried the handle. “I knocked, and there was no answer.”

“So, you just stood there, twiddling your thumbs? Brilliant!” Answered Holmes curtly, his anxiousness to enter the compartment failing his usual politeness and collected self. Fortunately, however, at that moment, the guard he had met when boarding the train happened to pass, minding his duties when the detective caught his attention.

“Attendant! Can you please unlock this door?”

“I’m sorry, sir—“

“This is Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard,” said (y/n) when the attendant momentarily hesitated, not wishing to break firm regulations. It was an invasion of privacy to enter a purposefully locked door, but the title and air of authority were enough weight to convince the man, who decided it was not worth arguing with the toffs.

“That’s all right. You can open it.”

With Lestrade’s permission, the steward thrust his skeleton key into the lock and quickly slid the doors open, allowing the inspector to go first. He pushed through the thin curtains, which were enough to obscure his view at first, but when Lestrade entered Compartment E, closely followed by Mr and Mrs Holmes, they found a disturbing scene.

After flicking the light switch, they saw upon the floor the body of Mr Roland Carstairs, crumpled like a sheet of paper beneath the table with death’s cruel agony still etched on his young, handsome features. Those crystalline blue eyes were still open, indicating his death was swift and painful, yet there was no great pool of blood or any sign of reckless violence – very much like he merely collapsed and passed away.

“Oh, my…” muttered the lady as she witnessed the corpse, which had Lestrade instinctively kneeling to check Carstairs’ pulse, not that he would find it. Brushing past his wife, who watched from above, Holmes had a closer look, too, frowning deeply as the inspector mumbled…

“Dead.”

“Murdered,” argued Holmes as he collected a critical clue for that argument, and it only enlightened his worst fear – what he had been afraid of from the moment they had boarded the train and left the young man alone.

“That’s a bit quick, isn’t it? Even for you!” Said Lestrade as they rose again, his brows flying to his hairline since there was little to suggest violence or anarchy in the compartment. Still, Holmes showed him a familiarly ornate box, opening its lid and the small drawer beneath it to ensure the blasted thing was empty – and it was.

“Sherlock, is it?” Asked (y/n), nudging her way between the gentleman as her husband searched from the precious stone, merely to come up empty-handed – as she feared, too.

“Yes…” answered Holmes dejectedly, sliding the little drawer shut without hiding the ire and disappointment in his baritone voice. “The Star of Rhodesia was in this box, not forty-five minutes ago.”

“How do you know?”

“We saw it,” replied Holmes, unabashed by the ever-doubting Lestrade, his incessant questioning, not to mention his harebrained ideas.

“It might be here somewhere,” said the inspector, glancing around the seats and the Carstairs’ luggage to see if the diamond had accidentally fallen from its box in the commotion—as if it were likely.

“It is futile to search for it, inspector. The killer has it,” said Mrs Holmes quietly as she placed a comforting hand on her husband’s arm, knowing he was frustrated to have failed his client so wholly, even if it was unfair to punish himself.

Then an audience arrived; having had his fill of curry and crumble, Watson stumbled down the corridor with his friend in tow, wondering where he and his charming wife had gotten, too. Of course, the good doctor was utterly oblivious to the body on the floor, waltzing into the compartment with a complacent, if well-meaning, smile upon seeing the sullen Holmes’.

“Ah, there you are, Holmes!” He greeted the man, with Duncan-Bleek loitering in the corridor, although playing bridge or whatever other game was the last thing on the detective’s mind.

“Take a look at this body, will you, Watson?” Said Holmes, and finally, Watson saw the horror he had miraculously missed, gasping upon seeing Mr Carstairs’ corpse.

“Body?! Great, Scott!”

“How do you know it’s murder, Mr Holmes?” Asked Lestrade as the doctor knelt by the body and examined it, checking the man’s limbs, torso, eyes, breath, and other general anatomy. Holmes oversaw him, hoping for some telling clue, but he was not the only one.

“Murder?!” Gasped the major, who had slipped into the compartment like an old busybody after hearing about a real-life crime. “Ooh, I say!”

“Who are you?!”

“Major Duncan-Bleek. A friend of Doctor Watson,” answered (y/n) simply, noting how the army man stared at the body with a haggard, disturbed expression, which she thought was odd, given his wartime Indian background. Yet, Lestrade’s blathering stole her from the idea of who could accept another face onboard, but Holmes had yet to answer him.

“But what makes you so sure it’s murder, Mr Holmes? The door was locked!”

“Every attendant has a key,” replied the detective as he turned around to face the moustached guard waiting in the doorway, who blinked innocently, even as all eyes fell on him. It did not necessarily mean he was a murderer, but perhaps he played a part…

“Did you open this door for anyone in the last hour?” Asked Lestrade, utilising his Scotland Yard pomp and authority.

“No, sir.”

“Was the key ever out of your possession?” Asked Holmes, studying the man’s face carefully for the slightest hint of a lie, but the steward was earnest and wide-eyed, shocked to have found himself in a murder mystery on a regular trip to Edinburgh.

“It never is, sir. It’s on a chain.”

“Looks to me like heart failure,” said Watson as he finished his brief analysis, but it was merely a glance at the body. He would need hours, if not days, to properly determine the cause of poor Mr Carstairs’ death, and that was not his duty anymore.

“Any marks of violence on the body?” Asked Holmes as the gentlemen returned to looming over the body.

“None that I can see.”

“Seem to have missed it this time, didn’t you, Mr Holmes?” Sneered Lestrade with a cocksure grin despite having regularly benefitted from the man’s deductive expertise over the years.

Still, Holmes took it all in stride as he took up the diamond’s box again, looking thoughtful for a minute before replying. It was just as well that he did; a moment later, the inspector would receive the sharp edge of (y/n)’s tongue as she wanted to tell him just how brilliant her dear husband was – more so than him.

“Possibly. Still, if it was a natural death, it came at a very convenient time, didn’t it?” That shut the inspector up, pursing his lips since the man made an excellent point, gesturing to the looted gem, which would not just walk off on its own.

“Indeed. Either way, we look at it, someone came in here and took the Star of Rhodesia, leaving Mr Carstairs here on the floor and the door locked behind them,” said the lady thoughtfully – so lost in the predicament that she did not have any approaching footsteps.

Only when she and the men heard a small, almost inaudible gasp they whipped around to see a highly unimpressed, baffled gentlewoman standing in the doorway. Lady Margaret was taken aback to find practically half the train in her private compartment, including some common folk she had no business with, and her puzzled frown soon twisted into pure displeasure.

“What does this mean?” She demanded to know, focusing her stern gaze on Holmes and his queer companions.

There were no words to tell her what had occurred, so the detective began by showing her the empty box, an expressionless stare on his countenance as hers became troubled and heartbroken. Her ladyship gasped and stared at the bare, velvet lining as Holmes silently braced himself for her wrath.

“The Star of Rhodesia! It’s gone!” Gasped the lady as she wrenched the box from his hand. “You were supposed to guard it! My son employed you! That’s why I left it with him. Where is he?!”

Again, the gentlemen were silent, merely stepping aside slightly to unobstructed the woman’s view. Lady Margaret peered between their bodies to see her son lying on the floor with his pale, ghastly expression, and it was no wonder that a harsh gasp tore from her throat. Immediately, she began to cry, sniffling quietly from shock and immense sadness as (y/n) swiftly moved to comfort her.

“Oh, I am sorry, Lady Margaret,” said she as she delicately placed her hands on her ladyship’s forearms, trying to be as proper and polite as possible. “It was thoughtless of us to let you come in here like this. Do you have an empty compartment?”

“Yes,” answered the attending steward, who moved into the corridor to show them the way.

“Then, I think it is best to step outside. Please, Lady Margaret, if you wouldn’t mind…” said (y/n), who followed closely by her husband, manoeuvred the sobbing woman away from the body of her son.

She seemed worlds away from the stoutish, stern woman they had met earlier, the sadness leaving her on the same plane as her fellow man – for all her wealth, Lady Margaret still loved, lost, and grieved like the poorest man in London.

All Lestrade, Watson, and Duncan-Bleek could do was watch solemnly as she left, quietly offering their deepest condolences, not that she would ever hear them as the noblewoman stepped into the empty compartment shown by the steward.

“You will have some privacy here,” said Mrs Holmes kindly, offering her handkerchief to the lady, which was not silk or satin, but she accepted it nonetheless.

“Thank you, child.” Was all she said, biting back tears under others’ scrutiny as if she were afraid to show weakness. It was common amongst the upper classes – although (y/n) did not quite understand why. It was understandable for her to weep, but she and Holmes did not pry anymore.

“Come, (y/n). Let us leave Lady Margaret in peace,” said the detective, nodding silently before pulling his wife into the corridor again.

He ensured the thin curtains and doors were firmly closed, not wishing any passerby to stare at the poor woman like a sideshow attraction, but undoubtedly, he would talk to her again once the initial shock passed. Alone again, although their associates were acutely nearby, (y/n) sighed in the comforting presence of her husband, whose warm hand reached for the small of her back as he smiled at her, knowing the night was taxing.

“I sympathise with her,” said the lady quietly so as not to alert their grieving client. “I cannot imagine the pain of losing a child in such a way.”

“Yes, it’s horrible…” answered Holmes, who, if they were alone, would have soothed her in his arms, but the attendant by his elbow proved troublesome. Of course, he was only doing his duty, so the detective focused on the case, turning his steely gaze to him with his usual superior authority.

“We shall need to speak to the conductor, and no one is to leave this carriage…” he said grimly, his dark tone leaving no room for argument. “There is a killer loose on this train.”

Chapter Text

Lady Margaret was left in solitude, and the detective and his wife swiftly moved on.

Holmes’ face was stern and serious as he met with his associates once more, facing Lestrade, who had just switched off the light and closed the door to Compartment E. No one could disturb Mr Carstairs’ body, and he would ensure that, noting how the moustached steward followed the couple down the corridor.

“I’ve sent for the conductor, Lestrade,” said Holmes as the group met in the middle, with (y/n) by her husband’s side and Watson and Duncan-Bleek with the inspector. The detective had spoken to the attendant, who sorted out everything official and necessary for their investigation. “You’ll want to talk to him, and I’ve asked that no one be allowed to leave this coach.”

“Oh, thank you, Mr Holmes,” answered Lestrade, who, despite all his snide comments about the man, wished to confer with him and his theories – given he did not know where to start. “Shall we use my compartment?”

“Thanks…”

With that, Holmes pulled his wife into the small room, hearing Lestrade talking firmly to the attendant outside about locking the door to Compartment E. He forbade anyone unknown from entering it, sounding almost worthy of his weighty Scotland Yard title as the couple settled on the vaguely comfortable bench across from the inspector’s luggage.

“Sorry, old man. Official police business…”

They heard Watson say to his old friend as they stood in the doorway, muffled only by the slight racket Lestrade made as he shuffled inside with them. He plonked himself beside his bags and rods for that so-called fishing trip, sighing deeply as (y/n) settled in beside Holmes, delighted at the cosy proximity.

“That’s all right. I’ll catch up with you later,” answered the major before he plodded off toward the first compartment behind the dining carriage. That left Watson alone to wander inside, too, closing the door after him before Holmes directed him to sit on his left.

Nothing happened momentarily, merely the gentle rock of the moving train and distant voices from fellow passengers. Then, after everyone in the compartment had settled, a knock came at the door, and a man entered to the deep, resounding growl of Lestrade’s come in…

It was the conductor, as Holmes requested. He had practically bolted down the train from up ahead after hearing of the terrible events in the day carriages, appearing and acting meek and mild as he stepped into a somewhat intimidating audience.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” said the conductor, remarking on the remarkably calm, famous detective, the portly gentleman and girl beside him, and the frowning policeman in the corner.

“Good evening, sir. Do come in and sit down.” There were a lot of faces to confront, but they were not unwelcoming, beckoning the conductor inside to sit with Lestrade to begin their conversation.

“You say that we don’t stop until we reach Rugby?” Asked Lestrade, beginning quickly without any friendly talk. He was not a rude man but rather impatient to understand the facts, and with the train line employee beside him, it was easy to start the interrogation.

“That’s right, sir.”

“Good. We’ll have a thorough search of the train made before that time,” said the inspector, satisfied with the conductor’s answer, although Holmes barely reacted. He sat back with his arms folded and legs crossed, resting his crown on the headrest as he pondered what they knew. One thing was sure: without serious detection, Lestrade would never find the Star of Rhodesia in time.

“I think it is more of a case of finding the murderer, and you will find the diamond, inspector,” answered (y/n) calmly, almost wishing she could rest her head on her husband’s shoulder as they approached the later evening.

It had already been a challenging day, and she would undoubtedly get sleepy, yet now was not the place or time. So, she sat upright, perhaps a little closer to Holmes’ side than what was considered proper, but no one said a word, more concerned with her bandying of the word ‘murderer’ so casually and assuredly.

“But we don’t know it was murder, Mrs ‘Olmes!” Argued the inspector, so sure that a killer could not sneak in under his nose and magic the young lad’s demise. Yet, Holmes disagreed, swiftly coming to his wife’s defence because, to his mind, her logic was perfectly plausible.

“Consider the facts, Lestrade,” said the detective calmly, and (y/n) would silently admit that he looked too handsome for his good under the lamplight. “Young Carstairs was dead when the jewel was taken. Otherwise, he would have put up a struggle, and there were no marks of violence on the body.”

“And if he died a natural death, we must assume that the thief miraculously stumbled on the body and saw his chance,” added the lady thoughtfully, knowing such a fortunate happening was unlikely.

She was so deep in puzzling that she never saw her husband's proud smile – the expression sitting on his features for only a second when he heard her brilliant mind working aloud.

“Exactly, my dear, and that is outside the realm of probability,” said Holmes as his stare returned to Lestrade, who frowned upon listening to their rational argument. “No, Lestrade. In this case, nothing was left to chance. That’s why my wife and I say, find the murderer, and you will find the diamond.”

“How do we know the thief didn’t leave the carriage before we discovered the body?” Asked the inspector—just to be difficult as he squinted suspiciously at the couple. Their joint ingenuity always ruffled his feathers.

“The attendant was in the corridor the entire time, and he’s certain that no one passed into the dining car,” answered the detective, quite matter-of-factly as the conductor stared at him quietly, judging his confident cleverness. Meanwhile, Watson puffed on his pipe, listening to everything said and making his judgements – particularly on Lestrade’s obtuseness.

“The door at the other end leads into the luggage van.”

“Which is always locked,” said the conductor, which left the inspector huffing since he looked increasingly disproven. Still, he was as stubborn as a bull, making opening his trap again difficult.

“But we still can’t prove Carstairs didn’t die naturally!”

“You found no marks of any kind on the body, Watson?” Asked Holmes, turning to his friend, who might have been comparable to a brick in detective work but was a quality physician.

“No, none of any significance.”

“Not even a scratch?” (y/n) frowned, surmising that there had to be something unnatural about the gentleman’s end—and it did not necessarily have to be overtly violent. She peered past her husband’s body, noting the doctor’s furrowed brow as he tried to recall his examination.

“Well, there was a small spot of blood on his collar—just a mere speck!” Replied Watson after thinking momentarily, having written off the minuscule detail as insignificant.

“That’s what I was referring to,” said Holmes, who, along the same lines as his beloved wife, knew they were up against something tiny yet deadly.

“Do you mean that scratch killed him?” Asked Lestrade, ever-doubting once again.

“It’s possible that the poison that went into the wound did.” The detective’s answer sent a few brows flying, stunning the men at such a theory, but it made sense to him.

“Poison?!”

“We can’t tell that without an autopsy,” Watson told the baffled inspector, which satisfied neither him nor Holmes, who had no method of proving the coup de grâce on the moving train. Even so, once they reached Scotland, they would have a difficult task to prove it, not that Lestrade let that small, niggling detail stop him – nothing ever did.

“Have you got a list of the passengers in this carriage?” He asked the conductor, who quickly obliged and produced a small, pre-prepared note.

“Yes, sir. There you are, sir.” Lestrade received the list gratefully and unfolded it to see who he could name as his suspects. If the murderer was limited to the penultimate carriage, he should have little difficulty narrowing them down, yet there were still a fair few to interview.

“Major Duncan-Bleek…” said the inspector as he read the first name in Compartment A. “That would be your friend, doctor. The next compartment is empty…”

“That was where we took Lady Margaret after the murder,” replied (y/n) calmly as the compartment was empty no more. She also did not see her ladyship as the killer of her son, but that was for Lestrade to decide. “You remember, inspector…”

The man did not grace her with a response, looking mildly annoyed with the complexities of the case, but he returned to the list without complaint, urged on by a rather impatient Holmes.

“Vivian Vedder…Inspector Les—that’s this one,” muttered the inspector as he moved down the list, passing over the woman Holmes and (y/n) had seen in the nearby compartment. She was the grieving brunette beauty who sat across from them at dinner, and indeed, for all her elegance and good looks, there was something to her that was not so nice.

“Lady Margaret Carstairs and The Honourable Roland Carstairs. Professor William Kilbane…”

“Kilbane?” Asked (y/n) suddenly, her pretty features coming alive when she recognised the name, which stirred up old memories. The gentlemen looked at her curiously, taken aback by her outburst, and it had Holmes sitting a little straighter, wondering if the old professor was not what he seemed.

“You know him?” He asked, peering down his prominent nose at her as the lady looked up with a small, pensive expression.

“Not personally, but I am sure my father did,” answered she, stroking her chin so thoughtfully it was almost comical. Yet, she could not help but feel a strong sense of nostalgia, remembering the smell of old books, chalk, and whiskey, the sound of shuffling documents and the scratching of a chalkboard as formulae were written upon it in an old university classroom – the ones she used to find herself in after begging to accompany her father to the city where he worked.

“He’s a professor of mathematics. I am certain of it.”

“Curious…” said Holmes as he patted her forearm, offering her a smile that hid the inner workings of his mind. Her insight gave him pause, but it was merely speculation – nothing Lestrade was interested in as he continued reading the list after the interruption.

“Mr and Mrs Alfred Shallcross. Mr and Mrs Holmes and Doctor Watson…” read the inspector, glancing up at the three companions sitting across from him, who, undoubtedly, were above suspicion.

“That would be you three. I think I shall ask a few questions! Vivian Vedder…” His eyes fell on the first name they saw—and, of course, it belonged to the solitary, single lady aboard the train. “We’ll start with her, whoever she is!”

With their little think-tank conversation over, the gentlemen rose from the benches, with Lestrade being the first to open the doors. He then looked at his list again under the dim corridor lights to see where he was headed, looking both ways to ensure no one was roaming the carriage. “Vedder… Compartment C. Ah, here we are.”

The room was only a few steps away, and with the conductor by his side, there was no question of the inspector’s authority as he knocked on the door. He waited a few seconds before knocking again as Holmes and his associates crowded around, but it seemed no one was home. “Empty!”

Still, the door was thankfully unlocked, and despite it being a lady’s quarters, Lestrade had no qualms searching it without her presence, ducking into the compartment with the conductor.

“His deductions are simply stellar,” muttered (y/n) as the men entered the compartment, leaving her, Holmes, and Watson in the corridor.

Her husband smirked upon hearing her, taking the liberty of holding her waist with the excuse that the passage was too narrow, not too, even though he could have squeezed past if he genuinely wanted to. Perhaps it was the thrill of looming over her in the cramped space that addled his decency, but Watson said nothing – he did not even realise their proximity as he mumbled to his old friend.

“I say, Holmes…” whispered the doctor as the detective squeezed his wife’s hips and stepped back to maintain proper appearances. “Are you going to let Lestrade handle this thing by himself?”

“Well, after all, he does represent the official police,” replied Holmes, who remained keenly aware that he had no real power for arrest and justice, merely the tools and faculties to discover the truth. Lestrade would always take the lead and spotlight, even if he were an utter imbecile at his job, making Watson scoff.

“With him doing the questioning and looking under the seat cushions for diamonds, we won’t have any more room than we do now. I could do it better myself!”

“Why don’t you, old fellow?” Said Holmes, half-joking with his colleague since he seemed so cocksure and confident. Watson's expression of pure surprise was enough to take the joke and run with it.

“Huh?!” The doctor gasped, only for (y/n) to smother a giggle and warmly pat his arm.

“It makes sense, doctor,” said the lady, smiling brightly as the man appeared to consider their suggestion seriously. He was neither a detective nor policeman, with limited knowledge or proclivity for worming the truth out of others. Still, it was worth the little trickery if it got him out of Holmes’ hair whilst they questioned Miss Vedder.

“The more ground we cover, the closer we get to revealing our murderer!”

“I think I probably will!” Came Watson’s delighted reply, so the couple left him alone to entertain himself, disappearing into Compartment C. Of course, they knew he was an incorrigible bungler. Still, indeed, the man could not go wrong here – it was such a simple task.

Still, as the true detective and his wife got to work, the good doctor muddied the waters. Didn’t he always?

Chapter Text

With Watson off pottering in the other compartments, Mr and Mrs Holmes and Lestrade remained to search the quarters of one Vivian Vedder.

With the aforementioned lady indisposed – possibly powdering her nose – the gentlemen took it upon themselves to begin searching her compartment for the Star of Rhodesia. However, Holmes doubted they would happen upon it so quickly. The Scotland Yard inspector searched every nook and cranny, doing as Watson suggested and turning over the seat cushions in case it had been stuffed in some hidden corner; he ransacked the coffee table, emptied her suitcases and would have searched her handbag if he could find it.

Nothing was off limits, but try as he might, Lestrade found nothing, huffing and puffing as (y/n) observed from beside her dearest husband. His fumblings were getting them nowhere, and there was no telling when this Vivian woman would return, but even with a guard on the door, it made her nervous to root through private belongings.

“This is futile, ‘Lock,” said the woman, her voice a mere whisper as she leaned closely to Holmes’ ear. The inspector luckily mumbled to himself as he prodded a small case belonging to their missing lady, ignoring any mutterings between them. “The diamond is obviously not here.”

“Obviously, my dear,” answered the detective, conscious of the conductor just outside in the hallway and, of course, the forever-imbecilic Lestrade with his back turned to them. Still, there was no harm in allowing her to place a warm hand on his arm, and without any other notice, he stepped a hairsbreadth closer to her with a rush of fondest affection.

“However, I do not expect Miss Vedder to have it. I am much more interested in her.”

“I am sure you are.” His wife’s reply was dry and coloured with petulantly jealous humour, and Holmes did not miss how she rolled her eyes slightly at his poor choice of words.

He was, after all, merely a man who fell for a woman once in his life, and when referring to that tall, slim, stunning brunette, (y/n) could not help but feel eclipsed – in every sense of the word. She was neither a raving beauty nor the wealthiest, funniest, brightest, or most well-connected woman on Earth, and Miss Vedder indeed held a rare dark beauty. Some things, indeed, weren’t fair.

“Oh, come now, Mrs Holmes,” said Sherlock, curling his fingers around her hand with a bemused smile – not that he would let her see too much of his amusement.

He was aware that meddlesome feelings got the better of all mankind at times, and even his wife was not faultless, but even so, there was only one woman he devoted himself to, and she still wore the rings he gifted her. “You are better than that.”

“Perhaps…” She shrugged, unable to stop the fluttering in her chest when he stroked the jewellery on her left hand with his thumb. It was a little silly to focus on anything but the case, so, taking a silent, deep breath, she tried to think logically, and indeed, with the manner Lestrade rummaged through the place, their beautiful suspect would not be happy.

“But whether Miss Vedder is suspicious or not, she will be in a foul mood to learn we are searching her things.”

“An evil task but a necessary one, dear girl,” replied the man, glad to see the sparkle return to her eyes, and so, any ill feelings between them vanished before they festered – as was their usual way. “I place no one above suspicion.”

“No one? Not even I?” Said (y/n) jokingly, a girlish giggle leaving her scarlet lips. Her husband shook his head and drew a few puzzled looks from those around him. It was easy to forget how loud one was when lost in each other’s company. “Who’s to say I didn’t pinch the Star of Rhodesia?”

“Because I know where you were and what you were doing before and during dinner, my dear,” whispered Sherlock in her ear, lowering his voice so only they could hear – a secret between two lovers. It painted her cheeks pink and had the lady biting her lip, recalling how he held her passionately in his arms—and oh, my…

A sudden disturbance at the door was welcomed warmly. If it did not occur, (y/n) was sure even Lestrade would think something was amiss by how she flushed and how Holmes smirked, depicting them amidst a rare, romantic moment. She was sure her stoic, shy lover would never recover from such embarrassment.

“What is the meaning of this?!” And, to (y/n)’s surprise, the appearance of a handsome woman, with chocolate curls piled high on her head, delicate earrings, expert makeup, and a bejewelled black skirt suit, was welcome—since it distracted from what could have been a sticky situation.

As she suspected, Vivian Vedder was not pleased to find three men and some unknown plain Jane in her compartment, staring at the scene like a schoolteacher disciplining her unruly students. That frown did not suit her pretty face, but the minute she opened her mouth, Mrs Holmes shuddered to hear her common Cockney accent—somewhat a silk purse from a sow’s ear – as her mother would have said.

“I am sorry, Miss Vedder, but it was necessary for us to search your compartment,” answered Inspector Lestrade, unfazed by the woman’s harsh tone and piercing stare.

“Indeed…” said Vivian, stepping into her compartment whilst eying the detective and his wife. She knew her lock Holmes when she saw him, and secretly, his presence made her heart race for all the wrong reasons, but she did not lose her head, holding her ground against so many grossly entitled men. “May I ask what you expected to find?”

“A valuable jewel has been stolen,” said the inspector, who only drew a short huff from her nostrils – on the pretence of being thoroughly annoyed. That is, until Holmes spoke, too.

“And a man has been murdered,” said he, his voice low and gravely serious as Lestrade closed the briefcase in his hands, studying the woman’s impassive expression. She had nerve; they could give her that.

“We’re making a routine search of the entire carriage and asking a few questions.”

“Go right ahead,” replied Miss Vedder, who unceremoniously sat down with little grace. She was quite coarse for someone so fine-looking, and she did herself no favours by acting so prickly, opening her handbag and removing her compact mirror. It was a diversionary tactic, and, coupled with her icy tone, it only made her inner self all the uglier.

As she pretended to check and touch up her makeup, the conductor leaned over and whispered something in Holmes’ ear, which proved most interesting. Lestrade would not understand, but (y/n) was close enough to make out the essential details, and, judging by the – dare she say – fear in Miss Vedder’s eyes, there was a littleness disguised by those perfectly manicured nails and long lashes.

“I understand your journey is rather a sad one…” said Holmes, who tried to sound as sympathetic as possible as he addressed the lady. She stopped patting her ruby-red lips for a second and stared at him, knowing it would not be easy to fool him, so her words were expertly chosen. “Your mother…”

“Yes…”

“Perhaps we better not question Miss Vedder just now, inspector,” muttered (y/n) to Lestrade as the woman’s gaze returned to her reflection. From what she had overheard, it would not be proper to interrogate a grieving woman, even if her dreadful attitude was deplorable, and she could not see them discovering anything enlightening, anyway.

“Eh?!” Was all the inspector uttered, staring at the detective’s wife as if she had grown a second head.

He did not understand those two; one minute, Mr Holmes wanted to strip the wallpaper off to find his lost trinket practically, and the next, the brave young girl who assisted him called off the hunt. It was simply baffling, but when he glanced at Holmes for an explanation, he went along with what the lady said, taking her by the hand and pulling her into the corridor.

“Excuse us, will you?” He bowed his head toward Miss Vedder, who did not seem to care as long as they left her in peace, and the men piled out of the compartment, closing the doors behind them. It was certainly a relief to her.

“What’s the idea, Mrs Holmes?” Asked the inspector harshly, and if she were any less of a woman – or did not have the Great Detective standing behind her - (y/n) would feel intimidated by the grumpy man. His deep frown spoke of his frustration, but she reacted calmly, reassured when Sherlock’s chest brushed her back.

“It is a matter of taste, Inspector Lestrade,” answered the lady, holding her head high as her lover proudly gazed at her – always entranced by how she could command a room if the fancy took her. “The young lady is taking her mother to Scotland for burial. I overheard the conductor say just now.”

“In a coffin?!” Said Lestrade, who was so used to quaint London life that he rarely encountered such things.

“That is the customary method, I believe,” answered (y/n) dryly, much to Holmes’ quiet chuckle. His hand found her hip again, a slight touch but enough to let her know of his approval, although there was more to Miss Vedder than met the eye.

Like his wife, Holmes did not believe she was simply a woman in the throes of bereavement, nor would she allow her startling, good looks to cloud his judgement, not that they ever could. She had something to hide more than her working-class background in that luxurious getup, and he wanted to know what it was.

“Lestrade, I think we’ll take a look at that coffin. It might prove interesting.”

“Hmmm…” The inspector thought momentarily, considering if the hassle was worth it. He supposed there was no harm in looking, and his old acquaintance was seldom wrong in such situations, thus turning to the conductor with a commanding tone.

“I was about to suggest that very thing myself, Mr Holmes. Conductor, I’ll have a look in the luggage van!”

“Yes, I am sure that was on his mind…” muttered (y/n) to her husband, and they both shared a gentle smile at the man’s boisterous actions. He could be comical at times, stomping off down the train behind the conductor toward the caboose as though he were a man on a mission.

“Shall we follow him, my dear?” Said Holmes, gesturing for his beloved wife to go first before they left Compartment C, but not before they had a final glance at Vivian Vedder. She could not help but glare at them as she rose to niftily draw her curtains, meeting the detective’s steely gaze before the voile concealed her from view.

“I do not trust her, Sherlock,” Mrs Holmes spoke once they were a few paces away from her earshot, and even then, her voice was low. Holmes followed closely behind, always within a fingertip’s grasp as they headed south, where the tail of the train seemed to be much rowdier than the middle. “For all her…trimmings, Miss Vedder is not as lovely to know as she is to look at.”

“Indeed, my darling,” agreed Holmes, a grin appearing on his countenance at her words.

He knew there was something amiss, but he could also not help but note an endearing envy in her tone, suspecting that his darling wife did not only dislike Miss Vedder as an accomplice to murder. No, Sherlock Holmes would forever be flattered to know she held possessive feelings for him – the only selfishness her heart had room to hold, and it was all for him – not that he would ever let her know.

That would only serve to embarrass her – to call out her jealousy so plainly. So, he spoke simply, imagining that he appeared akin to a puppy at her heels as he chased after her with the fondest of gazes.

“I shall trust a woman’s instincts.”

Chapter Text

On the tail of Lestrade, Holmes and his darling wife moved down the train, heading for the luggage van.

With the inspector ahead, having fallen behind after exchanging perhaps one too many fond glances, their steps were hurried, hoping they would catch up to the man before he put his foot in it – as he was well-known to do. Thankfully, the corridor was empty, with the carriage’s few passengers tucked away safely in their compartments as they were fearful of the policemen sniffing around. As the name Sherlock Holmes spread throughout the train, every soul kept themselves to themselves, hoping to keep their business private. That is if they were left in peace.

As they neared the luggage van, the couple came across something peculiar. For such a deadly silent journey, there was an awful lot of shouting coming from one of the farthest corners, and all they could pray was that Lestrade had not landed himself in bother with an undesirable type.

“My heart, is it just me, or can you hear raised voices?” Asked (y/n) as she slowed to taking a few mere steps, apprehensive to charge into a fracas of brawling men. Her darling husband, who followed behind her closely, listened carefully for a moment, a puzzled frown etching itself onto his prominent features when the voices became louder and angrier.

“Yes…” answered Holmes, who lightly held onto her hips as he squeezed past to take the lead. His broad shoulders shielded her from anything that the racket could throw at them, and it only got stranger the closer they got.

He could swear it… Those scratchy notes, that drawling manner, so well-spoken yet thoughtless in the choice of words. There was no doubt about it; Holmes knew that voice – the other one was a mystery, but he could make an educated guess.

“But I am Doctor Watson! Doctor John H. Watson of 221B Baker Street!” Yes, there it was.

They stopped upon realising who was doing all the shouting, silently speaking a dozen things to one another with a mere glance because, of course, it was Watson. Holmes could only sigh and roll his eyes as he wondered what trouble the doctor could have gotten himself into this time.

“Retired! My friend, Sherlock Holmes, can vouch for me!”

“‘Lock, what on earth is he up to?” Whispered (y/n), gripping her husband’s jacket as he crept toward the compartment, which fortuitously had its doors cracked open, allowing them to hear every uttered syllable.

“This is Watson’s idea of investigating, it seems…” replied the detective, with a note of bitter humour as they loitered for a beat, not wishing to intrude so suddenly. Watson was clearly managing the satiation well.

“Your alibi isn’t worth a Scotch Farthing!” Came an even angrier voice, to their surprise.

It hinted at a royal Edinburgh accent, evidently belonging to a well-educated man whose temper Watson was on the wrong end of. Whatever had occurred between the men, the mystery man was terribly upset, yet able to run rings around their friend and his utter inability to pry without offending.

“You just told me that this fellow, Holmes, is a crony of yours. Naturally, he’d lie!”

“Is that true, Sherlock?” Asked (y/n) through her fingers as she smothered a giggle. It was rather childish of her, and she felt like a naughty schoolgirl as they further eavesdropped on the conversation, but she rationalised that anyone could hear it. They were, after all, not very quiet in their arguing, and it was such fun to have a little mischief with it. “Are you a mendacious crony?”

“You, my wife, should know better than anyone…” answered Holmes, who met her devilry with his teasing remark. His reputation could be dragged through the mud, and he would not care a jot, but this would be the last time he sent his old friend to ask any questions; like a child, he needed careful supervision – otherwise, it all went to pot.

“I resent that, sir! Sherlock Holmes is the very soul of integrity!” That was more like what (y/n) liked to hear, and for all the strife he caused, she would not fault the good doctor for defending her husband’s honour.

Quietly, they stood outside the door, peering into the room to see two gentlemen at each others’ throats. Or rather, Watson was on the ropes, slouched on the seat with a furious professor hunched over him, threatening to take him by the collar and give him a good seeing to.

That was curious; from the little she remembered, (y/n) recalled Professor Kilbane as a man of mild and meek manner, and like all mathematicians, he would sooner slink away than fight. She could not think what her associate had done to offend him so greatly.

“Might even be an accomplice! If I were a policeman, I’d take you in charge this very moment!”

“I didn’t do it, sir! I swear I didn’t!” It was only when the raging man took Watson by the lapels and began shaking him that Holmes decided to intervene. “I can prove it!”

He had seen enough, quite frankly, and whilst he could not say if Kilbane were justified in his actions, he would not see his friend choke like that, so pale and startled that he resembled alabaster. Neither had seen him in the doorway, with his wife peeking from behind his shoulder, so deep in their little spat that the outside world fizzled away.

“Prove what, old fellow?” Asked Holmes, and the men finally took heed of his presence. They broke apart instantly, not wishing to appear like ruffians, particularly in front of a lady, and Watson took it as his chance to slip away from his attacker.

“There you are, Holmes!” Exclaimed the doctor, relief colouring his words.

Still, upon clocking the detective’s face and putting two and two together, the professor did not take kindly to the new intrusion. As Watson scrambled to reach the safety of his friends’ company, Kilbane did him a favour, hooking him by the underarm and pushing him out of the door with all impatience.

“Now, get out of here and join your silly friends!” With that, the man slammed the doors shut, locking the gentlemen out of his compartment, but not before glaring at them for a final time. It left the three companions standing in awkward silence, with the doctor barely able to hold their gazes since his attempt at sleuthing went so poorly.

“…Did you discover anything, Watson?” Asked Holmes, and if she had not clocked the scolding stare of her lover, she would have smacked his wrists. She did not miss the sarcasm in his voice, knowing her poor friend would never hear the end of such a poor performance, but it was his own fault – so much for boasting about how he could do better than Lestrade.

“Yes!” Answered the doctor fervently as a red flush rose above his collar. The initial alarm from the professor’s fury had worn off, and now, he wished he had given him a straight left instead. “He’s a very suspicious character! He tried to put me off the scent!”

“From the little we heard, he seemed reasonably successful,” said (y/n) dryly, although neither she nor Holmes expected him to discover much if anything.

“Look here,” said the detective as he stepped a few paces away from the professor’s compartment, not wishing for him to overhear. Perhaps he was suspicious, or maybe Watson had mistaken his guilt for merely a prickly character – either was equally likely.

“You’re not going to let an old fellow like Professor Kilbane discourage you, are you? Why don’t you try this one?”

“You think I’d better?” Watson blinked at his friend in surprise when they came to a stop outside the final compartment of the corridor – one with the few remaining passengers yet to be questioned.

Holmes would have liked to do it himself, but Mr and Mrs Shallcross, if he remembered correctly, were hardly likely to be stimulating, and it would keep his friend out of harm’s way for a bit. The luggage van was the real prize, and it would be good for morale if the doctor felt useful. At least, he could not make things any worse than he already had, so Holmes gave him a small, encouraging smile.

“Yes, of course.”

“All right…” muttered Watson, and, with his gentle permission, he gingerly stepped forward to knock on the door. He was much more cautious this time – once bitten, twice shy – and the couple left him just as he meekly poked his head through the door.

“Do you mind if I come in?”

“Is it really wise to leave him to it, my heart?” Asked (y/n) as they left the doctor to it, moving down the corridor as he slipped into the final compartment. She hoped he would do better, yet she could not help the doubt in her heart that they would have to save him again. “Even Lestrade would not have soured an interrogation so poorly.”

“It will keep him busy, and I doubt he can anger anyone more than Professor Kilbane,” answered Holmes, who allowed her arm to slip through hers as they neared where Lestrade was being held up by the conductor outside the luggage van.

As it was rarely permitted to be opened during the journey, they had some trouble getting the guard inside to open it, but at least it gave the couple a chance to join them.

“It’s funny. I don’t remember him being so…warm, shall we say?” Said the lady thoughtfully, casting her mind back to the warmest days of her life, but most had grown fuzzy with age, and she struggled to remember anything more tangible than feelings. “Although it was a long time ago now…”

“What else do you know of him, darling?”

“He used to teach in London, I know that. A very respectable gentleman, a brilliant mind…always used soft-leaded pencils for his workings-out,” she replied, speaking quietly as they walked down the corridor, mindful that the professor could overhear at any point. “A typical scholar, one might say.”

Still, Holmes listened carefully despite walking ahead of her, and he would never disregard her judgment. He valued it greatly, factoring it into his calculations around the waspish man. There was little he could do about him, though, and his attention soon turned to the coffin lurking behind a closed door, where he hoped to make a real discovery to crack the case open.

Fortunately, they met Lestrade just outside the luggage van, appearing instead frustrated with how long it took to open the door, not that it could be helped. If the guard inside did not unlock the door, the conductor had to do it himself, searching through half a baker’s dozen to find the correct key.

“What’s happening, Lestrade?” Asked Holmes, even though anyone with eyes could work it out.

“The door, Mr Holmes…” muttered the inspector, watching and tutting quietly under his breath as the man fumbled with his keychain. “We’ve been after opening it for a few minutes now…”

“Won’t be a moment, sir…” said the conductor with his politest, yet tightest, smile before bending over to inspect the lock again. It left the gentlemen and lady loitering outside, standing awkwardly as the train curled around a point, but at last, the guard believed he had found the right one.

“Is this door always locked, conductor?” Questioned Mrs Holmes, hoping to fill the silence as she gripped her beloved’s arm for stability. She wondered… could someone hide in there and wander the train if they wished to?

“Yes, ma’am.” There went that theory. “Only the guard and myself have keys.”

“I’ve got him, Holmes!”

It all happened so suddenly. One minute, the conductor was seconds away from unlocking the door, and the next, a veritable bull came hurtling toward the group, spitting and panting for air after hurrying down the corridor. It was Watson, naturally, who had conducted his interview most successfully, if he said so himself, before racing to find his friend with some alarming news that he hoped would make up for his previous blunder.

“Who?” Asked the detective, frowning at the doctor’s rosy cheeks and ragged breathing. They had only left him a few moments ago, and he had not seen him move so hastily in years – how strange…

“The thieves!”

“Thieves?” It was Lestrade’s turn to frown, and whilst he did not know about the incident with Professor Kilbane, he was used to Watson’s antics. To say he had single-handedly captured their enemies was astounding; anyone would deem it far-fetched. “Where?! Come on, speak up!

“That married couple down there!”

“Mr and Mrs Shallcross? Really?” Said (y/n), who blinked in surprise as she recalled the middle-aged man and his dowdy wife.

They were a queer pair; she was undoubtedly a little overbearing, and he rather henpecked, but she did not take them for mastermind jewel thieves – if anything, they were an ordinary middle-class pair on their way to Edinburgh. She glanced at her husband, and sure enough, she saw the same apprehension in his steely gaze, but Watson seemed adamant, furiously gesturing to the compartment where he had left them as if he already knew their guilt.

“Yes, they confessed!” Exclaimed Watson, having only exchanged a few words with the couple. Yet, a little intimidation and authoritative questioning soon got them to heel, and then it all came pouring out – the confessions, the remorse, the desire for atonement.

“Confessed?”

“Broke them down… Gave them the third degree!” He told Lestrade, who also did not quite believe his story, but a confession seemed promising. That is if he dared to hope…

“And you left them unguarded?” Asked the inspector, wondering where these dangerous villains were after revealing their crimes.

“I told them not to run away,” answered the doctor, which was almost laughable. They were not dogs or children; they would not simply obey his every command, as no criminals ever did, but his allegations were serious, and Lestrade could not afford to lose such an easy catch if it was right. He had no choice but to leave the luggage van behind for a moment, with Holmes close behind.

“We better have a talk with them.”

In a single line, the men shuffled away from their prize, and (y/n) suspected a hint of frustration in her husband’s heart. She knew him too well not to suspect that he was itching to search the luggage van, yet Holmes tugged her away, traipsing behind Lestrade’s heels as the conductor and Watson, detective-in-the-making, followed her.

Well, the latter tried to. It just so happened that Watson bumped into Professor Kilbane as they rejoined the hallway, with neither man watching where he was going. Upon realising who the other was, any apology died on their tongues, and a mutual frown settled on their aged faces.

“It is you again…” sneered the professor, looking upon Watson as though a permanent bad smell lingered under his owl-like nose.

“It might interest you to know that I have just caught the thieves!” Replied the doctor matter-of-factly, and with an uptight, little nod, he huffed and marched away, leaving the bespectacled man aggravated yet slightly stunned.

Kilbane saw Watson as a buffoon, not a sleuth, so it truly was a miracle that he caught anyone in his eyes. He watched as the man plodded after his colleagues with all the grace of an elephant, and so, he sucked the air through his teeth and wildly shook his head in disgust.

If that was the best Scotland Yard had to offer, he prayed he never needed their assistance, not so long as John H. Watson, the man who won his doctorate in a tombola, toed the thin blue line.

Chapter Text

It did not take long for Lestrade to reach the compartment of Mr and Mrs Alfred Shallcross, and when he did, he wasted no time in marching inside.

There they sat, looking as nervous as a man and woman could after confessing to a heinous crime. It still struck him as odd since neither looked like aspiring diamond thieves, but the inspector had seen all manner of folk turn to devilry in his time. As such, he glared at them in suspicion as he entered their space, closely followed by Holmes, his wife, and, of course, the man of the hour, Doctor Watson.

“Excuse me, madam…” said Lestrade as he burst into the compartment, coming face to face with the sour-lipped woman and her peculiar-looking husband.

He was almost tadpole-like in shape, with funny, quick movements as he puffed a cheap cigar, and his wife was no less unusual. She was starchy personified, sitting upright and tight on the bench as the intimidating Scotland Yard policeman loomed over them, just like she knew they would once their secret was uncovered.

“You’re the police. I know!” She exclaimed breathlessly, becoming even more anxious when the tall, dark man joined his colleague. That would be Holmes, who studied them from behind his hooked nose, and her nervous habits, compared to the remarkably calm ones of her husband, did not escape him. “I warned him! But no! He had to take it!”

“Take it?” Asked (y/n) as she and Watson slipped into the compartment; she also shared a puzzled glance with Sherlock. She did not expect them to confess so readily, but perhaps the doctor was right.

“I must warn you that anything you say will be used against you,” said Lestrade carefully, as though he was approaching the moment he would clasp them in irons – as unlikely a pair of crooks they made.

“Anything they say? They’ve already admitted everything!”

“Everything?” Holmes frowned upon hearing how Watson chimed in, who glowered at the nervous couple after uncovering their misdeed. They thought for certain he too was a policeman, given how he threw his authority around, and so, Mr and Mrs Shallcross lowered their gazes guiltily, embarrassed by the crowd gathering around them.

“Yes! They’ve got it in there!” The doctor pointed to a small, black briefcase perched before Mr Shallcross, which was not very wide yet quite deep, and the supposed thief seemed to guard it carefully.

“I’ll be glad to pay double what it is worth if only they won’t prosecute,” said Mr Shallcross meekly, so odd in his ways that he seemed almost childlike as he answered for his crime. It was almost comical, with (y/n) biting back a laugh at such a ridiculous notion as they did not look like an affluent couple.

“Somehow, I do not think that would be quite possible for you, Mr Shallcross,” said the lady, and she assumed his comment had to be a dry, poorly timed joke at their expense – making light of the hot water he landed himself in.

“It’s my first offence, miss!”

“You chaps always say the same thing!” Answered Lestrade, who had heard all the excuses and stories before, although not many were as outlandish as that one. “Come on, hand it over! Where is it?”

“…I stole it,” said the man quietly, choosing his words carefully after not speaking for a brief moment. His wife sat silently beside him, her face like thunder yet utterly void of emotion as he continued in a shaky voice. “I took it from a hotel in London.”

“Come on! Come on!” The inspector, however, insisted, not wanting to hear his pathetic lies. He would much instead return the jewel to her ladyship and reap the rewards, so, under much pressure, Mr Shallcross finally – albeit rather slowly – popped open his case.

“In my small way, I’m a collector…” said the man, who did not allow them to peer into it. He merely reached his hand into the shadows and pulled out his stolen loot, grasping it tightly before sticking it under the men’s noses, and to say it took them by surprise was the understatement of the century.

“…Of teapots.” It had a handle, sprout, and lid, was made of some cheap silver plate, and was covered in tiny scuffs and scratches from years of service in a small bed and breakfast in Camden. Yes, it was undoubtedly a teapot, not even a nice one, and certainly, it was no Star of Rhodesia.

“Teapot?!” Lestrade exclaimed, and the look on his face meant (y/n) could not contain her laughter. Quiet and then increasingly loud giggles left her lips, although she tried to smother them behind her hand.

He snatched the silver into his grasp, turning it all over as if it would magically transform into what he sought, but no, it appeared poor, old Watson was mistaken again. Not even Holmes could contain his amusement, his face twisting beautifully into a naughty grin, the sight of which only made his darling wife laugh harder.

“Doctor Watson, does this look like a diamond?!”

“Not very much, now that you mention it…” replied Watson as a faint, pinkish blush rose from beneath his collar to settle on his cheeks. Far from his previous grandeur and confidence, the man was now embarrassed and reserved, his voice merely a whimper.

“Well, what were you saying about a confession?” Asked (y/n), who dried her tears on the handkerchief her husband plucked from his pocket, offering it to her when the madness grew too hysterical. He would admit to loving that expression of pure joy on her pretty features, but tears? Oh, no; he never wanted to see those.

“Well, when I came in here before, they said that they took it,” answered the doctor bashfully, which did not go far in soothing Lestrade’s sore temper.

“Well, you’ll please oblige yourself in not meddling in police business.”

“His time wasn’t entirely wasted, Lestrade,” said Holmes, a cunning smirk growing on his face when he glanced at the stolen teapot again. Surely, the thing was barely worth a pound – if that – and like a pair of impish children, he snickered with his wife as the inspector huffed. “At least you have recovered the teapot.”

“Thank you, Holmes!” Replied Watson, although it was not entirely in his defence – more like the detective’s own amusement.

“Teapot!” Scoffed Lestrade, and he glanced down at the silver in his hands, looking as though he would like to smash it into the dirt and spit on its resting place.

It was the final straw for Watson; he had only wanted to help, and to hear the incompetent policeman mocking him rode his last nerve, making him tut and mutter under his breath.

“A man tries his best, and what does he get? Humiliation and abuse from Lestrade, of all people!” He waddled outside, scuffing his feet against the floor like a chastised schoolboy, only to come across an infuriating busybody who could not help but loiter outside to see the fireworks. And he was the last person Watson wanted to see after such ridicule. “I’ve got a good mind to chuck up the whole case!”

“It might be a good idea to let the police do their own work…” said the ever-snide Professor Kilbane, who had eavesdropped from the door with the conductor and ensured that he heard every humiliating word.

“You mind your own business!” Replied Watson sharply, not appreciating his impertinence.

He took no heed of his mordacious remark, pushing past the professor to plod down the corridor to heaven knows where. He just wanted to get away, and luckily, it wasn’t long before he came across Duncan-Bleek.

“Oh, there you, Watson!” Said the major, his warm smile most welcome for the doctor’s bruised ego. “How about a spot in my compartment?”

“Thanks, old man!” Answered Watson gratefully, who glanced over his shoulder, hoping his disparaging companions, particularly Lestrade and that infernal professor – heard him. “Serve them right if I got a bit tiddly!”

With a final, unimpressed snort, the gentlemen stomped off together, with Watson hoping to lick his wounds in some peace and quiet – or at least drown his sorrows with Duncan-Bleek’s fine Scottish whisky. Lestrade and Mr and Mrs Holmes were left with the Shallcross’, and the former turned to them with a stern face. After all, they had still pinched the teapot, no matter how ridiculous a crime it seemed.

“I suppose you realise you will be turned over to the police as soon as we reach Edinburgh,” he told them before walking out the door with a frustrated sigh and the pot in hand. “Doctor Watson…teapots!”

“I suppose we can rule out Mr and Mrs Shallcross as suspects, inspector,” said (y/n), her warm, cheery smile clashing with his dreary mood as she tried to make light of the situation. “Every silver teapot has a silver lining!”

The sentiment did not meet Lestrade, who simply pursed his lips and grumbled something incoherent about ridiculous doctors and wasting police time. Still, it was not all in vain; as they exited the compartment, they too happened across Professor Kilbane, who lingered outside with the hope that he might hear some other juicy scoop – for all his snobbish attitude, he was weak for idle gossip.

“Oh, I beg your pardon, Professor Kilbane!” And he was not quite quick enough. The man made to dash away from the men, having not expected them to leave so suddenly, but Holmes swiftly caught him by the elbow, preventing him from slinking back to his compartment. “You’re in the next compartment, aren’t you?”

“I am!” Answered the professor, who looked Holmes up and down with that disgruntled frown, although it was more at himself for not leaving for the safety of his quarters sooner.

“I’m afraid we will have to ask you a few questions.”

“Now, don’t tell me that you’re going to start!” Said Kilbane sharply, his frown becoming a glare after his ordeal with Watson. There was no escape, however, as Lestrade crowded him from behind, and Sherlock Holmes was always so relentless in his questioning. Escape was futile.

“Do you mind, sir?” (y/n) offered him her politest smile as she gestured to the open doors of his compartment, but even her saccharine tone and elegant manners did not sway him.

“Of course I mind, madam!” Said the professor, practically spitting venom at the unknown woman and her husband. He would never have known her as the daughter of an old acquaintance, but why should he? That man was long since dead and buried, and the girl he once knew was now a grown woman, so nostalgia would not work here.

Fortunately, it did not have to, not with Lestrade around. He was not afraid of a little rough play, calling back to his days as an average copper on the beat in London Town.

“Come in, in you go!” Said the inspector as he shoved the professor into the compartment, whether he wanted to go in or not.

“After you, my dear…” muttered Holmes to his wife as he gestured for her to slip in first, which earned him a sparkling smile as she passed, knowing he would opt to sit beside her, anyway.

“Thank you, ‘Lock.” The detective followed once she was inside and sat down, closing the doors behind him and drawing the veiled curtains, creating the perfect little bubble around them and the mad professor.

And so the interrogation continued, disregarding the red herring of Doctor Watson.

Chapter Text

With a slight shove and grunt, Lestrade corralled Professor Kilbane into his compartment, very much against the furious man’s will.

He was utterly outraged at the blasted rudeness of it all, grumbling and seething as the Scotland Yard inspector insisted that he sit down – a liberty he wished he did not have to take. It did not help to have that so-called detective present and that starry-eyed girl, although they were not quite so insistent. Like gentlemen, they sat down without fuss despite Kilbane’s never-changing frown.

(y/n) likened him to a bulldog eating a wasp in many ways, observing how thoroughly he had changed since she last glanced at him as a girl. His silver, slicked-back hair no longer had its ebon sheen; his face did not always have those wrinkles; after years of disregarding his need for those abnormally strong spectacles, a groove developed between his brows because of his terrible squint.

Professor Kilbane was quite unlike most men in London, as most mathematical men were, but she was used to the philosophical sort. She had to be to keep up with Holmes, who gracefully perched beside her after moving a sheaf of loose paper.

“This is an outrage!” Exclaimed the professor as he was forced to cope with Lestrade beside him, and the inspector could only tolerate so much snivelling and moaning. He was lucky he did not fit the darbies.

Holmes and his beautiful bride paid them no heed, much too interested in what the ingenious man had been working on. It was a little heavy going for the detective, who could calculate and speculate with the best of men, but he was naturally at home with all matters of science, not the algebraic squiggles dotted on the pages in his hands.

His wife, on the other hand…

“What do you make of these, my dear?” He asked her under his breath as one piece of paper passed from his hand to hers. (y/n) cast an eye over what seemed simple to her mind, understanding Pi, theta, and congruence as others would read their ABC.

“It’s perfectly logical to me,” replied the lady, checking every sum and equation in her mind at a remarkable speed to see if the professor had miscarried a digit or miscalculated a division, but everything was as it should be. “I cannot see anything wrong.”

“That was what I was hoping you would say that, my dear…” her husband poignantly answered, and he said nothing more. He shuffled through more papers, allowing her to check their answers as the bickering pair across from them continued their spat.

“All this nonsense about stolen diamonds and murderers! I have never heard such rubbish in all my born days!”

“I don’t like your attitude, Professor Kilbane,” said Lestrade as he faced the grumpy man, and he was quite fed up with all his bellyaching. As Mr and Mrs Holmes nosed through the professor’s belongings, he never stopped chuntering, finding fault in everything when they had a serious job. It was maddening. “I don’t like it at all!”

“Perhaps not…” answered Kilbane with a dismissive, displeased tut, “but I’m on this train for legitimate reasons, and I have neither the time nor the inclination to assist you with your work.”

“You’re perfectly within your rights, sir, and I am sure Inspector Lestrade appreciates that…” said Holmes calmly, and his cool, respectful tone pleased the professor’s ears. He was grateful that someone understood his plight, unlike the buffoon beside him.

“Thank you, sir…” replied Professor Kilbane with, at last, some semblance of good manners in his tone. Although, his frown did not budge for anything or anyone. “Now, if you don’t mind, I have some work to do that requires concentration.”

“Mathematics?” Asked (y/n) as she held out a paper for him to take, having analysed everything he was working on.

“Yes…” He nodded, a curious, almost astounded expression passing over his features when her bright eyes met his. Professor Kilbane could swear he had seen that sheen before, so cunning and clever with a foxlike glint, but he quashed the nostalgia by snatching the papers to his chest, refusing to show emotion.

“Interesting study…” said the mysterious woman, who did not react to his guarded response as she folded her hands neatly in her lap. She would never typically meet the eye and challenge a man so much her senior, but when it came to her field of expertise, there were not many brainiacs who could reach her heights. “My favourite, in fact.”

“Yes, well, if you don’t mind…”

After retrieving his precious equations from under her gaze, Professor Kilbane shuffled them between his fingers, ensuring they were neat, tidy, and in order whilst the train hurtled around another point. Everything was eerily silent for a moment, with nothing but the constant chugging of the engine and spin of the wheels on the tracks filling the air until Holmes finally spoke again, having seen and heard enough.

“Of course, sir. I am sure we have taken up too much of your valuable time,” said the detective in a manner that Lestrade would describe as grovelling.

He was not a man used to kissing the boots of the toffs, but Holmes had secret reasons for being so polite toward the end. He was sure to make a fuss if he told the inspector that he only wanted to give his darling wife enough time to see what the man was working on.

“Indeed. It is time we were leaving you, Professor Kilbane…” said (y/n) with a gracious smile as she and her lover stood up. If he was honest, the professor did not want to see them out, preferring to return to his work, yet it was best for them to leave willingly – to leave at all and let him work in peace. “I am sorry we had to trouble you like this. I hope you finish your calculus before we reach Edinburgh.”

“T-Thank you, madam…” Was all the professor uttered, and for all his rage and bluff during the questioning, one sweet glance from her was enough to make him tongue-tied. Perhaps he was unused to beauty and brain, but it only made Holmes smirk proudly as he stepped into the hallway.

He held his wife’s hand as he did, ensuring she did not trip and fall as the train shook, wobbling from side to side, which could cause mischief if someone were to stumble. (y/n), however, was fine, carefully managing in her heels as Lestrade followed behind her.

It was then that Holmes noticed something peculiar. Firstly, he could see that the steward was no longer perched on his stool at the other end of the carriage toward the dining car. A straightforward explanation was that he had popped to the lavatory and left his post – undesirable but understandable – but what surprised him was the sight of a well-esteemed lady walking haphazardly toward him and his bride as if she were possessed.

The ghostly figure was instantly recognisable in her smart black dress with great white frills, brooch, and silver curls, but her face was ghastly. Drawn and pale with red-rimmed eyes, Lady Margaret Carstairs staggered along the corridor like a drunkard, fingers brushing the dark, wooden walls as if to help her stay upright. It was utterly astounding to see and yet so sad; she did not seem like herself…

“Lady Margaret!” Whispered (y/n) in complete surprise, her gaze met Holmes’ as the woman failed to realise that they had stepped outside the compartment and were looking at her. She must have been away with the fairies, lost in her mind or in the throes of grief as she headed for the room she once shared with her son. “What is she doing?”

“There is only one way to find out, dear girl…” muttered Holmes, watching as her ladyship paused outside Compartment E. She checked her surroundings a little – not nearly enough to see she was not alone – before trying the doors, only to find the conductor had locked them on Lestrade’s orders.

“Looking for something, Lady Margaret?” Asked the detective, his sudden question was enough to make the poor woman practically jump out of her skin.

A small, soft gasp left her upon seeing the men and young woman approaching her amidst her wandering when, really, no one was allowed to walk freely with the murderer on the loose. The trio made an intimidating sight, yet it did not phase her; no sooner than she appeared terrified at being caught, her stiff upper lip returned, frosting her face into her ever-serious, sophisticated countenance that would never show vulnerability.

“I came to get my bag,” answered the lady, but despite her brave face, (y/n) saw the pain in her crystalline eyes, which were as red-raw as the tip of her nose. Her cheeks were slightly flushed too, puffier than they were a few hours ago, and the dark circles of her under eyes said she had not slept. “The door’s locked!”

“Naturally…” said Holmes, keenly aware that Mr Carstairs’ corpse was only on the other side of the door. “Perhaps I can help you.”

Deftly and swiftly, he unlocked the door with a key given to him by the steward and pushed it open. Switching the light on briefly, Lady Margaret was not allowed inside out of concern she would disturb the crime scene, so Holmes retrieved the bag for her – a small excuse that (y/n) quite easily saw through. She was just relieved they had the tact and decency to shroud the body in a white sheet, or her ladyship might have felt vapourish.

“Thank you…” said Lady Margaret quietly once he handed the small case to her from the top shelf, and the anguish was apparent to see on her face after catching a glimpse of her son.

She recovered remarkably quickly, however; not a moment after receiving her bag, she glanced up at Holmes, his wife, and Lestrade with a severe frown, not that it bothered them.

“Mr Holmes, I must talk to you about the diamond.”

“Oh, don’t you worry about that, Lady Margaret!” Answered Lestrade before his associates could open their mouths without some small, comforting words. They doubted anything could quell the woman’s fears about her precious stone, and the inspector’s assured, boastful smile did not impress her, nor did Holmes’ apparent lack of urgency.

“Fifty thousand pounds, and you tell me not to worry?!” She scoffed, staring at Lestrade as though he were barmy – which was not far off – before glaring at the other two with pure contempt and disdain. “My son employed this man to guard it, and it was stolen right under his very nose while he was cavorting with this—this girl!”

“I assure you, Lady Margaret, Mr Holmes is doing his utmost to recover the Star of Rhodesia,” said Mrs Holmes calmly as she placed her hand on her husband’s forearm, pulling a momentary, fond smile from the tall man beside her.

Not for a minute did she lower her gaze, no… She proudly stood beside him with her head held high, showing true loyalty and affection to her darling heart, not the noblewoman cared a jot.

“I warn you, young lady, I intend to take this up with your husband’s superiors. We shall see if you are allowed to run around his ankles then…”

“I’m a private agent, Lady Margaret,” replied Holmes emotionlessly, although his manners never slipped. Yet, he did not care for those who tried to intimidate or belittle his dear wife, who often assisted him in his cases more than anyone realised. When he nonchalantly allowed her arm to slip through his to become a unity of strength and companionship, all her ladyship could do was stick her nose in the air.

“Then, I shall report you all to Scotland Yard!” She snarled before storming off, thoroughly infuriated at their stubbornness, but (y/n) suspected she was merely sour after getting caught. She was a grieving mother, of course, and she would not judge her too harshly for feeling wounded, letting the empty threat roll off her like water off a duck’s back.

“But I am Scotland Yard!” Lestrade muttered like a scolded child once the woman was a few feet away. He looked utterly lost and befuddled, enough to make the lady beside him laugh a little as Holmes reached into Compartment E to turn off the light, draw the curtains, and lock the door again.

“I should not let it worry, inspector,” said (y/n), and she gave the man a bemused yet kind smile to soothe his distress. “She is only upset over her son’s death. I’m sure it’s nothing personal against you.”

“She could have fooled me, Mrs Holmes,” answered the inspector quietly, glancing at his shoes as he recalled the lady’s curt manner and short temper. Her melancholy soon disappeared once the matter of the stolen jewel was touched, making her seem so unfeeling of the fact that she had lost a child – her own flesh and blood.

“Cared more about the diamond than the poor lad.”

“No, she has been crying. I’m sure of it.” Yet, Mrs Holmes disagreed, appearing thoughtful and almost sad herself for a moment as she pondered such terrible grief.

She had never lost a child – had never discovered the joy of sharing one with her dearest husband – but if she did, she imagined the death would break her heart. And yet to appear strong to those who look to you as an example… It was enough to give Lady Margaret her deepest sympathy, which only appealed to the detective more as he basked in the glow of her benevolent smile.

“The diamond is merely her excuse. Her true loss is her son, whom all the money or jewels in the world cannot replace.”

Chapter Text

As Lestrade parted with Mr and Mrs Holmes to write his report – a boringly compulsory habit one had to follow if they chose to be a policeman – they descended the train toward the compartment of Major Duncan-Bleek.

Watson had been with his friend for at least twenty minutes, meaning they had had enough time to get tiddly – as he called it. Holmes had no interest in helping Lestrade with his official paperwork, having very little patience for anything bureaucratic, so he guided his wife away from the most southerly part of the train—to where the men were discussing the case most carefully.

The whisky and soda flowed with the conversation, which primarily involved pointing the finger of blame at whichever passenger seemed the most suspicious, but even that was a task. Between them, neither Watson nor Duncan-Bleek could decide who was the culprit, debating so loudly that the couple could hear them through the door once they arrived outside.

“The Major seems quick to point blame…” muttered (y/n) so only her husband could hear, scowling slightly when she overheard the men discuss Lady Margaret. Like the inspector, they portrayed her as some unfeeling beast who cared more for riches than her own kin, but the sentiment still did not sit right in her gut. It was rich to come from a man she had yet to understand and trust fully, and Holmes did not argue.

“Possibly because he has Watson to contend with…” answered the detective with a slight smirk, drawing a precious giggle from her lips as his knuckles rapped against the door gently. A deep ‘come in’ rumbled from inside, belonging to the major himself, and without any further teasing japery, the couple meekly slipped inside.

“Oh, there you are, Watson.”

“Sit down,” said Duncan-Bleek politely, watching as Holmes allowed his beloved wife inside first, waiting for her to sit down before he closed the door and shut the curtains. “Have a drink?”

“No, thank you, but do you mind if I…?” Asked the detective, who, like (y/n), did not care for solid whisky after dinner; he pulled his favourite pipe from his inside pocket as he sat beside her. They had to sit with Watson as the major had his personal effects – hat, coat, and luggage – in a large heap beside him, and whilst neither man cared about smoke filling the compartment, the lady could only grumble.

“Point it away from me, ‘Lock,” said she, albeit with a playful tone, as her husband chewed and readied his pipe. They smiled at each other, and the man patted her knee as she snuggled, wedged between himself and the good doctor. For all the sternness she tried to muster, it did not go to his heart – never wanting to offend her pretty little nose or upset his beloved for something so trivial.

“Of course, my dear…” answered Holmes, twisting his body so that he could see her beauty properly and speak to his companions without seeming rude. Watson was as eager to prattle on as ever, but Duncan-Bleek was peculiarly preoccupied, scribbling away with a pencil at some whisky-soaked parchment on the table as if he were the only one in the room.

“I’ve been thinking about this case, Holmes…” Watson began, unaware that practically everyone on the corridor could hear their boisterous conversation. “That is, Duncan-Bleek and I have…”

“I see…”

“The way we figure it out, the old trout is the only one without an alibi,” said the major, continuing his scribbles without meeting the detective’s eye, but Holmes noticed his workings, nonetheless.

Their commentary was quaint and amusing but not particularly helpful, and he did not doubt that the lady beside him would not like to hear Lady Margaret – a mother in grief – being disparaged in such a way. Still, (y/n) held her tongue, observing his tireless pencil, when the major finally paused and looked up at them.

“Yes, we feel you’re approaching the whole thing from the wrong angle!” The doctor added as Holmes struck a match, tucking the box into his pocket before replying.

“Really, Watson?” Asked the detective calmly, painfully used to doubt, apprehension, and suspicion clouding his enquiries – and he’d only just begun making them, so Watson’s unintentional jibe did not hurt. “What’s your theory?

“Insurance.” The lone word fell from Watson’s mouth immediately, almost making (y/n) laugh at the implausibility, although she suppressed it. She did not want to jolt her husband as he raised the burning match near his face, puffing that wretched pipe until it lit. “A lot of people insure jewellery and then try and collect on it.”

“An interesting suggestion, doctor…” said (y/n), folding her hands neatly in her lap as she turned to the doctor. She could not imagine anyone murdering their son in a false jewel robbery, and besides, Lady Carstairs was already wealthy, respectful, and influential. She did not need to go to such lengths for money.

“I suppose you could go and ask Lady Margaret how much insurance she carries on the Star of Rhodesia.”

“No, thank you,” replied Watson timidly, and a pinkish blush rising on his cheeks told her that he had hit some bother on his line of enquiry. “I’ve already had two tries. Why don’t you ask her yourself…or you, Holmes?

“For a very simple reason, I already know, and when (y/n) asked, I told her how much,” said the detective with a bemused smirk as the doctor’s face fell.

He huffed at their teasing, muttering something mildly incoherent about two sleuthing peas in a pod, but Holmes was not listening. Instead, his attention was stolen again by Major Duncan-Bleek, who, whilst they had been nattering away, had taken up his pencil again to draw the queerest, quaintest of things – a spectacled man playing cricket under the dun, a medical van being unloaded, a stick-like man playing badminton, and another flying a kite.

“You’re quite a doodler, sir,” Holmes told the major, who merely dropped his pencil as if it burnt his hand, and instead, he reached for his whisky glass.

(y/n) watched as the man threw back what strong liquor was left in the glass, his throat bobbing in two large gulps, which she thought was a little excessive. She could not believe why he was so shy about it all, hurrying to cover his little stickmen before they could remark upon it further, not that they would make such a fuss of a trifle.

With Watson’s theory out of the window, mumbling to himself about how he could never get anything right, they sat back and talked a while longer into the wee hours, approaching long past midnight. Nothing of significance arose, and even Holmes – the man who could lay a vigil all night long – felt a weariness creep up on him slowly, and the mystery was far from over.

It would take more than doodles to keep them awake tonight.

Chapter Text

Leaving Watson with Major Duncan-Bleek was a smart move.

The old friends could gossip away to their hearts’ content on their lonesome, saying cheerio to Holmes and his darling wife without so much as batting an eyelid since it meant they could continue their drinking and merriment. The detective was never a fan of card games; he found himself at an unfair advantage, given his mental prowess and fortune with probability, so he and (y/n) returned to Lestrade’s compartment, treading sluggishly as the night wore on.

They found the inspector equally weary as the long night stretched on. It was past midnight now – high time they should all be in bed, or at the very least, sitting in a comfortable spot to get their heads down. That, however, was impossible in their current situation, and the vigil turned into a challenging one, waylaid when they gathered on the cushioned benches to pool their limited knowledge.

The compartment was warm and reasonably snug, particularly when the lady finally got to take the weight off her heels and lean against her husband. Holmes steeled himself to wait out the night, smoking one or two strong cigarettes away from her pretty nose to keep himself going, yet even he felt the strain. He could not stand the mundane night’s watch because it did not sit right with him to anticipate some dreadful thing occurring simply – but sit he must, with his arms folded, lips pursed, and brows knitted.

“Mrs and Mrs Shallcross… Teapots!” Lestrade huffed as he glanced over his notes and reports, particularly his narrowing list of suspects. Gradually, they could exclude each passenger one by one, but merely looking at the silver pot before him was enough to make him scowl. “Well, we can eliminate them!”

“Not before you charge them for the heinous crime of teapot kidnapping,” answered (y/n) quietly, a mischievous smile fighting onto her face as she nuzzled into her husband’s shoulder.

Sherlock did not mind the weight of her head on him; instead, he welcomed her to doze against him, smiling handsomely in amusement at her and the inspector’s comments. His thick coat was draped across her knees to keep the chill off, although merely being beside his body was akin to a manly radiator – so warm it only made her sleepier with the lull of the rocking train also.

“Professor William Kilbane…” Lestrade said as he read off the next name, spitting it like poison when he remembered the infernal man’s rudeness. “I’ve sent a telegram to the Edinburgh Police to check up on that mathematics professor.”

“Interesting…” muttered Holmes pensively as the inspector scribbled away, and he seemed to ponder one word in particular – mathematics.

“What is it, Sherlock?” Asked (y/n) with a slight slur in her voice. She manoeuvred her position, twisting so she could lean so it would not offend her neck muscles when she woke, and the coat nearly fell off her knee. Luckily, Holmes was there to catch it, pulling the garment further up her torso so she was a little comfier, and it brought a smile to his face when his precious wife clutched his arm like a children’s cuddly toy.

“Oh, just a coincidence, my dear…” he replied, soothingly rubbing her hand to lure her back into a doze. “Get some rest. You will need it, I’m sure.”

“What is a coincidence?” Lestrade frowned, glancing up from his short list to stare at the frustratingly clever detective.

“The fact that this fellow, Kilbane, happens to be a professor of mathematics.”

“Come again, Mr Holmes?” The inspector’s frown only deepened, thoroughly puzzled by whatever insight he seemed to hold, given how Mrs Holmes also appeared to frown – albeit with her eyes closed. (y/n), however, she was not so clueless – more confused by her husband’s doubting.

“Lestrade, did you ever hear of Colonel Sebastian Moran?” Said Holmes, a thunderous scowl suddenly appearing on his countenance upon mentioning the godforsaken name that could be likened to that of Satan himself. Lestrade glowered simultaneously, not knowing why that devil had to be brought into the picture, not when he seemed utterly irrelevant.

“Of course I did. What about him?”

“Well, then, Colonel Sebastian Moran was the most sinister, ruthless, and diabolically clever of our late but unlamented friend, Professor Moriarty,” answered the detective, his tone never straying from its serious note as he closed his tired eyes for a moment. The severe change in conversation topic roused the lady from her light slumber, too unsettled to rest peacefully when anyone reminded her of that fiendish criminal.

“I’ve never seen him, but I’ve been unpleasantly conscious of his presence more than once. As a matter of fact, he was directly responsible for what very nearly turned out to be my premature death on three separate occasions.”

“Oh, my heart…” mumbled (y/n), and it was her turn to frown and pout at such a terrible thought. Her heart always clenched at such near-misses, not wanting to imagine what she would do if the Great Detective ever met his end. Yet, she hoped if the worst ever happened, he would go out with her holding his hand – just as he did now, squeezing it as small succour. “What I would do to get my hands on that awful man’s throat.”

“Very pretty, Mrs ‘Olmes, but what’s all that got to do with all this?”

“Possibly nothing,” answered Holmes coolly as he rested his head against the cushioned bench. He could allow himself a small convalescence, enjoying the little warmth of his bride beside him, especially in the face of Lestrade’s scepticism.

“However, his speciality was spectacular jewel robberies, and, for relaxation, he was addicted to the study of mathematics.”

“Sherlock, are you inferring that Professor Kilbane is Colonel Sebastian Moran? That he murdered Mr Carstairs and then stole the diamond?” Asked (y/n) incredulously, lifting her weary crown from his shoulder to gaze up at him with bleary, if unconvinced, eyes. “I already told you that I am sure it is him. I remember him working with my father many years ago in London.”

“I know, dear girl, but can you be sure it is the same man?” The detective pressed her, steely eyes searching for an answer, and her resolve wavered with the sudden possibility of doubt. “It was such a long time ago, and you were only a child.”

“Perhaps there is a small chance they are not the same person, but I can see them together, even now,” said the lady, recalling those much younger, distant faces with such vividness that her gut felt like it knew the truth. Her mind suddenly clouded, second-guessing her absolute surety since she always trusted his instincts – sometimes more than her own.

“Well, what about this woman? This, uh… Vivian Vedder?” Asked Lestrade, who could picture the brunette beauty even now, fiddling with her hair, makeup, or nails in her large compact mirror because she was a vain lady. “What about her? No one’s above suspicion.”

“Indeed, inspector. And I would argue Miss Vedder has something to hide,” answered Mrs Holmes, still not trusting the woman, and it wasn’t merely due to her stark beauty. She was so cold, calculating, and guarded – it unnerved her.

“And Lady Margaret…” This was where they disagreed, with the lady frowning upon hearing another doubter of her ladyship’s good name. “She might have a motive for wanting the Star of Rhodesia stolen. She wasn’t very concerned over the death of her son.”

“Perhaps she does not want to show the world her tears,” replied (y/n), and she noted how Holmes had been silent for a touch too long, observing and listening to their little think tank. “Some people do mourn in private, inspector.”

“Well, what about this friend of Doctor Watson’s? This Major Duncan-Bleek? It might be just as sensible to suspect him…” muttered Lestrade, making a fair point as they did not know the man, even with his apparent military history. Yet, they didn’t have evidence against him, so his suspect list returned to the table with a heavy hand and a deep sigh, fed up with the muddy business.

“No… As far as we know, only five persons knew the Star of Rhodesia was on this train. Yourself, Mr Holmes, Doctor Watson, the murdered…the dead lad, and myself.”

“And Lady Margaret…” added Holmes, breaking his statuesque silence when the inspector forgot a crucial piece in their puzzle. A frown deepened on Lestrade’s face, wondering how he could forget the noblewoman when she knew about the diamond all along – and she was the sole survivor of a bunch whom he could trust. And he did not know her from Eve.

“I’ll have another talk with her ladyship!” He suddenly announced, rapidly standing from the bench and marching out the door.

Even though he did not leave, Holmes rose, peering into the corridor, watching as the inspector headed for Lady Margaret’s compartment. With his precious wife returning to her dozing, unbothered by what would surely be a wild goose chase, the detective observed, curious to see the doors to Miss Vedder’s compartment also crack open. Her head popped out, eavesdropping on the policeman when he knocked on the neighbouring door and slipped inside—and it looked as though him being on the prowl made her as jumpy as a jackrabbit.

Her behaviour only grew stranger when she happened to glance the other way, a silent but unmistakable gasp leaving her lips upon seizing his tall, dark figure observing her. Miss Vedder could not move quickly enough, hurrying into her boudoir once more before anyone else noticed her. Yet, Holmes had seen enough.

“What is it, ‘Lock?” Asked (y/n), who, for the most selfish of reasons, was glad to have his shoulder back when he returned to his seat. Her eyelids felt as heavy as lead, begging for the sweet succour of sleep when his subtle cologne and the scent of his favourite tobacco – the familiar smell of home – soothed her senses. Still, she could feel a draught coming through the room, and his body was wrought with tension.

“Nothing, my darling…” answered the man, crossing his legs so his side pressed against hers, permitting her to rest against him again. Yet, it was not wholly for selfless reasons of affection; whilst it gave him the sweetest warmth, he could crane his neck to peer through the door, which he had purposefully left ajar to look and listen for everything that moved outside.

He did not have to wait long. Not a minute after Miss Vedder peeked out, a man bumbled down the corridor, acting like an innocent passerby. Careful not to disturb his wife, Holmes’ steely eyes were like a hawk’s, watching Professor Kilbane’s every move as he crept to the end of the corridor before rounding the corner – where he was frustratingly out of sight.

“Ah, there you are, Holmes!” And then, the detective's hope of quiet observation and espionage vanished like birds after a gunshot.

“(y/n) is sleeping, old fellow,” said the detective when Watson reappeared in his usual loud and brash fashion.

It made the poor girl stir, moaning slightly when his voice made her voice, but she quickly settled down when her darling husband squeezed her hand. The good doctor muttered his apologies, not that the woman would ever hold it against him, and he slipped silently into their compartment, yet not before Holmes spoke again. “Leave it open, will you?”

“Lucky beggar…” muttered Watson under his breath, having just returned from a somewhat disappointing round of card games with his old friend, and he made a poor go of it.

“Who’s a lucky beggar?” Holmes questioned, his gaze never moving from the end of the corridor. He waited for the slightest movement, knowing something stirred down there, and he wanted to know what it was – more than anything so trivial that bothered his associate.

“Duncan-Bleek,” answered the doctor, the slight huff of a sore loser in his voice. “Been playing cards with him. He won all the way across. I believe the expression is.”

“Have you been with him all this time?” Asked the detective, returning to Lestrade’s well-founded suspicion of the man. He still did not look away from the foot of the luggage van, nor did he cease rubbing his thumb over his dear girl’s knuckles, but something about Watson’s otherwise dull conversation was scintillating.

“Yes…just left him. He introduced me to a new-fangled game. Gin rummy, he called it—American, I believe. A lot of book-keeping connected with it…” said Watson, whose mathematical ability had always been limited to measuring medical doses and counting pills. He had no chance against his friend’s sharp intellect – an interesting fact that Holmes only heard and noted for a second before he was off.

Something caught his eye; he could not say what it was – perhaps it was merely a shadow, but his insatiable curiosity would not let him leave it alone. As the good doctor rambled on, Holmes slipped away quietly, but not before ensuring his darling was settled. She fussed a little when he moved but quickly leaned against the headrest; looking so precious, he could not help but pull his heavy coat over her little figure to fight off the chill.

With a final, tender touch against her soft cheek, the detective had vanished when Watson turned around again, his words trailing off upon seeing an empty space save for the girl.

“Ever heard of it—? Holmes?”

“I think he went for a constitutional, doctor…” said (y/n) quietly, who was not so sleepy that she was unaware of her surroundings, which would have been inadvisable with a murderer on the prowl. She knew the moment her husband left, leaving an evergreen smile on her face when she felt the backs of his fingers brush against her cheeks like a gentle breeze.

“Do you know when he will be back?” Asked Watson, plonking himself down upon realising she was right. Holmes was forever wandering off on his own, but he always returned – usually with the answers he searched for. The only question was…when? “I never did like it when he went off on his own without backup.”

“He shall return, my dear doctor. Fear not…” she replied, nuzzling the collar of the coat he draped over her, protecting her and smothering her senses with his scent, even when he was gone.

“Sherlock Holmes can handle himself.”

Chapter Text

It was easy for Sherlock Holmes to sneak down the train, his footsteps as light and almost feline as he crept toward the luggage van to satiate his curiosity.

The air felt close and spooky, as if something lingered in the shadow, and the detective was careful to look over his shoulder as he approached the quietest part of the train. The corridor was lonely – not a soul in sight – yet Holmes could not help but feel a presence, friendly or otherwise, and upon reaching the door to the caboose, he saw something strange.

Perhaps it was unwise to investigate alone, even if his wife was merely a slip of a girl, and even if Watson was a terrible bungler, at least they would cover his back. Still, it was too late to go back now, so he approached the open door before him. That was the strange thing; it was supposed to be a port for the porters and workmen to load the passengers’ luggage, but for no reason should it have been open whilst they hurtled toward the Scottish border.

And perhaps, it was not so wise to get so close—close enough for the inquisitive man to brace his hands on the doorframe and peer outside at the racing, pitch-black countryside. There was nothing to see, simply provincial shacks, power lines, and sheep, which only puzzled him further.

He looked around again, wondering if he had happened on a rare occasion where his instincts were incorrect. The scurrying shadow was merely a trick of the light – a rational enough explanation, so he made to turn back and return to his friend and beloved. However, he never took a step.

A significant blow hit him from behind, and later, when his mind made sense of the shock, he realised it was the force of a man kicking him with some momentum. It sent the detective flying through the open door, and only by a sheer miracle was he able to grasp the doorframe at the last moment, clinging to it for dear life since the other option meant certain death on the railway tracks.

As Holmes clung to that one and only lifeline, his attacker shushed at him, wearing a handkerchief fashioned as a mask and a flat cap pulled low over his brow, concealing his identity. It was, however, a bigger concern to survive at the moment than discover who he was, given how he rained vicious kicks on the detective to try and push him to his doom. Holmes had seldom felt such terror, heart pounding in his ears when one hand slipped from the doorframe.

He dangled from the train, his fingertips nearly shaved off by the gravel under the perilous wheels, but he managed to pull himself up with remarkable strength. The unknown man tried to cut him off, attempting to pull the door shut and lock him out, just as Holmes fought him off.

If he were a younger man again, he might have made it, but the ache in his arms was too much, and he fell again, leaving him no choice but to reach around the corner to grab onto a piece of weak metal. The wind whipped at his face as the side door slammed shut – regrettable, but it was better than receiving a grievous injury from that brute.

Finding himself outside the train’s slipstream, partially blinded by the terrible wind, Holmes watched as another locomotive dragon raced past, fitted with bright, white lights and a billowing chimney. He felt utterly vulnerable and isolated out there, at the mercy of the elements, but if only he knew how Watson searched for him – how he was only a mere foot away on the other side of the locked door. It was utterly heartbreaking to think he might have reached and opened the door to drag his old friend to safety, yet the detective was left to fend for himself.

He tried the door handle but regrettably found it locked, so it was time to take evasive action. Holmes had never been one for senseless vandalism, but this was an emergency, and he had no qualms about breaking the window. Leaning back, gripping the strongest metalwork to hang onto, he swung his foot to a ninety-degree angle, shattering the glass and making a terrible mess.

However, he did not find it in himself to care about apologising for the damage, reaching into the carriage with a shaky hand to feel the inner handle. The lethal shards still stuck in the frame cut into his suit, threatening to nick and pierce his skin, but he was cautious, swiftly gripping the handle and opening the door, which he hauled himself through.

Holmes had never been so grateful to feel safe ground, thanking his luckiest stars for that close shave. The only thing he wanted to do after his ordeal was crawl to his compartment, seeking the comfort and support of his closest friends to steady his rattled nerves.

In the compartment, (y/n) was awake again, stirred by the perturbed doctor, who had searched for the detective along the corridor only to discover he was nowhere to be found. She believed there to be a reasonable explanation, but to Watson, Holmes was gone—vanished—stolen—heaven knows what, and he could not understand it.

“He vanished into thin air…”

“Are you sure you did not miss him? Perhaps he did not go that way, or he was in another compartment,” suggested (y/n), who had since wiped the sleep from her eyes and folded her husband’s coat beside her. The exhaustion still sat in her bones, calling for her bed, but she would soldier on, and she could not sleep whilst her heart was away – or missing, as Watson seemed to believe.

He plopped onto the bench across from her, worried but not enough to stop him lighting up his pipe. The sight of the flame in the bowl made her nose twitch in anticipation of the foul, choking stench, but a welcome sight suddenly distracted her. And suddenly, loathsome tobacco was the last thing on her mind.

“Sherlock!” The lady exclaimed, beaming upon seeing her husband and how his large hands ran through his dark, tussled hair, slicking it back into its usual neat style. The move made her swoon, staring at him with a star-struck gaze that distracted her from how uncharacteristically unkempt the rest of him was – shirt rumpled, tied loose and untucked, jacket creased.

“There you are!” Watson greeted him also, too preoccupied with his pipe to look up and notice anything, and the man’s lack of response did not concern him, either. “Where on earth have you been?”

(y/n), however, did start to notice something was amiss.

Her love was a kind, courteous man, and it was not like him to ignore a straightforward question, nor did he ever ignore her sweet smiles, not without returning it. Then, upon further inspection, as she stared a little closer at the detective, she saw the perspiration clinging to his forehead and the general disarray of his person, particularly when Holmes weakly pulled the handkerchief from his top pocket. It was enough to make her brow furrow in concern.

“Sherlock?” Her voice was quiet and full of worry as he slumped next to her, looking so utterly weak and unlike his usual, stern, steeled self. He dabbed his face with the small cloth, not wanting to meet her eye in case she saw his weakness as the adrenaline wore off to be replaced with pure fatigue, but his precious wife did not waver.

“Is everything all right?” Her hand found his clammy one, gripping it tightly as Holmes crossed his legs and panted raggedly, and it was then that he squeezed it back, needing her touch like a lifeline since he might have left her a widow far too soon.

“I asked where you had been?” Watson pressed, finally looking up from his pipe, and he suddenly saw the problem as well. “Holmes? What’s happened?”

“I’ve been observing the landscape from the door at the end of the corridor,” answered Holmes at last, and they noted the tiredness in his tone. He stuffed the handkerchief away again, not bothering to fold it properly before adjusting his tie, adjusting the knot and tucking the length into his suit smartly.

“I’ve just been along there. I didn’t see you. The door was shut…” said the good doctor, having bumbled around like a bee when he grew concerned with how long he had been gone.

“Naturally. I was on the outside.”

“The outside…?” (y/n) frowned at her husband’s words, and it took her a moment to figure it out. When she did, a small gasp left her red lips, eyes widening as Holmes finally looked at her, and she was distressed to see a slight smile on his handsome face. “Sherlock!”

“Brave heart, dear girl…” He told her quietly, still squeezing her now trembling fingers as she thought about what danger he had been in – and all the while, they had been sleeping and sitting idly by. If she lost him…she did not even want to think about the pain – it would surely break her heart. “As you can see, I’m perfectly all right.”

“And what if you weren’t?” She asked, and the distress was evident in her voice as he brought her knuckles to his lips. “What would I do if something were to happen to you, my heart?”

“It shall be a long time before we are parted, my dear,” said Holmes softly, feeling the chill of her golden rings against his skin, and he knew he would not let her go for the world – no treacherous villain would tear him away, either. She was a strong woman and understood the risks of the game—she knew the man she married even better, and it endeared her to him endlessly.

“And now, I think we’ll take a look at that coffin. If you remember, we were interrupted the last time.”

They looked in Watson’s direction as he said that, and the doctor could only blush and mutter his apologies when he remembered how he jumped the gun. A return to normality – or as normal as investigating a murder got – sounded like just the thing to soothe her anxieties, and (y/n) smiled gently at her lover, glad to see his energy had returned.

Taking her by the hand, Holmes rose and pulled her out of the compartment, closely followed by Watson as usual. He said nothing more on the matter, wanting to forget about his awful, near-death experience, but he silently confessed to her warmth being the reason for his strength. The terror of leaving her alone on the earth kept his fight alive, knowing the beautiful girl who pledged her love to him deserved more than an early widowhood.

Holmes swore to keep his vow and more until death did them part, and after that, he could only hope he would still hold her hand.

Chapter Text

Holmes, (y/n), and Watson crept along the corridor, heading for the luggage van as the detective led the way, albeit with added caution this time.

After his ruthless attack that nearly ended in his demise, Holmes tread carefully, once bitten twice shy since he now had his beloved wife and friend with him. They made for excellent company and backup, but he would not be fooled again, ready for anything as they approached the final door at the end of the train – reserved for personnel only. He was, however, determined to go through with his investigation, no matter the blockades, and every step was like sweet satisfaction for his insatiable curiosity.

Nothing and no one could stop him now – not that the lady or doctor ever would, watching silently with wrapped attention as he knocked sharply on the door, waiting eagerly for the guard on the other side to answer. There was no sign of life for a few seconds—nothing to suggest that a living soul sat beyond the wood, minding his own business, so Holmes tried again, knocking with a little more energy to ensure the guard heard him.

This time, a man answered, cracking the door open and peeping out as timid as a church mouse. He looked like one, too, long and thin with rat-like features, including a hooked nose and dark brown eyes. A littleness about him made it easy for them to force their way in, with Holmes immediately entering the van without asking permission.

It may have been rude to barge in like a chambermaid, but he swiftly sized the conductor up as a queer sort, yet not one to argue much. He did not look like much of a fighter by any means.

“I’m Sherlock Holmes. Do you mind if I inspect a coffin you are taking to Scotland?” Asked the detective, although he would do it with or without the conductor’s authority.

“No one is allowed in here, Mr Holmes!” The man was perfectly polite in his answer – perhaps a little disturbed, but he seldom saw anyone once the train left the station. He very much kept himself to himself in the luggage van, with little more than his own thoughts to pass the time.

“I’ll take the responsibility…” said Holmes casually, and he strolled away with astounding confidence, leading his companions away from the stuttering, spluttering man. “If you will excuse me…”

“It’s over there…at the back,” murmured (y/n) as she peered into the room, looking past all the trunks, boxes, and suitcases that were too large for a compartment. She heard the guard shut the door firmly before scurrying after them, more worried about the rules of his job than whatever concerned them about the coffin, which stood in the corner of the room, perched atop some sturdy crates since it would be improper to leave it on the floor.

Outwardly, there was nothing strange about it; the box was made out of expensive mahogany, carved beautifully and set with fine golden handles, although the detective suspected they were only well-disguised brass. Yet, he knew it was the coffin of someone wealthier than the average man, and that did not surprise him when he paired it with the attractive young lady who boarded with it. But for all its unassuming appearances, he could not help but wonder…

“Does it occur to you, Watson, that this is a very unusual coffin?” He asked the doctor, who stared at it with his usual glazed expression. Being so close to such a deathly thing sent a shiver down his spine, so he did not notice everything screaming that it had some secrets.

“I don‘t know. A trifle ornate, perhaps?”

“I wasn’t thinking of the fittings…” muttered Holmes as he peered at the dimensions, disregarding any of the splendour adorning the coffin, which he suspected were cleverly used to divert attention away from what he believed to be sinister secrets. “Do you mind if we open it?”

“It’s forbidden, sir!” Replied the guard firmly, and (y/n) did not blame him for being obtrusive to their investigation. It was in bad taste to disturb the dead, but her husband was determined, folding his arms with an authoritative air.

“Go on, Watson…”

“But you can’t do that, sir!” He cried when Watson stepped forward to prise the lid open, his gaze flying wide at the thought of possibly disturbing and damaging such precious cargo. Holmes was not phased, returning a sterner stare that quickly put the man in his place.

“We’ll have to…” he told the guard, who was swiftly pushed out of the way as the good doctor unfastened all the bolts around the edges of the coffin. He made quick work of it, and, after gesturing for his sweet wife to step back, Holmes aided in lifting it, carefully pulling it wide so the trio could peer inside at the deceased.

“A little, old lady…” said (y/n), seeing a real enough corpse as she had done many times in her life – and at least this was clean and prepared for burial. The poor woman must have been sixty if she was a day, with pale, powdered skin and grey, frizzed hair scraped into a severe bun. She looked as though she was sleeping, yet for such a large coffin, her small, fragile frame did not fill the box.

“As I thought…shallow,” said Holmes, marking the woman’s depth with his fingertip, and the extra space allowed another foot or so beneath the cadaver – just enough room for a slim person to slide in. “The body only comes down to about here.”

“Do you think there is a secret compartment underneath, ‘Lock?” Asked (y/n) as the detective lowered the lid again. He understood the old lady was real enough, so he respectfully left her undisturbed as he gave his lover a pensive look.

“There has to be, my dear!”

Immediately, his hands began to search for a handle, button, switch, panel—anything that might trigger a mechanism to the secret compartment. It was the only theory that made sense, as no coffinmaker in the world would leave such a gap.

He found it quickly, pushing a small brassy knob near the end of the box, and low and behold, a small door slid open, revealing a nook that could easily conceal a slim man if he could hold his nerve in a cramped hole. A quick glance inside told them that whoever had stowed onboard had already fled, and Holmes could guess where that someone was and what they were up to.

“Empty!” Gasped Watson as the conductor watched with an intensely curious gaze – almost as if he were possessed.

“Yes, but it has been recently occupied…” answered Holmes, who swiped his fingers across the compartment’s bottom, collecting a light dusting of dirt on his fingers. It told him that someone’s dirty shoes once lay there, although not anymore, and he turned to Watson.

“Will you ask Lestrade to come in here? He’s with Lady Margaret.”

“Right you are, Holmes!” The doctor nodded before hastily turning on his heel to dash out of the luggage van and find the only policeman aboard.

It left Holmes and his wife alone with the queer guard, who watched their every move, listened to their every word, and ensured that everything they wanted to say had to be chosen carefully. Moving away from the coffin, preferring to leave the evidence intact for when the inspector arrived, (y/n) turned to her husband, whispering so as not to alert the stranger.

“If the compartment is empty, Sherlock, doesn’t that mean…?”

“Yes…” he answered gravely, and Holmes did not need his inquisitiveness to sense her nerves at the apparent revelation. The box was empty, which only meant one thing, and it had the lady looping her arm through his to grasp the crook of his elbow, knowing the stowaway would not be a friendly one. (y/n) would wager her last pound that they had something to do with her beloved husband’s escapade outside.

“Have you let anyone else in here?” The detective asked the guard once they reached the small, rickety desk he used during the journey.

There was not much paperwork for him to do, merely sifting through various inventory lists and so forth, but one thing caught Holmes’ eye. Before the chair, where he had previously sat, were several sheets of scribbled formulae – equations, calculations, and various mathematical models that were complicated but of no consequence—a rather odd thing for a simple railway employee to do during his duties.

“No…” answered the man, although something in his voice made (y/n) unsure whether he was telling the truth. Her husband showed her the paper, allowing her expert eye to glance over the scrawled symbols and digits, and she certainly noticed a marked difference between his workings and those she had witnessed with Professor Kilbane.

“Do you usually practice mathematics, sir?” Asked the lady kindly, despite receiving none of the same warmth from the guard.

“Gives me something to do, miss…” he replied before swiftly ripping his work from her hands. Any smiles or polite expressions fell when he crumpled the paper and tossed it to the floor, staring at the bristling detective with pointed animosity.

Holmes was the wrong man to fall foul of, particularly when he disrespected his wife.

“If you would excuse us for a moment…” said Holmes to the guard as he fought to keep a civil tongue in his mouth. With no reaction or further words from him, the couple moved to a shadowy corner to talk amongst themselves, although the guard never missed how their gazes occasionally slipped to him.

“Well, what did you make of it, darling?” He asked once they had some modicum of privacy, his hands gripping her elbows. She looked up at him with wide, doe-like eyes, heart fluttering at the tenderness she saw in his own, and if they were truly alone, nothing would have prevented her from pulling him closer.

“The man’s positively rude,” answered (y/n) with a slight huff, and her husband found it truly adorable how she pouted and glared. It only served to make him more protective of her, leaning in to be only just north of proper. “Did you see how he snatched it from my hand? Nearly gave me a paper cut…”

“Oh, my poor girl…” muttered the detective, tenderness bleeding through his tone as he took one hand into his own as if to heal any invisible wounds, and the sentimental display was worth it to see her cheer up a little. “Yes, he was beastly, but what about the mathematics? Was it, shall we say…up to your standards?”

“Hardly. Several of his equations were miswritten, he miscarried digits in every division, and a child could practically solve one of the questions he got wrong,” said the lady with all the strictness of a starchy schoolteacher.

She was tenderhearted, of course, and kind to a fault, but she also took pride in what she classed as her greatest skill. To see such sloppy sums and careless mistakes grated her nerves and made her long to correct every incorrect answer with a red marker – if the guard had not screwed it up, that is. His rudeness inflamed her disgust, and if she were any less of a lady, she would have cracked a crude joke about how the long hours he spent practising his arithmetic were in vain, frowning as the man eavesdropped on whatever he could pick up.

“Curious…” replied Holmes, glancing off to the side as her answer threw him, and she noticed it immediately.

“He’s not the man you were expecting, I perceive,” said (y/n), and she was wise to use a little sympathy for her husband because she recalled the fiend he swore they were after. That Moran fellow…the brilliant mathematician; she was sure that was who he was angling at, but she knew in her bones it could not be the guard. At least, he was not the colonel himself – the man was practically a mathematical moron.

“I shall find him, my darling,” answered her husband, his firm voice leaving no room for doubt, not that she would ever question his resolve. His stout heart and strong moral compass endeared him to her, amongst many other qualities. “He’s here… I feel it.”

“Just do not go falling out of trains again, my heart,” she said to him with a teasing smile as she placed her palms flatly against his chest, smoothing any remaining wrinkles from that unfortunate debacle.“Although I fear if our coffin-dweller is abroad, the stakes are significantly higher.”

“For you, my dear, I shall endeavour to keep my feet on solid ground,” replied Sherlock, and an equally beguiling grin grew on his handsome features as he tenderly gripped her forearms. Any more, and he would break the boundaries of propriety, making it long for him to send away that infernal guard and savour her attention a while longer.

“How about if I stay by your side?”

“That, Mr Holmes, would be the wisest choice of all.” (y/n) beamed at her, practically radiating joy and warm affection as she gently touched his cheek, so utterly caught up in the brief moment to themselves that when the door burst open, her hand jerked as if it had been burned.

She and Holmes split in the blink of an eye, spinning around to see Watson marching into the room with Lestrade closely in tow, just as he had been told to do. They could not blame him for arriving so promptly, and a pinkish blush seeped into their cheeks as the gentlemen shuffled into the room past the guard.

“What is all this, Mr Holmes?” Asked the inspector, who was fortunately too distracted by the clutter and eccentricities of the luggage van to notice the couple in the corner. Holmes, a master of every situation, played off the interruption as though it never happened, guiding the men back to the coffin with (y/n) not far behind him—and she was clever enough to act just as shrewdly.

“There’s where your murderer has been hiding, Lestrade,” said the detective, pointing to the secret opening, and the inspector quickly crouched to get a good look. He near enough stuck his whole head into the cavity, gawping at the incredible discovery – and the nerve of some criminals.

“Now, it’s just a question of finding him, isn’t it, Mr Holmes?” He asked smugly, looking as pleased as punch to have driven the mole out of his hole.

“Not him,” argued Holmes, much to his associates’ surprise as they hung off his every word. “Them. This affair is obviously the work of two men. The one who planned it and the other, who hid in the coffin and, at the prearranged time, emerged to commit the murder and affect the robbery.”

“What are you talking about?” Asked Lestrade, a profound frown etching itself onto his moustached face, although it quickly dissolved into pure amusement when the man continued.

“Colonel Sebastian Moran.”

“You have got that man on the brain, Mr Holmes,” said the inspector, a slight chuckle in his throat at the outlandish suggestion, yet the detective did not flinch, sure in his deductive reasoning.

“My dear Lestrade, I accepted this case because I was virtually certain that Colonel Sebastian Moran could not resist such a tempting morsel as the Star of Rhodesia,” answered Holmes firmly, who quietly had his own suspicions on who was their man. Lestrade’s doubt was irksome, and it showed in his voice, but he tried to be patient – to get him onside.

All the while, their friend, the guard, listened from his desk, earwigging every detail about the criminal mastermind, and (y/n) did not miss how his pencil halted on his foolscap paper. He was a nosy beggar, but at least he was no longer making such grievous calculation errors.

“I’m convinced he is the brains behind this case and is on this train.”

“Oh?” The inspector quirked an eyebrow, leaving a sour taste in the lady’s mouth since she did not like that disparaging note in his voice. Sarcasm was not becoming. “And how would you go about finding out which one of the passengers is this Colonel Sebastian Moran?”

“If he is one of the passengers…” added (y/n) tersely, her gaze drifting to the strange, morose man in the corner. The men looked at him, too, noticing how the guard swiftly returned to his scribblings upon such scrutiny, and Lestrade recalled his previous words: no one was above suspicion.

“Well, I suggest that you start by questioning Miss Vedder. It might prove interesting,” replied the Great Detective, which made both the inspector and his beloved wife perk up.

The former jumped at the idea of having a clear suspect, and without doubt, the brunette had some explaining to do about her so-called mother’s coffin. (y/n), however, would secretly confess to looking forward to seeing her squirm, disliking the woman from the minute her detective husband began to suspect her.

No lady enjoyed seeing her love look elsewhere, even in a professional capacity, and besides, she had sensed a sinister quality to the otherwise handsome woman from the start.

“Oh!” Lestrade gasped. He took one look at his list to check what compartment belonged to Vivian Vedder, and then, he was off, almost sprinting out of the luggage van with the three companions following closely behind him. That just left the guard to lock the door after them, sealing himself inside the cell-like room with the mysterious coffin fit for a murderer.

(y/n) could not wait to hear Miss Vedder explain away this one.

Chapter Text

Lestrade could not get to Miss Vedder’s compartment quickly enough, making quite the amusing sight as his little legs scurried down the corridor.

Holmes, (y/n), and Watson tagged along behind him, allowing the official policeman to do all the barging and entering since he had the authority. Yet, the detective was keener than all to speak to the mysterious brunette inside, hoping she would divulge some vital information or at least provide some insight. (y/n) remained dignified and serious, although her more childish side relished seeing the loathsome beauty get her comeuppance. As such, she was practically beaming when Lestrade’s knuckles wrapped on the compartment door.

“Who’s there?” A soft, feminine voice asked from inside, marred only by its cockney twang that Mrs Holmes compared to nails on a chalkboard- irritatingly grating.

The men opened the doors and stepped inside to see the handsome woman sitting comfortably inside, her handbag resting on her crossed legs. Still, Holmes immediately saw an anxious tension in her otherwise calm expression. Perhaps she had heard about their discovery in the luggage van…

“Miss Vedder?” Said the inspector as he stepped inside, and suddenly, the brunette found herself surrounded. “We want to ask you a few questions, and I must warn you. Anything you say may be used against you.”

“Oh?” Miss Vedder raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow, imitating a perfectly practised face of surprise and innocence—as if they could not suspect her of anything.

“Now, about your mother…”

“It isn’t your mother after all, is it?” Asked Holmes, who sidestepped the inspector to sit beside the dark-haired beauty, wanting to see every minute reaction, even if it meant he got a little too close for his wife’s liking.

“Perhaps if you explain…” said Miss Vedder, still attempting to maintain her lies, yet it was plain to see how she clutched her bag a little tighter. Having the detective so close unnerved her, intimidated by his cold, calculating gaze, not to mention the others looming over her. Still, all she could do was deny their accusations.

“We examined your coffin and found the secret compartment, Vivian,” said (y/n) with false sweetness in her voice, and when their eyes met, the women glared at each other with murderous looks. “There’s no use in lying anymore.”

It did not help how Holmes’ knee brushed the brunette’s, nor how his hand sat dangerously close to hers on the cushioned bench, which infuriated the lady further when mixed with the outright deceit. Then, for a few seconds, Miss Vedder said nothing, although they could almost see the cogs whirring in her mind, pondering her next move – probably a lie – when Lestrade’s patience wore thin with her secrecy.

“Oh, come on! Let’s have it!” He exclaimed as he slumped onto the couch across from her, unperturbed by the woman’s cold stare.

“Have what?” She asked demurely, sitting a little straighter to try and hold her nerve.

“The whole story!” The inspector leaned in a little closer, his lived-in face twisting into a sneer, and with so many watching, Miss Vedder finally relented. Deep down, she knew it was futile and had taken such a risk.

“If you insist…” muttered the handsome lady, glancing at Holmes as he listened intently, although she did not show a shred of regret or guilt – almost as if it was tiresome to explain her actions to the police. “A man approached me and asked me to take a coffin to Scotland. He offered me a hundred pounds!”

“Were you aware that the coffin had a secret compartment?” Asked Holmes, studying her flawless countenance for any sign of lies, but Miss Vedder was remarkably cool under pressure, maintaining her gaze at the wall behind Lestrade’s head. His presence did not even phase her.

“I was…”

“What did this person tell you to account for a man being concealed in the coffin?” He questioned as she finally looked at her, appearing utterly unimpressed with the whole thing.

“That someone had to leave London. Foreign agents were watching the train…” answered the dark-haired woman, which pulled a bemused scoff from Holmes’ lips and perhaps a silent chuckle from (y/n) as air blew through her nose.

“Foreign agents!” He tutted, clacking his teeth together, and even Miss Vedder seemed to realise how ludicrous the excuse seemed. Yet, (y/n) supposed she was governed more by money than morals, seeing the one hundred pounds and grabbing it – no questions asked if it meant keeping her in the latest fashions and finest jewellery.

“All right… Maybe I didn’t believe that foreign agent story.”

“You realise, of course, that this makes you an accomplice,” said Lestrade sternly, and whilst it was likely a judge would deal with her leniently, Miss Vedder still appeared unaffected. She never once batted an eyelash at the threat of punishment or a criminal record; she simply answered every question thrown at her – all in her grating Cockney accent.

“What was the name of the man who approached you?”

“I don’t remember…” replied the lady, acting annoyingly stubborn whenever Holmes probed for more detail, but he was not dissuaded.

Instead, he kept his wits about him, hearing a person arrive at the door before he saw them in the corner of his eye, and then, he noticed it was Watson’s old friend. Standing beside the doctor, Major Duncan-Bleek peered into the compartment, having conveniently just happened to walk by amidst their interrogation, and it was then that the detective decided to place his ace.

“Miss Vedder…” he began slowly as Duncan-Bleek stepped into the room, frowning at Watson since he did not have a clue what was happening, but the man would not interrupt now. “The man who engaged you to take this coffin to Scotland, was it by any chance…this man here?”

In the face of pure shock and perhaps even a little outrage, Holmes held his nerve. For a second, a pin drop could be heard in the compartment as all eyes landed on the man the detective stared at – the man no one knew from Adam, and even Watson could not say to know him terribly well—a certain Major Duncan-Bleek.

All the colour drained from the major’s face, and he frowned at Holmes for making such a suggestion. His innocent stare could rival Miss Vedder’s, mouth bobbing open like a gasping fish as he tried to defend himself, but, of course, the surprise accusation was too much for him. He, a murderer? It seemed preposterous, and even Watson could not help but question his judgment.

“I say, old man, aren’t you making a mistake?” Asked the doctor, an expression of utter alarm and bewilderment gripping his features as his old friend stood glumly beside him.

“My dear Watson, just what do you know about Major Duncan-Bleek?”

“I’ve known him for years. He’s a member of my club!” Argued Watson, who could not believe the major to be a villain or a thief. Lestrade and (y/n) watched silently, both a little starstruck by the sudden development. Whilst the inspector wondered if his associate had finally gotten it wrong, the lady trusted in her husband, standing beside him with her head held high since she suspected he had some clever plan to make the wild accusation worthwhile.

“I say…is—is this a joke?” Spluttered Duncan-Bleek, glancing timidly at Holmes, only to see no smile or other sign of mischief, merely a stern and serious expression.

“Does the name Colonel Moran mean anything to you, sir?” Asked the detective, who studied the major’s face for the slightest telling reaction, he stared back blankly.

“Colonel Moran?”

“Yes, Colonel Sebastian Moran.”

“Why, I’m afraid it doesn’t,” answered Duncan-Bleek, as meek and mild-mannered as the humblest of men as he blinked innocently at the Great Detective. “Good heavens, you don’t think that I—?!”

“Oh, no, no, no!” Replied Holmes as he suddenly backtracked from his harsh words – almost as if he was playing mind games with the man. “Of course not. You have the perfect alibi. Doctor Watson.”

“Yes, yes, yes, of course!” Said Watson, knowing he had been with the fellow during the murder and theft so that he could have possibly committed it. Although Holmes knew that did not mean he wasn’t the mastermind behind it all, he played along for the moment, having only wanted to test the waters to see what would happen if he bandied the name around again.

“Good heavens, gentlemen, you’re at perfect liberty to search my compartment—search me! If you find the diamond, I…”

“Oh, that won’t be necessary…” answered Holmes coolly, interrupting the major’s infernal babbling as he revealed the trick up his sleeve – perfectly planned to draw out his enemy in the only way he could. “The Star of Rhodesia has not been stolen.”

“What’s that, Mr Holmes?!” Like everyone, Lestrade gasped upon hearing the sudden news. He jumped to his feet in a flash, eyes blown wide open at the revelation because if it was true, what on earth had they been doing all this time?

The gentlemen beside Holmes also stood there in stunned silence, leaving only (y/n) still calm and composed, and that was only because she had a clue from the start.

His whispered confession betwixt their lips during that passionate embrace was enough for her to understand some of his plan, yet she did not think her husband would go to such dramatic lengths. Then again, he had always loved a theatrical flare, and perhaps, she supposed, it made for a more tempting trap for his prey.

“I do believe an imitation was stolen,” said (y/n), whose elbow brushed her lover’s as she glanced at him, knowing she was safe to speak about it now—and he would not silence her so passionately as he did before. “Mr Holmes has the real one.”

“You’ve got it?!” Gasped the inspector, incredulously staring at Holmes and frowning at his impeccable composure.

“My dear Lestrade… Surely, you did not think I would allow Lady Margaret to retain the genuine diamond when I felt reasonably certain that an attempt would be made to steal it?” said the detective, a slight smile in his voice. He had always loved a teasing game, playing little tricks that no one else knew about, and to see his reaction made it all the sweeter.

“I have had it in my possession almost from the moment since I boarded the train. The only person who was observant enough to realise was my wife.”

Reaching into his suit jacket, Holmes pulled a small pouch from his inner breast pocket. It was small, made of soft suede, and so inconspicuous that he could have made it to Edinburgh without anyone noticing. Yet, now he had to gamble on its safety if they were to catch their man, and so, he pulled the treasure from its cave, watching as it immediately sparkled under the bright, white lights.

“Mr Holmes, you had no right to do that. This is a police matter!” And, of course, Lestrade scolded him for his secrecy like a furious mother berating her naughty child. “Come on, let me ‘ave it!”

“My job was to see that it wasn’t stolen. It wasn’t,” answered the detective simply, with almost a hint of pride for a job well done despite the poor lad lying dead down the corridor. He swiftly handed the diamond to Lestrade, casually placing it in his palm for all to see, and he ensured that he waved it under Major Duncan-Bleek’s nose for a long second.

“Look, I don’t know what this is all about, but I do know that I have never seen this man before in my life,” said Miss Vedder, who had grown tired of the circus currently happening in her compartment, with the men talking and swapping jewels over her head like a bank exchange.

It was not a helpful statement for Holmes’ investigation, with Watson believing that it exonerated his friend. Still, he theorised that anyone could have given her the coffin on Moran’s orders—or she was a particularly good liar.

“I shall have to ask you to remain in your compartment until we reach Edinburgh,” Lestrade told the statuesque woman, who again did not react. (y/n) truly thought she was a specimen if it was not too ugly to think about someone.

“Inspector Lestrade!” Then, the conductor appeared at the door, breaking the men apart as he peered over the major’s shoulder. Why he was there was known only to Lestrade, who frowned upon seeing him and then stepped outside, tucking the Star of Rhodesia into his pocket as he did. “A telegram for you, sir…”

The conductor handed him a small, pale envelope, which the inspector hurriedly opened whilst Holmes, his beloved wife, and Watson stepped outside.

They watched as he walked a little further away down the corridor, muttering to himself as he read the message, and the detective decided to follow him, knowing it was something critically important. After all, Scotland Yard inspectors only ever received vital information.

As her husband left, (y/n) naturally followed him, as curious as he was about the new development, leaving Watson alone with Duncan-Bleek, muttering his apologies for the slightly awkward conversation from Holmes.

“I’m sorry, old man,” said the doctor dourly, and he would admit to being a little disappointed in the deceive for walking away without so much as an apologetic word. It was not every day a man was accused of murder, and if he was done so wrongly, his accuser should at least have the decency to own up to it – although not Holmes. “I’m afraid my friend owes you an apology.”

“Oh, that’s all right, Watson. In a case like this, naturally, everyone’s under suspicion,” answered Duncan-Bleek, his voice just loud enough for everyone in the corridor to hear. (y/n) suspected that was intentional, maintaining his angelic, harmless appearance, but she preferred it to an argument; she never liked seeing her heart’s temper flare.

“We all make mistakes. Even Holmes is not infallible, and after all, the killer is still at large, you know?” She overheard Watson say, which was enough to make her scoff.

Her husband was indeed human enough to make mistakes, but she trusted him more than some club member from out of the blue. She clutched at Holmes’ sleeve and eavesdropped a little more, ignoring Lestrade’s muttering as he read the telegram.

“Yes, he is, isn’t he?” Said the major, and there was something about the way he said it that sounded slimy – like someone’s finger ran down her spine. There was a serpentine quality to his voice that she did not like, glad to hear the man retreat to his compartment after bidding the doctor farewell. “Well, goodnight…”

As Miss Vedder shut herself in, Watson left his old army friend and wandered down the hall, joining the group as Lestrade finished his telegram. It made for a rather interesting read.

“I think I’ll have another chat with that professor fellow…” he told Holmes, and they began to stroll down the hall, heading toward the final compartment in the row.

“Something important, inspector?” Asked Holmes politely; he felt that it felt less like prying if he sounded light and saintly, but the old inspector was too used to his tricks by now.

“You have your secrets, Mr Holmes. I have mine,” answered the man coyly, which the trio thought to be fair enough. Because he had hidden the jewel, Holmes could not argue with it, so he did not stop the inspector as he knocked on Professor Kilbane’s door. He knew he would get no further with the mathematician, wary of the fiery temper, so the companions brushed past him as he caused another row.

“This is Inspector Lestrade!”

“Aren’t we going to join him, ‘Lock?” Asked (y/n) quietly as she grasped the crook of her husband’s elbow, allowing him to pull her back toward the luggage van. “Lestrade is making an awful racket.”

“Oh, let him, my dear,” answered Holmes, and he ignored the shouting and furious exchange of words heard behind them. Unlike Lestrade, he was not one to look for clues in places where there weren’t any; instead, he was much more interested in seeing the coffin now, allowing the carriage to be a little emptier for a while.

“Let us give our friends breathing space for now…” he said, remembering the old saying, a watched pot never boils. He had laid his trap, and now, all there was left to do was wait since the bait was too tempting for any master thief to leave well alone. “We shall see what happens in the meantime.”

If only he could predict the sinister twists before the end…

Chapter Text

To the noise of Lestrade causing an argumentative maelstrom down the corridor, Holmes knocked on the door of the luggage van.

He did it once, hovering outside with bated breath, (y/n) and Watson still at his side. For a beat too long, there was nothing but silence – no response whatsoever, and the asocial guard they met earlier was not so rude as to leave them on his doorstep without an answer. Sensing something was wrong, the detective tried again, peering through the door’s frosted glass window to try and make out any movement, but it was too difficult to see.

“I don’t like this, Sherlock…” muttered (y/n) as they loitered in the hallway, glancing up at her husband with a perturbed expression. He shared it, offering a vaguely comforting smile, a squeeze of her hand, and a low hum when the light emanating from the room dimmed – as if the lamp inside had been extinguished.

“Surly chap…” said Watson lowly, believing the guard was avoiding them, yet Holmes detected something far more sinister, like a sinking feeling in his stomach. “He doesn’t want to open the door, probably.”

“This should help us,” answered the detective, who pulled a small set of keys on a chain from his pocket like magic, much to their surprise. The bunch jangled together like tiny bells, and the man smirked at their amusing expressions.
“Now, where did you get that?” Asked his wife, putting her hands on her hips whilst he jammed a key into the lock and turned it. She never liked his habit of pinching things that did not belong to him – stealing as the law called it – but Holmes had a knack for it, and he rarely allowed petty things such as locked doors to stand in his way.

“A master never reveals his secrets, my dear…” he replied, throwing a mischievous smile at her over his shoulder, pushing the door open with no problems.

They hurried inside to find the lights off, as suspected, plunging the already eerie room into darkness, where anything could lurk in the shadows. The fear of the unknown set their pulses racing. The Great Detective took the lead, his precious wife safely behind him, and Watson shielded her back. The trio crept through the pitch black with the utmost caution.

Feeling his way to the guard’s desk, Holmes swiftly found the lamp he had noticed earlier and flicked it on, finally illuminating the room – and a peculiar scene. At the end of the van, the rear door was flung open, allowing him to see the rapidly escaping countryside as the train raced forward. Then, a loud slam broke the silence like a gunshot, spooking the lady and good doctor out of their wits at its suddenness.

“Hello?! Who shut that door?” Asked Watson as his heart hammered in his chest. He knew he was responsible for ensuring her safety if Holmes was absent, and (y/n) was grateful to feel his hand grasp her shoulder at the curiosity, given how her husband wandered off like a bloodhound on the scent of a fox.

Undisturbed by the seemingly crawling shadows and mystically slamming doors, Holmes dashed to the end of the van, where he was met with a grizzly sight. There, bathed in the moonlight stemming from the open door, the guard lay as dead as a doornail, crumpled where he fell. His face, though ashen and gaunt in life, was ghastly, his skin almost translucent now his veins did not pump, and to see his bloodshot eyes still open only worsened the horror of it all.

A small gasp fell from the woman’s lips upon noticing the corpse – how she missed it, to begin with, was extraordinary – and the noise soon had Watson racing to his friend’s side.

“Great Scott! The guard!” He exclaimed, kneeling beside the poor man, who, for all his surliness, did not deserve such a gruesome end.

Taking his hand, Watson knew there would be no pulse, but he tried all the same, pressing his fingertips into cold, clammy, lifeless skin as (y/n) hovered behind the men. She was not squeamish by any means, but the expression of death agony was enough for her to keep a good distance away, leaving the men to poke and prod the body to their hearts’ content.

“The murderer came back to the scene,” said Holmes, who gently gripped the guard’s weighty head when he noticed something interesting on his neck. Angling his chin for a better look, they instantly knew what it was, recognising the metallic glint that stuck to the skin like grim death.

“A hypodermic needle?” Asked (y/n) curiously, barely seeing the minuscule shard sticking out of the guard’s throat, but the men were much closer, and Holmes realised it was much deadlier.

“Look again, my girl…” he said as Watson carefully plucked the needled from the body. He did not want to be nicked by the sharpness of the metal, but upon inspection, he saw how it was not the broken shard of a hypodermic as it appeared. Rather, it had small fins and feathers suited for aerodynamic precision, which could only mean one thing.

“A scratch. Just a scratch…like the one on Roland Carstairs.”

“A small dart…” said the doctor as he observed the coup de grâce whilst Holmes glanced at the minimal wound it left. Similar to a pinprick, it was exactly like the one he had seen on the other murdered fellow – a mere speck – and he knew that this was the second strike of the same ruthless killer. “Apparently made of some solvable substance.”

“Probably a gelatine preparation that melts in the wound. That’s why you couldn’t see anything on Carstairs,” said the detective gravely, and he was apprehensive at his friend holding such a toxic thing with his bare fingers. Still, Watson was cautious, keeping the sharp point from anything delicate. “The murderer was about to get rid of the body when he heard the knock and became frightened. Here, let me have that, will you?”

Giving Holmes the dart allowed Watson to analyse the body a little more, inspecting the minimal wound loaded with poison. Meanwhile, the man showed (y/n) the weapon, holding it up to the light to see its lethal design.

“Do you suppose the killer removed the dart from Mr Carstairs’ body before we saw it?” Asked the lady, watching her husband tucked the vital evidence into his pocket. She would have preferred it to be in a protective case of some sort, yet the detective was wise enough to pin it to his suit beforehand, meaning he would not fall victim to the poison, either.

“Quite possibly, my dear,” answered Sherlock, who rose beside the body to gaze pensively at her pretty features. “I checked the compartment myself and found nothing to suggest a dart had been used, despite my suspicions.”

“Our murderer is a man who is good at not getting caught,” said she, wrapping her arms around her body at the thought of a silent, invisible fiend stalking the carriages, killing at will. His hand gripping her elbow provided some comfort, but a sudden thought in her mind meant there was no time to feel safe aboard that train.

“Wait, Sherlock… If the killer returned here to dispose of the guard’s body, and he is not in here now, that can only mean…”

“I think it is time we go and find Lestrade,” said Holmes, prompting Watson to back away from the body and stand, his pallor a little paler than before. “If not to tell him about our second victim, but to say the murderer is on the loose.”

Chapter Text

The death of the guard was a tragedy and undoubtedly a sign of the danger to come, meaning Holmes could not get to Lestrade quickly enough.

Tailed by (y/n) and Watson, they departed from the luggage van, certain in the knowledge that the corpse would not be disturbed again. The murderer walked amongst them, and the inspector had to know, so they hurried toward Lestrade’s compartment, a little way away from the caboose. However, upon walking down the corridor, all was not as they had left it.

Immediately, Holmes sensed something was not right. Years as London’s greatest consulting detective told him so. He felt a choked air of foreboding around them, intensified by the absolute silence—save for the buzz of the train. Just before they reached the right room, he spotted Miss Vedder leaning out of her doorway with a pale, frightened face that did not solely come from her involvement in the case.

No, there was fear in the woman’s eyes, and she searched the corridor as if expecting to see something intriguing, only to quickly hide behind her curtains when she noticed them approaching. Whatever had happened in their absence was enough to leave her as skittish as a fawn, and that was not all.

At the end of the corridor, he expected to see a guard. Yet, there was no one to be seen. The man previously there rarely left his post, instructed to remain at the door to the dining car by Inspector Lestrade himself, so it was strange to think he would simply wander off. And, it was even stranger to see his four-legged stool knocked over, lost, lonely, and swaying with the vibration of the train without him to sit snoring on it.

“Hello! That fellow you put on guard isn’t there!” Exclaimed Watson, who peeked over his friend’s shoulder to see the blindingly obvious.

“So I observed…” Holmes answered as they approached Lestrade’s door. He reached for the handles, only to stop, noticing no sign of life within.

“That’s strange…”

“What’s the matter, ‘Lock?” Asked (y/n) innocently, seeing how he paused. His brows furrowed, giving her a perplexed expression as he knocked against the glass, and it was then that she realised how she could not see into the compartment.

Lestrade would not draw his curtains unless it were a private meeting, but even so, the veils were thin and allowed the light to shine through quite easily. In this case, the light inside was turned off, and she was sure their associate would not have moved without telling them. A second passed slowly, and they received no answer, worsening the sinking feeling in the detective’s gut before he could not stand it a moment longer. He pulled the doors open and wafted the curtains away from his face, but when he turned on the light…what they found was shocking.

“Oh my…” gasped the lady, a hand touching her pinkish lips at the utter carnage before her eyes.

An unknown man of short stature and troglodytic features lay dead on the floor – the same as the guard with a pale face and expression of horror – whilst Lestrade was wounded alongside him. The fiend behind what was evidently a vile attack plotted against them chose a time to send in his man when the inspector was alone and entirely off his guard. When he left him with the diamond, this was the last thing Holmes expected to happen.

“Lestrade!” Watson exclaimed, and he and Holmes immediately stepped in to get him off the floor. Thankfully, he had not been killed, but the attacker made a good go of it, bashing him upside the head and leaving a nasty gash.

“Here…” said the detective, taking one of his arms whilst the good doctor took the other, looping it around his neck to hoist the inspector up. “Help me get him up onto this seat.”

Lestrade slumped against the cushioned bench, his head lolling back as he finally regained consciousness through blurry vision and a thumping headache. He groaned under his breath, barely seeing the three fuzzy figures standing before him, but luckily, Watson was on hand, and for all his bumbling behaviour, he was a fair physician.

“He’s coming to… Hand me that water, will you, (y/n)?”

“Of course!” Said the woman, who swiftly retrieved a glass of water from the coffee table and passed it to the man. She and Holmes were of little use to him in such a capacity, but Watson responded well, plucking his handkerchief from his top pocket and dipping it into the water to clean the wound a little. “Will he be all right?”

“It’s nothing very serious,” said he, much to the relief of his companions, who would hate to see their old acquaintance suffer. “I’ll tend to it properly later on.”

As Watson continued to dab at Lestrade’s temple, cleaning away as much blood as possible, Holmes turned his attention to what he could help with – the short, hideous man lying at his feet. It was tricky to navigate the compartment with such limited floor space, almost trampling the body whilst trying not to disturb the doctor and his patient. Still, he managed it, whipping his own handkerchief out when he noticed something peculiar near the man’s hand.

He did not want to sully the evidence with negligible fingerprints, but he needed to see the strange device closer, marvelling at the peculiar design.

“What is that?” Asked (y/n) as she stood over her crouching husband, having never seen anything quite like the thing, which looked like a pistol, save for the strange contraptions attached. “A handgun?”

“Not quite, my dear…” answered Holmes, glancing back at her before returning to the corpse. He almost felt sorry for the dead man, despite knowing he was a criminal and killer himself, but no one deserved to be double-crossed and die as he did. “Poisoned like the others.”

“At least Jesus was betrayed with a kiss,” muttered (y/n), and she shuddered after imagining the sort of man who murdered a murderer – in cold blood for an even colder prize.

“The diamond…” mumbled Lestrade as he regained lucidity, and his first thought was of the Star of Rhodesia, which had been left in his care and clearly targeted. “The diamond is gone…”

“Gone?!” Exclaimed Watson as he paused his treatment, staring at Holmes, who wore a regretful countenance. “Hadn’t we better search the murderer at once?”

“No use, old fellow,” replied the detective tiredly as he could not help but feel a sliver of guilt for allowing his old friend to get hurt, even if it was in his line of duty. To see such a proud and usually strong man reduced to a groaning wreck, as weak as a kitten, was awful.

“The man who killed him has the Star of Rhodesia.”

“What’s that?” Asked Lestrade in a feeble voice, noticing the bizarre weapon still held by Holmes, and much equal to (y/n), he had never seen its like.

“It’s an air pistol, Lestrade, that fires a poison dart. It’s quite an unusual design,” said the detective, who observed the special modifications made to the device, which made it silent, efficient, and deadly. No one, neither his wife nor the inspector, recognised it. “You were attacked because you had the diamond. Fortunately, this wasn’t used on you—“

“Wait, Sherlock…” (y/n) did not mean to interrupt, but she could not help it, feeling her body jerk as the train suddenly jolted – making her grip his elbow to steady herself. The vibrations stopped, and its rocking slowed. It was followed by a loud toot that could only mean one thing, even if it did not make sense.

“We’re coming to a stop.” And the men realised she was correct.

The wheels slowed to a creep along the tracks as the train pulled into a station – a couple of hours before they arrived at their final destination. Instead of the grand city of Edinburgh, the locomotive had stopped at a small provincial station just past the Scottish border, where a small swathe of people gathered for their midnight rides.

Amongst them, Holmes noticed as he stepped out of the compartment, unlocked a window, and leaned out of it, was a group of policemen – no more than three and led by a distinguished-looking gentleman in a black bowler and brown trench coat. Two constables hung back as the conductor stepped onto the platform to greet them, and suddenly, the detective had the impression that the sudden meeting had something to do with the telegram received by Lestrade an hour earlier.

He did not need to hear them say they were the police to know who they were and why they wanted to board the train, but he watched as the conductor inspected their credentials before they followed him aboard. Usually, he would have been glad to see the cavalry arrive, but strangely, (y/n) was struck by his sombre face, witnessing the storminess in those steely eyes.

“Reinforcements, I suppose?” She said to her husband quietly as he retreated from the window, not wanting to get caught staring at the gentlemen as they boarded.

“So it seems…” His answer was cryptic and, dare she say, unsure, as if he did not want to trust the men they were about to meet. Still, his touch was gentle against her hand as he turned toward her and Watson, gesturing for her to reenter the compartment so they could inform the inspector of the new arrivals.

“Scottish police,” said Holmes, closing the door behind him. Lestrade hummed and nodded, albeit with a grimace, and he moved to stand up, but it only made his head swim and ache, stealing the strength from his body. It was like him to try and grit his teeth through the pain, but after such a vicious assault, even the thought Scotland Yard inspector knew his limits, and so, he slumped against the seat again with a pained sigh.

“I don’t feel up to it, Mr Holmes. Would you be good enough to talk to them?”

“Certainly,” answered Holmes, much to the man’s gratitude.

“You keep quiet, old boy. We’ll be back in a minute.” Watson patted his shoulder before following the couple into the hallway, leaving the poor inspector to rest, recuperate, and finish his glass of water.

On their way, they passed the ever-nosy Miss Vedder, who promptly shut her doors upon noticing the approaching detective – and she certainly didn’t want to speak with him again. Once they reached the end of the carriage – a good few steps away from the brunette’s compartment – they met the conductor halfway, and as they had witnessed from the window, he was tailed by the surly policeman and his constables.

“Mr Holmes. This is Inspector McDonald of the Edinburgh police,” said the conductor, and the two mighty men glanced at each other. The Scotch policeman did not seem impressed by Holmes, who stared at him with a curious glint in his eye, yet he remained amiable and polite.

“How do you do?”

“I happen to be in this district on another case, and I received this telegram from headquarters,” said the inspector, his hooded eyes glowering at anyone unfortunate enough to be in his line of sight.

Sitting atop a short, mousy brown moustache flecked with grey, his beak-like nose only made him sterner – enough for (y/n) to choose the safety of her husband’s side more than anything else.

“You’ll want to talk to Inspector Lestrade,” said Holmes, who only wanted to help, but McDonald very much let him know who was in charge – and he was not fond of amateur sleuths.

“In due time, but I’m in charge here. This is Scotland—you’ve crossed the border.”

“We’ve had some trouble here, inspector,” (y/n) told the grouchy man in her politest voice, even if it was a bit quiet. She tried to tame his temper, and it worked a little, drawing a softer expression from the man, but really, she could not tell if it was patronising as he turned to the meek, little woman with a bemused expression.

“That’s why I’m here, miss. And who are you, might I ask?” McDonald frowned, both at her, Watson, and Holmes, but most of all at her – the sole woman amongst them.

“This is Sherlock Holmes,” said the good doctor, as proud as he always was to introduce his great friend, and he felt a slight glimmer of satisfaction to see the recognition grow across the inspector’s face. “(y/n), here, is his wife.”

“The private inquiry agent, eh? I’ve heard of you…” remarked McDonald and his disparaging smirk was not lost on Holmes. He could take personal insults, allowing them to roll off his back like water off a duck, but his eyes darkened a little when all eyes turned to the precious thing beside him. “And I suppose you are the plucky young girl who follows him around?”

“Something to that effect…” answered (y/n) dryly, a saccharine smile on her exquisite features as she ignored the slight jibe.

Her husband stood protectively beside her, discreetly moving his arm so she was covered by him and away from the cocksure man, who made no secret of looking her up and down. Perhaps there was some truth in what he said – she was helpful – but to Holmes, she was indescribably special, much more than an assistant or fanatic.

“Mr Holmes has practically solved this case already!”

“Watson…” Watson was quick to jump to his friends’ defence, not wanting the snooty inspector to look down his nose at them when the detective was twice the man he was. Still, it was not in good taste to be boastful, and Holmes was not one to be so obtuse, so he quickly quietened the doctor, secretly knowing that he would have the last laugh with McDonald.

“Will you clear the dining car? I want to ask a few questions,” said the inspector to the guard, who quickly agreed to his orders, even if the passengers would not be happy to have their suppers interrupted. “And see that no one leaves his compartment until I need him for questioning.”

“Very good, sir.”

“Inspector Lestrade asked me to sit in with you,” Holmes told McDonald, who was immediately displeased at such a suggestion. He loathed the idea of having the detective and his cronies around, eyeing them with contempt as if they needed locking up like criminals.

“That is a bit unusual…”

“Scotland Yard think a great deal of Mr Sherlock Holmes,” added (y/n) firmly, her hand resting in the crook of her husband’s arm. If she looked at her under a magnifying glass, she would see how his spine stiffened, and his hair stood on end, practically preening under her praise when she stood proudly beside him with her head held high – every inch the woman he desired. “They frequently ask for his advice.”

“Scotland Yard, eh?” McDonald gave her an amused look from behind that hooked nose, which she returned just as frostily. He then glanced at her husband, who, not liking how difficult he was being, seemed to speak a silent challenge to the man – he could dare to ridicule his wife, but he would not like the result of it. “Where is this Inspector Lestrade?”

“Watson, will you see if Inspector Lestrade is sufficiently recovered enough to come into the dining car?” Asked Holmes, knowing the Scottish police would not take their word for it, even if they explained until they were blue in the face.

Watson readily agreed and went off to fetch him, sending a final disapproving glare at the doubting inspector, who barely noticed it as he turned away from the detective. Flanked by his officers and the conductor, McDonald headed into the other carriage to begin questioning, leaving Mr Holmes and his wife to stay where they were—or follow—or go away. To him, it really did not matter.

(y/n) huffed in his direction once the man had disappeared, and if looks could kill, she would surely swing.

“You seem vexed, darling…” murmured Holmes, who would inevitably follow through into the dining car, but he could wait for Lestrade and Watson. It would give his beloved wife a moment to calm down, smiling gently at the redness of her cheeks and furrowed brows.

“Of all the odious, pompous, pig-headed men I have ever encountered, he is one of the worst,” replied the lady in a seething voice, still hearing the inspector’s underhanded insults even now he had gone. Holmes reached for her dainty hand, squeezing it gently as she sighed angrily – thoroughly rattled by his blatant impertinent.

“Come now, my dear,” said Sherlock, whose warm smile and strong arms around her figure were enough to quell her sighs. “It is not like you to be so quick to temper.”

“I know, ‘Lock, but if he has venom on his tongue, I would prefer for him just to spit it out,” answered (y/n), nuzzling her cheek against his chest as she listened to his gentle heartbeat, allowing its steady rhythm to calm her down. “That way, I have an excuse to defend my husband’s reputation more readily, shall we say?”

The smile only grew on the detective’s face, and he pressed his lips to her forehead. It was like his small yet feisty wife wanting to fight his battles alongside him, even though he was happy to allow Inspector McDonald to send himself into a childish fit over nothing. She was precious, though, meeting his gaze with sparkling eyes that held nothing but fierce affection – for him.

“Well, at least his description of you was apt,” said Holmes, holding her in his embrace for as long as chance would allow him…until they were interrupted again. “You are a plucky one, Mrs Holmes.”

Chapter Text

Inspector Lestrade was made of stern material, and as such, his recovery was speedy and miraculous.

He was not the sort of man to sit on his laurels, wasting valuable time during a murder inquiry, so when Doctor Watson knocked on his door, he was like a greyhound out of his pen. The men joined the others in the dining carriage, where they met Holmes, (y/n), and, most importantly, Inspector McDonald.

It was like the clashing of two titans, and Lestrade did not like how his fellow policeman worked against him rather than with him, lording over all, pretending to be so high and mighty – all because they were a little ways north of England. He was impossibly surlier, brooding in one of the booth-like tables as they gathered around for his infernal line of questioning.

Why he felt the need to do such a thing was beyond Lestrade’s comprehension, and he sat across from McDonald with a dour expression. Beside the Scotch inspector, in the corner, sat Holmes, who cast his expert eye over everything, and he remained somewhat silent whilst every man and woman was peddled before them. Across the aisle, Watson and (y/n) were shoved out of the way, deemed unimportant and unnecessary, yet the detective insisted they stayed. At least McDonald had the good grace to allow it.

The final face at the table made Mrs Holmes’ mood sour, knowing she would have to sit in the company of Vivian Vedder for more precious seconds of her life. As beautiful, if jarring, as ever, Miss Vedder perched beside Lestrade, still pleading her innocence, much to (y/n)’s occasional scoffs.

“Miss Vedder, I know all about you,” said McDonald, having heard the whole story from his Scotland Yard counterpart and the busybody detective. His officers waited near the doorway, delivering the suspects the gaffer requested, having already seen Professor Kilbane and the Shallcross’. “Frankly, you’ll be in for it.”

“All I did was buy a coffin and bring it on the train!” Argued Miss Vedder, her voice sounding rather petulant and nasally like a scolded child.

“Thus concealing a murderer…” answered (y/n) dryly, which only made the insufferable woman huff and slump into her seat. Her pout was childish and unbecoming, but it was hard to feel sorry for her, and indeed, Lestrade did not bat an eyelash.

“In my opinion,” said the inspector gruffly, turning his gaze to McDonald diagonally across from him, “this is a matter for Scotland Yard.”

“Scotland Yard’s jurisdiction ended when you crossed the border, inspector,” replied the man just as tersely, and he said the same thing as he had to Holmes, who still sat there silently.

“So you say…”

“That’s a matter of opinion. Miss Vedder is unquestionably in the plot!” Said McDonald, swiftly blaming the brunette, and she returned a sharp glare. It was all very awkward, a simmering tension brewing between the bickering three, and that was when Holmes decided to chip in – as he so frequently did.

“She may not know Colonel Moran, however.”

“I don’t!” The woman quickly agreed with the calm detective, whose words made McDonald pause. He glanced at Holmes from the corner of his eye, turning his face toward him by barely a fraction.

“Colonel Sebastian Moran? Is he in on this?”

“You know him?” Asked Holmes, curious by the man’s reaction since not many had heard of such an evil villain – even those in police and crime circles.

“Unfortunately, I do,” answered Inspector McDonald solemnly, but before explaining further, he dismissed Miss Vedder, not wanting any other eyes and ears to overhear. “You may return to your compartment.”

The woman slipped away silently, escorted by the conductor loitering near the rear door, but not before she threw one last scathing look at her accusers – particularly Mr Holmes, the inspector, and that hideously unfashionable, frumpy girl that always seemed to have an answer for everything. (y/n) thought it was good riddance, yet she remained silent whilst her husband and the other gentlemen continued their discussion.

“You said unfortunately…”

“Aye.” The inspector nodded, his tone grave and his countenance sombre. “I once had an encounter with Colonel Moran…the only time in my entire career I’ve been bested. The cleverest criminal since the late Professor Moriarty.”

“With that, I concur,” replied Holmes, and his frown also deepened at the mention of that deplorable name.

“Where is this Sebastian Moran?”

“He’s travelling on this train under the name of Major Duncan-Bleek,” added the detective, who raised a few eyebrows around the carriage – Watson’s in particular. He thought that he had forgotten all that nasty business about accusing his old friend of murder and other such horrible things, but `Holmes seemed determined to pin the blame on him, and that rather upset the poor doctor.

“What on earth are you talking about?!”

“Are you serious, Mr Holmes?” Asked Inspector Lestrade as he leaned over the table in case he caught the slightest glimpse of a joking smirk on the man’s face. But there was no such sign; Holmes was deadly serious, despite their astonishment, and so, McDonald gave his orders.

“Constable, bring in Duncan-Bleek.” With a curt nod, the Scottish policeman did as he was told, turning on his heel to return to the end carriage and fetch the accused man.

“Duncan-Bleek?! But he played for The Gentlemen at Lords!” Argued Watson whilst the constable was gone. He simply refused to believe such an outlandish thing, yet he trusted in Holmes on the one hand, but on the other, he was loyal to the major. He looked terribly upset, and (y/n) reached across their table to kindly pat his hand.

“Sadly, that does not make him an innocent man, Doctor,” she told him gently, supposing that this Moran fellow could be a master of disguise or a man who plans well in advance. Her comfort did not go far, but Watson was at least grateful for the gesture, amiably covering her hand with his.

“It doesn’t make him guilty, either…” he argued gloomily – a fair thing to say, and (y/n) did not want to turn it all into some big debate. She said nothing, but luckily, the constable soon returned, and the man he brought in tow appeared somewhat cocky for someone brought to an interrogation.

“Colonel Sebastian Moran, eh? It will give me great pleasure to meet up with that scoundrel again.” McDonald hummed as the accused was guided into the carriage, carefully flanked by a policeman both behind and in front of him.

Duncan-Bleek sauntered into the fray with all the confidence of an innocent man, clad in his coat and hat as if he were expecting to depart soon enough. That was rather strange as the train was not scheduled to stop for at least half an hour, but Holmes had to hand it to him upon seeing him – he was remarkably cool. He nodded at Watson, smiled courteously, tipped his Homburg at the lady sitting before him, and then glanced at the inspectors with feigned politeness.

“You wanted to see me?” Asked the major, staring at the men from under the wide, curled brim.

“Yes, Colonel Moran,” answered McDonald, who rose to meet his soon-to-be prisoner’s eye, although Duncan-Bleek acted superbly. He gasped under his breath and widened his eyes at such a claim, stepping back as if afraid of the taller man’s presence. “You’re under arrest!”

“Oh, so you have managed to convince them that I’m the mythical Colonel Moran,” said Duncan-Bleek with a hint of bitter humour as he turned to Holmes. The rival men studied each other carefully, but the latter was sure in his deduction, allowing Inspector McDonald to take charge – as he knew he would.

“Not mythical, Colonel. You’ve forgotten that affair in Inverness three years ago?”

“I have never been in Inverness in my life,” argued the criminal coolly, never once cracking under interrogation, but that was not the end.

“Do you mind if I search you?” Asked the inspector, and the major agreed readily. Immediately, McDonald patted down his chest and pocket, looking for any diamond-shaped lumps he might have hoped to smuggle off the train when no one was looking.

He checked his coat pockets but found nothing, so he swiftly unbuttoned it and moved onto his thin jacket. It, too, had plenty of little nooks and crannies to hide the jewel, and he diligently searched them all, turning the garment inside out when he came across something bizarre and hardly hidden.

“Door an innocent man, you carry strange things in your pockets,” said the inspector, piquing their curiosity when he pulled a small handgun from his coat. It was small and undoubtedly deadly, but still, Duncan-Bleek or Moran did not flinch, explaining it away as though it were a mere child’s toy.

“A retired army officer. India…”

“But you are in Scotland now, and there is a law against carrying firearms,” said McDonald, who swiftly passed the pistol to one of his constables.

“Well, are you satisfied?” Asked the man with a smug smirk that made Holmes’ blood boil. His jaw clenched and eyes narrowed, silently infuriated by the crook and his calm attitude, but the inspector did not give up.

“Not quite, Colonel,” he replied assuredly, moving into his inner layers – above the shirt and woollen jumper worn by the man. On the left side, he found nothing, growing rather frustrated with the whole affair, but then, on the right, there was something peculiar.

Hidden by a small zipper cleverly placed near the jacket’s lining, he felt something hard like a stone. The group watched with wide eyes as he peeled the pocket open, reached inside, and closed his fingers around something cold and smooth, smirking victoriously at its unmistakable feel.

And under the white lights of the carriage, Inspector McDonald pulled out a beautifully bonny diamond, which was as big as a duck’s egg, mounted in platinum with a matching chain, and surrounded by a circle of smaller jewels. It was undeniably the Star of Rhodesia, fitting perfectly in his palm, and the cocksure grin swiftly fell from the thief’s face upon being rumbled.

“Now I am satisfied… This clears things up pretty well!” Said the inspector as he sat down in the booth again, showing the precious diamond to Holmes and Lestrade with all the arrogance of a man who had hijacked a nearly complete case. “We’ll be coming into Topham in a few minutes.”

“The train does not stop at Topham, I’m afraid,” answered Holmes, feeling marginally better to see the diamond out of that devil’s hands, but any relief in the room was short-lived.

Upon hearing the information, Duncan-Bleek, or Colonel Moran as he was really named, made his final, desperate move – snatching his revolver from the constable behind him. He did not hesitate to point it at anyone who dared to challenge him, nor was he beneath targeting the lady amongst them just to ensure the bumbling policemen did not try anything.

“I’m afraid you are wrong this time, Holmes!” Cried the colonel, keeping the gun trained on all of them as he inched towards the wall on his left. Feeling above his head, he found the emergency break – a thin wire that would force the driver to halt the train in its tracks – and pulled it firmly.

“This train will stop at Topham!”

“You’re only delaying the inevitable, Colonel Moran,” said Holmes darkly as he stood up, unaffected by the train’s sudden jolt when the breaks slammed into action. “You can’t get away!”

The master criminal stood in the walkway, smirking at such a laughable thing, but in his arrogance, he overlooked good, old Watson. He stood a little too close to the doctor, who, in a moment of sheer bravery and rare aptitude, gave the colonel a swift elbow to his gut, making the thief double over in pain.

The second he fell to the floor, thus dropping the revolver in the process, all hell broke loose. (y/n) gasped and leapt from her seat as Holmes pounced like a tiger upon its prey – unlike some, he was not afraid of dirtying his own hands, and a brawl was nothing in his extensive experience. The lights went out as the policemen rushed to intervene, only causing further confusion as arms and legs came from all angles, punching and lashing out at any body part they felt—and it did not matter who it belonged to.

In the darkness, it was difficult to track who was who, although (y/n) was sure she could make out her husband’s tall, lithe frame. On the floor, Moran writhed like a worm in alcohol, squealing like a greased pig as he tried to get away. Still, the detective was quick and surprisingly strong, brushing past the incompetent Inspector McDonald as he grappled to keep a hold of his enemy.

She bumped into the inspector as he stood there, muttering some excuses as bodies continued to fly everywhere. Still, it was quickly forgotten in the excitement of it all – and McDonald would never complain about steadying a young, sweet thing when she collapsed on his chest.

A pained grunt filled the compartment, muffled only by the fracas, and it surely belonged to the colonel as Holmes wrestled him to the floor. Unable to bear it any longer, the lady rushed to help him, feeling through the shadows to bundle the man up in his own coat so it went over his head. She was sure that someone tried to prise her back amidst the action, sure she felt a distinctive pull on her hips, but it did not last—not when Watson barrelled past like a freight train.

“Out of the way, inspector!” Cried the doctor as he hurried down the aisle to switch the lights back on, revealing how the carriage had practically been turned upside down.

The man and his wife had ended up under a table, pinning the colonel down as he fought against his overcoat, which left him blind and disoriented as Holmes pressed his full weight against him. He looked almost feral, clothes rumpled and hair tousled, but (y/n) rather enjoyed the fresh appearance of her husband, placing her hands on her hips as she tried to catch her breath.

“All right, Inspector McDonald. Here’s your man,” said Holmes as the police wandered over, having pottered around the carriage during the fight like bees around flowers in the summer – carefree and useless.

“Who pulled that cord?” Suddenly, the conductor burst into the room, his face pale and breathing irregular. He looked immediately to Mr Holmes for answers, seeing the detective standing there before McDonald interrupted, lording over everyone as usual.

“It’s all right, conductor. We will get off here with our prisoner,” said the inspector as Holmes guided his wife out of their way. He pulled her into his chest, secretly enamoured with her rosy cheeks and glowing appearance as he held her closely by the elbows, but he would never show it, not with so many strangers surrounding them.

“Constables, take him off!” They watched as the policemen hauled Moran to his feet, unfazed by how his jacket still concealed his face. It could not have been comfortable, but no one seemed to care, allowing him to be dragged away without much fuss or trouble.

“Quite the struggle, Inspector McDonald!” Remarked (y/n) as she linked arms with her beloved, although she noticed how he seemed taller when facing the man. She felt how he stiffened, looking him straight in the eye as Watson hovered in the background.

“Good work, Mr Holmes. Perhaps I underestimated you and your plucky girl,” answered McDonald in his Scotch drawl, which still did not please her entirely. The lady knew when a compliment was sly and backhanded, but she smiled regardless, understanding that praise was rare with such a morose man. “…Was it you who hit me?”

“Oh, I am terribly sorry!” Answered Holmes with a quiet gasp, his expression turning to one of remorse and deep humility. “You must accept my apologies.”

Inspector McDonald did not reply but seemed to believe the detective’s words, even if he took them with a pinch of salt. With a final nod toward the couple and Doctor Watson, he departed the train to follow after his constables and their prisoner, leaving the trio alone in the dining car.

“Wasn’t that laying it on rather thickly, my heart?” Asked (y/n) teasingly once McDonald was out of earshot. It was not like her husband to grovel – rarely offering any remorseful word, despite being a true gentleman – but Holmes merely smiled at her, their eyes communicating a thousand words, before reaching up to neaten his ruffled hair.

“Nonsense, my dear. I did catch Inspector McDonald during the fight, so it was entirely proper,” answered the man, raking his fingers through his unruly locks, taming them into his usual slicked style.

She admired him as he moved, unabashedly confessing that she followed him around like a starry-eyed schoolgirl, but Holmes did not notice. Instead, he stepped over to the window, raised the blind, and watched as the police led their hooded prisoner away across the platform. It all seemed very orderly, and they gave a good show, struggling with Moran, who still had a little fight within him.

McDonald followed them, swaggering with his hands stuffed in his coat pockets, and Holmes did not glance away until they retreated into the night, rounded the corner, and disappeared from view. The train began to move again, tooting its horn as it crept along the track and left Topham for good.

“Well, that’s that,” said Holmes as he turned away from the window, content that the group was away and they were safe to continue to Edinburgh. He smiled gently at his beloved wife, taking her by the hand as she enjoyed the quiet after the storm. Or rather, the eye of the storm.

“Where is Lestrade?” Asked Watson, who, for once, was observant enough to notice that the bandaged inspector was not amongst them, but he certainly was five minutes ago.

“Look under that table over there,” answered his friend, pointing to where he and (y/n) formally sat during the meeting.

Watson peered beyond the bench and was staggered at what he saw – a large, wriggling lump the size of a stocky man, although he was dazed and confused from a bump to the head. His wrists were clapped in handcuffs, rendering him quite helpless and nothing like the mastermind he was renowned to be.

“That’s not Lestrade…”

Indeed, Colonel Sebastian Moran did not seem so intimidating as he lay under the table, stunned and delirious after going a round with Sherlock Holmes. And it was not a dignified position to be in.

“Great Scott! It’s Duncan-Bleek!” He gasped upon seeing his friend.

“You mean Colonel Sebastian Moran.” Holmes corrected him, slightly bemused by how the doctor’s mouth quivered like a goldfish’s due to his utter shock at the revelation, the fight, and the man on the floor. “Come on, old fellow. Give me a hand.”

As (y/n) stepped to the side to give them more room, the men swiftly had Moran on his feet. They heaved him like a sack of potatoes, depositing his heavy body onto the bench, which was enough to snap him into consciousness.

“What’s all this about? Where’s Inspector McDonald?” He asked breathlessly, glancing at the silver bracelets on his wrists, and for once in his life, much to Holmes’ satisfaction, he was speechless to have been beaten, watching as the tec and his wife sat across from him. The odious doctor sat beside him, scrutinising everything from how many breaths he took in per minute to how the sweat beaded on his brow; no, Watson would not be fooled again, keeping a very close eye on the villain he shared multiple drinks with.

“He has just got off the train,” replied Holmes calmly as he slipped in beside his wife, who instinctively leaned into his side once he settled in.

“He couldn’t have!” Moran exclaimed in disbelief, with Watson noting the genuine terror in his eyes at how poorly his plan had gone. This was not what he had planned at all. “He couldn’t!”

“Oh, but he has! We watched as he followed the other gentlemen towards the exit at Topham,” said (y/n) amusedly, to which the criminal could only blink like a terrified little boy.

“A very clever plot, Colonel Moran,” said Holmes as he folded his arms, looking every bit the victor when he gazed at his defeated opponent, who stared at him, the handcuffs, and the confident lady as if he could will them away. “Your henchmen masquerading as policemen come aboard the train, arrest you, stop the train, and take you off.”

“But this is fantastic!” Watson cried, looking back and forth between the men in utter bewilderment. To his surprise, (y/n) seemed remarkably calm, although she only knew half of it and simply followed along with what she read between the lines.

“Yes, it is, isn’t it? And it’s a scheme worthy of Colonel Sebastian Moran!” Answered Holmes, sitting back with a smirk since he was the one to unravel such a wicked plot. “He planned the whole thing, including the coffin with the secret compartment, and in case anything went wrong, the pseudo-police were to come aboard and take him off the train before it reached Edinburgh.”

“But then…where is Lestrade?” Asked Watson, whose train of brilliant thought had ended when he noticed the inspector was missing. The solution was evident, and (y/n) could picture it now.

“I imagine, at the moment, he is rather well-occupied.” She giggled at the image of Lestrade surprising his faux abductors and at the look on Watson’s face when the penny dropped.

“Do you mean…?” He gasped, and the couple nodded. Lestrade was probably rounding up Moran’s henchmen as they spoke, hiding under his coat and waiting until they were safely off the train. It was all in a day’s work for a Scotland Yard officer, and Holmes was confident that he would do the job nicely as he summonsed the conductor from the hallway and wrote him a note for a telegram.

“Inspector McDonald deserved his poke in the eye,” said the lady dryly. She watched her husband and his beautiful, cursive scrawl as he hurriedly scribbled his instructions to the real police, updating them on their situation. “He isn’t a patch on our dear Lestrade by any means.”

The conductor stood patiently, waiting for Holmes to finish his message, folding the paper and passing it to him. “Send this over as soon as possible, will you?”

“Very good, sir,” said the man before walking away, note safely in his hand, although Moran looked utterly lost. He could not believe that the idiotic inspector had also outwitted him, playing his henchmen like a fiddle and luring them into his trap, which meant they would go down, too.

“That is a telegram to the real Edinburgh police, asking them to meet us when we arrive.”

“But how did you know that this fellow was not the real Inspector McDonald?” Asked Watson, who admittedly fell for the dark, brooding attitude of the imposter. Perhaps that was part of his disguise – to intimidate those aboard with his harsh, Scottish temper because who would question a policeman with all the proper papers?

“Elementary, my dear Watson. In the first place, he did not put handcuffs on Colonel Moran, so I had to do it myself, and, in the second place, Inspector McDonald, during the fight, was more hindrance than help, which is not characteristic of a real policeman.”

“I suspect he was the one who tried to pull me away from Lestrade amidst the chaos,” said (y/n), remembering how those large, cold hands gripped her waist as she held the coat over the inspector’s head like he were the enemy. He would have done anything to protect his leader and safely steal the Star of Rhodesia, but it was nothing a sharp kick backwards could not solve.

“Amazing! Uncovering such a fiendish plot with so little evidence,” remarked Watson, making the lady beam at her husband proudly – he was the true genius here. But there was something about Holmes’ smile that seemed mischievous as he stared at the pale, livid criminal, almost laughing to himself with some unknown glee.

“Yes, I forgot to mention that I also happen to know the real Inspector McDonald of the Edinburgh Police.”

“Oh, well, that is a distinct advantage, Sherlock,” muttered the lady, and even she did not know that little fact, which Holmes wisely and cheekily kept to himself.

It had been a very interesting development when that unknown man arrived, claiming to be McDonald. The detective knew him to be hard and gruff but certainly not as incompetent as his impersonator. Therefore, he had no qualms about jabbing him in the face during the brawl, deeming it fair game after all the sly insults he made toward him and his precious wife.

“Was Lestrade in on this?” Watson frowned, disbelieving that he was the only one clueless of the whole thing, but even the inspector was distrustful of the Duncan-Bleek character and McDonald.

“Yes, and, surprisingly enough, he grasped the situation immediately.”

“That’s very unusual,” muttered the doctor, slightly bitter at how he had been rendered a mere observer – redundant during the wicked plot, where all his friends, save for him, had a starring role. “Let’s hope he has not overdone it…”

“Very clever, Holmes,” sneered Moran, who had more reason than most to be resentful. Although the former was unbothered, he scowled at the detective and his companions. He smirked across the table, knowing he would always have the last laugh, no matter what venom the colonel spat. “You’ve got me, but you haven’t got the Star of Rhodesia.”

“Oh, but I have…” Holmes smiled, so bright and handsome that it was almost unnerving. But then, his gaze slipped to the pretty girl beside him, sitting quietly and innocently as her cheeks reddened under all their stares.

“You see, Colonel Moran, I am a man who knows what he has when he has it, and I, for one, know that I am fortunate enough to call something infinitely more precious than a jewel my own.”

“What on earth is he talking about, (y/n)?” Asked Watson as he and Moran descended into frowns at what was perceivably riddles and nonsense from the detective. It was not like him to be sentimental, so he hid behind complicated words that were difficult to unravel.

Yet, she understood, smiling to herself as she stared at her lap and curled one arm around his.

“Well, Doctor Watson, if in the dark Mr Holmes can substitute a hulk like Lestrade with our friend, Colonel Moran…” She paused, slipping her fingers into the pocket of her skirt suit, where no one would suspect to find anything of interest to the case. But, when she pulled out a sparkling, dazzling stone, the gentlemen could have been knocked down with a feather.

“…It is no very great feat for me to pinch a little thing like a diamond.”

The look of pride on her husband’s face was worth the small bravery she had expended to bump into Inspector McDonald like that purposefully. He did not suspect a thing when her hands found his chest to steady herself against him – in the struggle, of course – and it was not her fault her fingers found the pocket that hid the Star of Rhodesia.

The chain slipped through her fingers, allowing the pendant to dangle and gleam before their eyes, and finally, Colonel Moran slumped in defeat. Prison was inevitable for all the crimes under his belt, and in years to come, he would probably regret not taking in the view of the countryside as they hurtled toward the capital – his last look at freedom.
However, his cold stare remained on the man before him, holding such hatred for him and his wife, but when he spoke, all that came out was the quiet voice of a beaten man.

“Holmes, I can understand, but you…?” He muttered, eyes sliding to Mrs Holmes, who slipped her arm through her husband’s and looked up at him like many women did. “How did I lose to you—a mere, little woman of no consequence?”

“My answer is a simple one, Colonel Moran,” said (y/n) as her expression of adoration gained a glint of the brilliance that enchanted the man beside her, so much so that his only option was to make her his bride.

Very few found love as they did. To her darling husband, she remained beautiful and precious even after all those years, and what they had would not perish for the simple reason that they belonged together. (y/n) did not believe in such things as soulmates, but if she did, she hoped that fate or chance or some divine being would make him hers forevermore.

“Mr Sherlock Holmes is England’s greatest detective, and I am the plucky young girl who follows wherever he goes.”