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The day had clothed itself into a muted grey, the sky became a blanket of cloud that casted an oppressive shadow over the town. The autumn air clung to the streets of London with an unforgiving chill, sharp enough to bite at the skin, carrying the burning stench of working chimneys. People tried to hide their flushed cheeks behind their scarves. One could hear mothers berating their children for not properly buttoning up their jackets or not wearing their hats. The occasional carriage drove by with a rattling sound, its wheels sending an echo against the noise of the busy afternoon.
Sherlock silently welcomed the end of summer, relieved to finally escape the discomfort of looking like a sweaty brute every time he stepped outside. Still, autumn wasn’t exactly a season he looked forward to. The smell of rain and damp earth that always accompanied it would unpleasantly tingle in his nose. And winter? For his sanity’s sake, he preferred to pretend it didn’t exist. It was nothing more than a hindrance to his work. Yes, it was a known fact Sherlock Holmes liked a good challenge, however a challenge that lasted three months, with no reward, could only be described by him with some truly colourful words he wouldn’t be able to say aloud without causing a scene.
However, thinking about it longer... maybe there was a reward in the end – the arrival of his beloved spring. But to get to it, he now needed patience. Which he, admittedly, didn’t have an abundance of.
He sighed loudly. That damned waiting.
He was fighting the need to have a smoke, to feel that relaxing numbness in his lungs, but he had to persevere. He was expecting a guest, and he knew that man wouldn’t miss a chance to make a snarky comment about his habits. It’s not like that hypocrite wasn’t a smoker himself. So annoying...
Sherlock knew that checking the clock would only make his frustration worse, but there was little else to occupy his mind. With a reluctant glance, he winced. It was already 10 minutes past the agreed time. His guest had a reputation, that man was notorious for his punctuality, always arriving early or exactly on time, never once showing up late.
Holmes hummed in thought.
The sound of hurried footsteps echoed down the hallway, growing louder with each passing second. Before Sherlock had the chance to brace himself, the door flew open without the courtesy of a knock, and his guest appeared in the doorway. The man’s eyes were tired, very tired, even the tastefully applied makeup wasn’t able to hide it. His face was flushed, chest heaving from, what Holmes assumed, running up the stairs. His guest’s gaze quickly swept over him, his posture tense as if he just came back from a battlefield. He did remember the media world sometimes being described as a war zone, but this was a bit much. Frankly, if little exercise was all it took to put the man he was looking at in such a state, that was immensely worrying.
The late visitor must have seen the growing concern in the detective’s eyes, so he quickly tried to compose himself. A slender hand erratically brushed back some of the disordered white locks. With a fluid motion he swiftly moved to straighten his tie and jacket, as if he practiced that movement every day in front of a mirror.
“Well, well, well. What’s the occasion that I got an invitation from The Great Detective himself? Do you want to amuse me and get on your knees and beg?” came a voice full of contempt and mockery. Did he expect Sherlock to just forget how he looked a few seconds before?
Unpleasant as always, Holmes thought. Charles Augustus Milverton was certainly a talented man. What talent did he possess? It depended on who you asked. Some would describe him as a sweet talker, an economic genius, a hard worker, or when they thought his spies couldn’t hear them – a bastard that should be decaying six feet under the ground. Sherlock wouldn’t fully agree, they had a point, but he found one part of the king of media that won over everything else – he was the most annoying and self-contradicting person the detective ever had the displeasure to meet.
“I wanted to talk. Not about my cases, not about your blackmail. Just talk.”
Milverton cocked a brow, his smile unwavering. “You obviously want something specific from me, detective. It’s bad manners to not be truthful with your guests.”
“Take a seat.” He gestured to the armchair opposite to his own.
“Oh? Someone’s feeling especially audacious today, I see. And that’s not even counting your request of a one-on-one talk.”
“I just want this to be a private conversation. I’m sure you’ll appreciate that as well.”
Milverton moved towards the armchair, looking at Holmes in the corner of his eye. It didn’t seem like he took to heart what the detective said. Sherlock did note that Charles wobbled slightly at a point, like his vision got blurry, but brushed it off as an effect of exhaustion.
The blackmailer sat down, letting his hands rest gracefully on the armrests like he owned the place. He crossed his left leg over the right, the motion so casual that it seemed rehearsed. The way he commanded attention with the smallest of motions was nearly theatrical. As if someone backstage gave him a cue, he tilted his head slightly to one side, allowing a few stray locks to fall softly on his cheek. All to complete the image of utter smugness and superiority, like the world was a toy in the palm of his hand.
‘Anywhere the king sits, becomes a throne.’
You really can’t get more pretentious than that.
“So. What do you want to know?”
As if he was in a rush. Holmes had to hold back a scoff.
“You. I want to learn more about you.”
The man laughed. If Sherlock had to choose a sound he despised the most, that would be it. “Excuse me?”
“We always see each other due to your ‘past time’. To be quite honest, I kind of grew accustomed to our useless negotiations. But, despite how much I see you, I don’t know you proportionally enough. Frankly, it bothers me.”
He was experienced. The types like Milverton only properly listened if you spoke to them a certain way. And he did, he listened. He could see it, his guest thinking of a response but coming up with nothing.
“I think you can relate to the annoyance of not knowing everything,” he added.
“Why?” The question seemed to come out with too much unhidden emotion than his guest wanted. He froze, surprised his mouth would betray him like this.
Sherlock made a mental note of that.
Charles continued while relaxing his posture, his professional persona on full display, a way to compensate for his blunder. “Knowing slightly more about me doesn’t give you anything. And besides, what’s the point in caring about someone you hate?”
“Oh, I don’t hate you. It’s a particular kind of distaste that I wouldn’t dare call hatred.”
Milverton was about to disagree, but Sherlock cut him off.
“I’m sure you don’t hate me too. You’re a special type of bastard, one that weaponizes his own want for pure freedom. You crave to be some kind of...” He snapped his fingers a few times looking for the right word. “Puppeteer! A centre of the world you create and change to your whim. All you do, at least to the outside eye, is for your own entertainment. But that’s the thing, right? If one were to get everything on a silver platter, life would become boring. And you hate boredom, don’t you, Mister Milverton?”
Holmes studied his guest with intensity, stalking, deciphering, but Charles’ expression was unreadable. A practiced mask meant to be put on in the face of danger, like a statue carved from marble, unmoving, unwavering. Breakable. As Sherlock observed, he found a detail that didn’t quite match the calm exterior – Milverton's hands. The way they were pressed together, clasped too tightly, knuckles white from the force put on them. A mask could only go so far, when beneath it, a tension was beginning to bubble up. Don’t break to pieces, he thought, a bit too amused with the situation.
Then something caught his eye. Sherlock noticed a slight discoloration on the other man’s fingers. Ink stains? He knew Milverton would always make sure to look perfectly presentable when going out, he had to keep up an image. No, stop, Holmes wanted to scream out. He was getting distracted, no time for that. But he had to. He took notice of it, so he had to figure it out. Perhaps his fountain pen broke? However, looking closer he noticed Charles’ clothes appeared fresh, and he sure as hell didn’t dress up specifically for him.
Ink...
A machine failure at the printing house? That did sound possible. A boss does have to show his face once in a while to keep up the morale. But if that were the case, he wondered why Milverton would get close enough to get splashed. He was sure that asshole would get an allergic reaction if he was put 3 meters away from physical labour.
Holmes bit the inside of his cheek hoping to make the thoughts stop. It didn’t really matter what actually happened. There was a bigger fish to catch, and if it went well, he’d have the time to ponder on seemingly unimportant details.
“Do you hate me?” Sherlock asked. His head slightly tilted, face contorted into fake disappointment.
A curious thing happened. To his surprise, Charles slowly moved his eyes to the floor.
Holmes noticed the subtle shift in the man’s demeanour – the way his gaze was unfocused, his thoughts clearly elsewhere. Without a word and with a calm movement of a hand, he pulled out a pocket watch, clearly old, its case worn. Well-loved, important, the detective deduced. Slowly, Milverton began to trace gentle, circular motions across the object, as if the rhythmic, soothing touch of the cold metal could calm the uncertainty than was beginning to show on his face. He didn’t seem to notice Sherlock staring. No, Holmes wasn’t even there. The reality outside could wait while the storm passed by. It was a small thing, but it obviously meant the world to him. ‘He’s holding a hand of a loved one’, such bitter words lingered at the tip of the host’s tongue.
“You’re a nuisance, but... I guess, I don’t hate you.”
Sherlock almost wasn’t able to hear the last part. There was no mistake, something was very off, as if an understudy took the place of the King of Blackmailers. A myriad of theories ran through the detective’s mind. Did something happen? Was there external force at play? Or perhaps something more personal? Did he simply not respond well to discussing his feelings? He considered all the possibilities carefully. Not many things in life were truly coincidental. Intriguing.
Let’s change it up a bit, he thought.
“You know, I would even dare say...” A hint of an impish smile played on his face. “That you wouldn’t be able to live without me, blackmailer.”
Milverton once again looked at him, a mischievous glimmer in his eyes. As if the possibility of banter and subsequently annoying the other person brought him back to life.
“Oh? That’s an interesting hypothesis. Unfortunately, I’m not as knowledgeable as you when it comes to science. Would you enlighten me then how you’d test this assumption?”
The soft motions of the man’s finger stopped, his grip firm on the pocket watch. An anchor.
Holmes eased into the armchair, his body relaxing as he sank a little further into its cushions. It wasn’t in his nature to act malicious, but, to his displeasure, and that of his guest, to truly test something, one had to analyse the subject under various conditions.
And it was the-Milverton-way to act as if you knew everything about everyone after all. The taste of one’s own medicine was always the most bitter.
“I’d have to familiarise myself more with theatre.”
Charles blinked once, then again, his brow furrowing, trying to make sense of what he just heard. His lips parted slightly, but at first no words came out. Finally, after a second, a perplexed sound could be heard. “Pardon?”
“You see, I can’t sit through long performances. I have this awful habit of overthinking, especially in large crowds. As you can imagine, watching a play isn’t to me an exceptionally enjoyable experience.”
“The point. Get to it.”
Holmes let his chin rest on his hand, carefully piecing together what he wanted to say in his head before speaking. His eyes darkened, a surge of excitement was tickling at his spine.
“You’re an actor. There’s a distinct aura of fakeness around your person. Well, it’s hard to find a person in London today that is completely honest. Such awful times we live in.” His eyes leisurely studied the ceiling, counting small scratches and stains he couldn’t remember anymore when he had made. He got bored after counting seventeen, and so he quickly once again focused on the person he was talking with.
“To ignore the cruel reality, people try to fit into moulds. Because maybe if they’ll convince themselves that this is the part some higher power had written for them, then they’ll be able to run away from misery. And you, I must say, you are truly the master of your craft.”
It was unsettling. Sherlock knew they were together in a room, space between them, door unlocked. Yet, it felt as though his hands were tightening around Milverton’s throat. The warmth of blood and the frantic pulse beneath his fingers felt almost too real. It wasn’t an unwelcome sensation, but it certainly wasn’t one he particularly enjoyed.
Was that what Charles felt when blackmailing his victims?
A numbing shiver ran down his spine.
“Didn’t you just say something about me ‘weaponizing my want for freedom’? How would I be trying to fit into moulds then?”
Here it was.
“Simple. It’s because that’s the part you believe you have to play to be happy.”
Silence, and then, a rush of cold sweat. The wound wasn’t deep enough, he didn’t break the skin.
Charles put the watch back into his pocket and crossed his arms with a smug smile.
“I see the toxic fumes you breathe in everyday have finally melted the last pathetic bits of your brain.” The man’s fangs might have as well injected a deadly venom into his veins.
Sherlock didn’t care, well, at least had to make it look like he didn’t. It stung. He got cocky, when he should have taken more time into properly cornering his guest. Such a perfect occasion slipped through his fingers. He felt tingling in his brain. He needed to find something, anything, to once again get his hands on the man’s throat.
“Are you proud of yourself?” he asked, silently surprised he managed to say the sentence correctly with his mind racing. Regret hit him. Damn it, damn it. Not good enough. He felt he needed to say something, so he grasped at the first coherent goddamn sentence that formed in his brain. If this was a tangible game, one might think he was losing on purpose.
“HAH! How couldn’t I?” Charles bent forward. “Did I do something to warrant such question? If so, please tell me. I’ll do everything in my power to correct that mistake.”
Shit.
Sherlock’s movements were sudden, almost violent, as he stood up. He walked to the window and with a sharp motion, he threw it open. The cold air filled the room, but it didn’t cool his temper. He felt like he was going to throw up. He needed a distraction, a release. He pulled out a matchbox and a cigarette, his fingers trembled as they tried again and again to light it. Finally, with one last quick, forceful flick, he succeeded. For a moment he watched as the little flame danced, before putting it out and hiding the matchbox back in his pocket. Holmes’ eyes narrowed, one last effort to fight that want. To hell with it. He breathed in like he wanted to drown in the smoke, to get drunk on it. Every muscle in his body was tense, the blood vessels in his temple felt as though ready to snap at the slightest provocation.
He leaned his back against the windowsill with such force, that for a second he thought he might fall out. Honestly, he kind of whished he did. A splatter of meat on the street doesn’t have to think. Ah, but what an awful existence would be one where you can’t stimulate your brain. Decisions, decisions.
The chilly air tangling his hair brought him back to reality. Right, this wasn’t the time nor place to ponder life. He didn’t need to look at Milverton to know the man’s smile widened. It was easy to tell the detective started to get irritated. He had a head start, the cards were in his favour, but this entire ordeal started to look like their usual negotiations – Charles boasting, and him just having to suck it up.
The moment he shows anger he loses.
Gaining the upper hand on Milverton was always tricky. The blackmailer knew he wasn’t perfect, he made multiple mistakes throughout his career, but he learned to respond to them with immoveable confidence. And there’s no enemy worse than one that learns.
Holmes could feel his hands starting to itch. Oh, how he needed to peel off the blackmailer’s proud exterior, to embed his nails in the man’s unprotected core. After all, that was the thread between them – the desire to know.
To win he had to go deeper, hit where it’s personal. Again, and again, and again, and again. To take advantage of Milverton’s pride, how the man wouldn’t let himself leave questions unanswered.
The-Milverton-way...
The blackmailer never showed mercy. So why should he?
“Do you think your parents would be proud of you?” Sherlock asked abruptly, his voice cold.
Charles kept an amused smile on his face, but despite his best efforts, his pupils trembled faintly. It was a small tell, but to the detective it was enough to see the cracks in the calm exterior.
“The opinion of the dead shouldn’t matter to the living,” the blackmailer's words came out strained, but there was something in the intonation that made the detective speculate he was used to saying that. Just a hunch.
“How did they die?”
“I don’t see how that’s important.”
“I’d argue that parental death has a big influence on children. But I guess I should have specified.” Holmes looked straight at his guest, as if he wanted to burn a hole in the man’s forehead with his gaze. “I meant your birth parents, not the Milvertons.”
Sherlock could swear the other man’s face somehow turned paler. Honestly, it was maybe even a bit satisfying. He put these cards on the table, there was no other option now but act. After one last drag, he put out the cigarette on the windowsill, leaving it there.
“You know, you’re not the only person who can stick their nose where they shouldn’t. And unfortunately for you, in my line of work, noticing tiny details that don’t fully add up is like...” He puffed out the last bits of smoke. “...breathing.”
He wanted to say more, maybe even drop the man’s real name, but that was impossible. All he was sure of was what Milverton wasn’t. He had to give it to whoever organised this, even if someone came to the same conclusion he did, there was no clue leading to the blackmailer’s true identity. But of course, his opponent didn’t need to know that. He’d just need to improvise a bit before his guest sees through him.
The sound of footsteps echoed through the room, slow and deliberate. Charles stiffened, his breath shallow. Milverton’s eyes darted between the approaching figure and the door, considering his options, but even if he wanted to turn tail, his body wouldn’t obey. Holmes could see it, the blackmailer tried to back away, but all he could do was sink deeper into the armchair. He came to a halt mere breath away from the other man, their legs almost touching.
Without moving his gaze, he noticed the way Charles’ hand was buried in his pocket. Slender fingers were probably gripping a pocket watch with all their might. He wondered if in that moment his guest did that to ground himself in reality, or to pretend he wasn’t there.
He licked his lips, preparing himself. He knew where to aim.
“If I threw it out the window, would you dive for it?”
The detective didn’t wait for an answer, there was no need for it. The blackmailer’s eyes, wide with genuine terror, told him everything he wanted to know. If these trembling, slightly open lips could in that moment make a sound, they would probably be screaming ‘yes, and much more’.
Milverton, stripped of his usual pride, seemed unrecognisable. Was this really one of the most dangerous men in London? Holmes had to admit the display before him was rather pathetic. Almost pity-worthy. Big emphasis on ‘almost’. It was strange how easily words could take away a person’s strength, wasn’t it?
That got Sherlock thinking. Maybe than was the core of it? Not the pride, not the malice. Fear. At his core the King of Blackmailers felt fear. Milverton was scared, utterly terrified of losing. But it was too early for the detective to say that was the root of all evil.
“What do you want?” a small voice rang out, barely audible. A worse person would surely ask him to repeat, just to satisfy their own ego.
Holmes couldn’t help but chuckle at the absurdity of the situation.
“You’re a ‘king’, right? I want to hear you say it, your majesty.” He held out his hand, like he was attempting to bury the hatchet. “Announce I won this round, crown me the victor.”
Charles was staring at the outstretched palm in silent contemplation. For a moment, he hesitated, his fingers twitching as they, to the detective’s disbelief and anticipation, began to slowly rise. But just as they were about to touch, Milverton’s expression hardened. There was something dangerous burning behind those eyes that were now looking at the man standing above him. Sherlock flinched, he could clearly see the moment Milverton realised he didn’t actually have anything on him. His hand got violently swatted away as Charles rose to his feet.
“All you have are stupid theories, ones no one should entertain.”
He could tell from that barely held back fury in the blackmailer’s voice, that if his guest was just a little bit less sensible of a person, he would have his entire existence erased.
It didn’t really hurt when he got shoved back. A trembling silhouette moved past him, its steps erratic. The figure’s direction was clear – the door. Charles would call it a ‘tactical retreat’, Sherlock would call it ‘running away’.
Milverton never let his victims leave until he said they could.
A strong arm yanked on a cold, pale hand. The man tried to get away from his grip to no avail. A breath hitched in Holmes’ throat. He didn’t like that feeling. Being in control was usually empowering, but the effortless way he held the man didn’t sit well with him. It felt too easy, too simple. He had to wonder why Milverton would ever agree to a one-on-one meeting. Was it pride or stupidity? It wasn’t even about murdering the guy. He didn’t want to imagine the ways in which he could easily hurt him. There would be no real struggle, no resistance, just pain.
He looked at his face. It would be an understatement to say that Milverton was pissed, eyes blazing with genuine hatred, but there was more beneath it – a refusal to break, a refusal to show fear. He still didn’t scream for help, only thrashed around. Even in such a situation he didn’t want to appear weak by immediately calling for his bodyguards. Pride or stupidity, pride or stupidity... The thought looped in his mind.
Sherlock slightly relaxed his grip; it wasn’t fun beating a dead horse. Still, it didn’t help an already exhausted Milverton. ‘Exhausted’ might have been a too kind of a word. He looked genuinely unwell, as if he might collapse or throw up on Holmes’ already dirty carpet. The situation felt... wrong, but there was nothing left to say or do. So, he did nothing. He just stood there, watching as Charles was heaving in place, body shaking with each painful exhale.
He glanced down feeling how the hand he was holding trembled. Milverton’s sleeve slightly rolled up from all this struggling. More stains, this time the discoloration was obvious. Must have put less effort cleaning the places he could hide.
Perhaps the machine failure theory was correct, Holmes thought. What was usually used to clean ink? He was sure he knew the answer considering how many pens he broke in his life.
Alcohol... acetone...
Ah.
He suddenly remembered the reason his mother would open the windows when using one of those on his school shirts...
Sherlock put his arm under Charles’ before the man could complain. That should have been acceptable enough, he only helped him stand on his own two feet. And was in a better position to catch him if he started losing consciousness, but that part was better left unsaid. Milverton’s lips opened, undoubtedly, to argue, yet nothing came out. To Holmes’ surprise, his guest let himself lean on him, his breath slowly but surely steading.
That’s right, Sherlock was not Charles; he wouldn’t hold him in place to enjoy his misery. This was a test, a test of a hypothesis. To analyse the subject in different conditions. To see who hides behind the title of The King of Blackmailers.
He shook the man slightly, making sure he wasn’t falling asleep.
“Tomorrow morning. Come with me to Scotland Yard.”
“...What?” The question was almost too silent to be considered a whisper.
It appeared he did start falling asleep.
“There’s always work to do there,” Holmes continued.
“What are you even talking about?”
“I’m telling you to empty your schedule for tomorrow to go work with me.”
Charles’ eyes widened, finally piecing together what was being asked of him. He had to catch his breath before speaking again.
“Did you hit your head as a child? Do you seriously think I can just DROP my plans like that?”
Sherlock couldn’t tell if his guest was on the verge of crying or laughing. Probably both. He had to admit he had that effect on people.
“First, probably. Second, then pick a day when you’re free,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
Milverton’s eyes were swiftly moving from one point on Sherlock’s face to another, trying to find even a lick of sense in what the detective was doing.
“Why?” he spat through gritted teeth. “What are you playing?”
“I’m giving you an opportunity.”
These words didn’t seem to make Charles feel less lost, but it did look like they brought him some peace of mind. An idea. His vision focused. That was good for him. He was a businessman after all, making deals was a part of the course. There was some possibility for him to get some power back. He stared into the detective’s eyes like the man’s next words might become his last.
Holmes smiled encouragingly. “A change of pace, if you will. Being seen with me will definitely open for you some new connections, but also close others. In return, I’ll get to look more into your always elusive self.”
“Don’t you have a partner now?”
“Oh, I’m sure John could use some free time. It’d do him well to meet some new people, maybe even a girl or two.” He chuckled with a wink, the ‘if you know what I mean’ part didn’t need to be said.
“Not who I-” Milverton stopped himself, lightly shaking his head. He must have concluded that wasn’t the time nor place to show off his knowledge of others’ personal lives. However, it did pique Sherlock’s interest. A matter for another day, he supposed.
Charles deeply thought for a moment, properly analysing the offer. He scoffed, clearly amused. A realisation hit him. “You dog. This is just a convoluted way to keep me out of causing trouble.”
Holmes shrugged nonchalantly with a smile. “Well, I personally find it rather fun sounding. And you do always boast about knowing every secret in this city. How about you impress me for once, you sneaky rat?”
The blackmailer’s smile widened thinking about it more.
Sherlock continued. “Maybe we could even make it a habit. If that were the case... I have a friend who could join us in such escapades at a later date.”
It seemed Milverton finally found the strength to stand on his own. He struggled, but managed to make it to the door, gripping the handle with trembling fingers. The detective didn’t try to stop him. He could see it. He knew he indeed won this round. All that was left... was for the king to announce it.
“You know what? Fine. Be my guest. Have it your way.” He turned around and pointed a finger at Holmes. “Tomorrow, precisely at nine in the morning. I better see you in front of the Yard’s headquarters.”
And just like that, he walked out.
A quiet, amused laugh could be heard. “His jaw was tense. You’ll need to get more used to losing to me, your majesty.”