Now this pair is feeling neglected . . . Fic: Bore Bach- Part I

[peg22]

So my recently acquired mad hot love for the original slash boys - Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson - has been tossed in the rubbish bin (Holmes' words) whilst I worry the day away with the diluted, modern dopplegangers . . .

So this is my first attempt at a long fic set in the Edwardian days of London . . . the title is Welsh and means "little morning"

Let me know if I've fallen right off the wagon into an oncoming carriage, okay???

And a big thanks to LS for leading me down the path to 221B . . .

Title:  Bore Bach
Author: Kaye
Slash, eventually, maybe, could be . . .
Holmes/Watson
R

Bore Bach - Part I

by Kaye

 

The image is forever seared into my memory. It has been almost a year, and I still cannot walk my usual route to my surgery. I have also taken to stopping at most corners for the briefest of moments, before heading onward to Baker Street, to the tailor, to the tobacco seller - anywhere for that matter.

 

It is not fear necessarily that has caused me to adopt habits I would surely be concerned about in my own patients. Paranoia? Perhaps. And considering the sides of humanity I have seen in my travels with Sherlock Holmes, I am perplexed at my continued obsession. Surely the events surrounding that briefest of moments should be the ones that plague me. Or the contemplation on what went before – what reprehensible forces converged there in the middle of Baker Street on a Tuesday afternoon.

 

But, no. It is the image, and more precisely, the corners of the image, the peripheral details, that haunt me. The glint of the silver cane tip, the swish of the skirts running past me, the thundering of hoofs, the raised hand . . .

 

I have opened these pages in order to write it out of my memory, if that is even a remote possibility – to unravel the knot in my brain. As I write, Holmes is sleeping sound – an anomaly of its own – and hopefully I can do this duty and be done with it.

 

*****

 

It was an unassuming Tuesday afternoon. I had just stitched up Mr. Hancock’s left eyebrow and was jotting down a note when I heard the commotion in my waiting area. I came out of my office and literally ran into a messenger boy, red-faced and panting, who shoved a scrap of paper into my hand, nodded, and then spun round and ran out the door. I turned it over and read the three hastily scribbled words:

 

Holmes. Come Home.

 

Between my ponderings of the unfamiliar hand, the cheap quality of paper, and the strangely irregular tearing at the edges, I grabbed my coat and hat, shouted to Mrs. Denham, and was out the door. Never in my long and storied acquaintance with Holmes, had I had an occasion to doubt the sincerity of his messages. The logic, maybe. The delivery methods employed, definitely. The motivation behind. Surely. But the spidery letters that rose from this scrap of paper left me with a cold dread that I could not shake even as I turned the corner and stopped at the startling sight in front of me.

 

The street teemed with smells and shouting and confusion and from my left ear I could hear a woman sobbing. From somewhere else I heard bells ringing and oddly enough, the splash of water hitting the street. The next thing that came clear to me was that the large black boulder in the middle of the street was actually my friend and colleague, Sherlock Holmes.

 

He sat directly in the middle of Baker Street, hunched forward, cradling a large bundle in his arms, his cane and hat near him. His left shoe dangled loose from his toe, his brow knitted with what can only be described as extreme distress, and there were two streaks of blood mixed with soot on his right cheek. He rocked back and forth and I could see his lips moving, but couldn’t make out the sound coming from them.

 

I took another step closer, the noises around me whirling together into an incessant buzz and I realized with a start that the body in his arms was that of the thirteen year old Sergeant at Arms in his band of irregulars, Wiggins. Blood streamed from a gash in the boy’s head and Holmes kept wiping it out of his eyes with his scarf, murmuring and rocking. The boy’s dusky pallor and obvious limpness caused my heart to beat faster. Wiggins was close to death.

 

Suddenly I was startled almost out of my boots by the sound and sight of a large carriage coming just into my view to my right. Surely Holmes and the boy would be trampled. I turned to shout a warning and that’s when I saw the most remarkable sight in all this mayhem.

 

Inspector Lestrade stood three feet from Holmes, his feet planted firm, one hand in the air, and one hand on his hip. Arranged in a semicircle around him, at regimented distances of three feet, were six of his constables. I watched in awe as the men managed to direct the carriage around Holmes, Lestrade barking out orders, and when the horses had passed, they stood their ground, hands behind their back. On guard.

 

It was at this moment that the Inspector saw me frozen on the sidewalk and shouted my name, motioning me into the street. Had I not been jostled just then from one of the dozen onlookers, I might have remained there stiff, but I managed to make my way toward him, the sight of my disheveled friend and his odd rocking chilling my blood. What on earth had happened?

 

Lestrade’s hand clasped my arm and the shakiness of his grip did nothing to relieve my own growing concern.

 

“Dr. Watson – we can’t get him to move. Or give up the boy.”

 

“What happened?” I looked down at Holmes, who was whispering something in the poor boy’s ear. “Can’t your men just . . .”

 

“We tried, Doctor – he let out a devil’s wail and wrapped himself tighter around the boy.” Lestrade touched my arm again and leaned in closer. “He’s out of his head. Watched it all happen, so says your Mrs. Hudson.”

 

I turned around and saw Mrs. Hudson standing near the door to 221B, wringing her hands, looking up and down the street. When her eyes met mine, she flew into the street and into my arms.

 

“Oh, Dr. Watson, thank God. You can get him to release dear Wiggins.” She whispered in my ear. “I think the boy’s dead.”

 

She took my hand and we approached Holmes. His eyes were closed and he was mumbling something, but the tones were low and raspy and I could only make out one word. “Please.”

 

I crouched in front of him and put a hand to Wiggins’ chest. Holmes jerked away at first, but then looked up at me and stilled. I was so intent upon determining the boy’s condition, I didn’t realize Holmes had laid a hand on my thigh.

 

“Watson, thank God,” he whispered and then shoved Wiggins toward me. “Fix him.”

 

I saw the raw agony in his face and knew my news would only increase his pain. I also knew I had to get him out of the street, and so I looked right back into those tortured eyes and lied.

 

“I will. Help me get him into the house.” I stood and tugged at them both.

 

Holmes closed his eyes and held fast to poor Wiggins. I thought at first he would not let go, but then he gave a great sigh and released the boy into my arms. Lestrade ran over to help us out of the street and Mrs. Hudson held the door open as I carried the boy into the house.  I motioned to Mrs. Hudson’s sitting room, which was selfish on my part, not wanting the events of this day to touch our rooms upstairs, but Mrs. Hudson seemed to understand and opened her door, leading me to her daybed, where she quickly threw the covers back.

 

I turned back to see Lestrade leading Holmes into the house, and was even more dismayed at the way Holmes sagged into him, his eyes half closed, his hand trembling, still  mumbling. Not for the first time I wondered again what on earth had happened. To him. To Wiggins.

 

Lestrade arranged Holmes in the chair and then joined me at the bed. “How is he?”

 

I looked at Holmes, but he had yet to open his eyes. I turned back to poor Wiggins, loosening his collar, arranging his hands, feeling hopelessly for a pulse. “He’s dead.”

 

Lestrade took a ragged breath and clutched his hat to his chest. He glanced at Holmes and then leaned down close to me. “It was Cartwright. Brought the boy back tied to a wagon. Drug him right down the street and made Holmes watch as he cut him loose in front of the door and kicked him into the gutter. He rolled into the street and was almost run down by a Phaeton, and that’s when Mr. Holmes rushed out. The back wheel caught his foot - you might want to take a look at it."

 

“Good Lord,” I managed and wished for a stiff whiskey to fortify my nerves. Thaddeus Cartwright had been in the sights of Holmes for months. He ranked number two on the list of suspects in the murder last summer in Aberystwyth, on the west coast of Wales.  Holmes had been invited to speak to the newly formed Department of Law and Criminology at the University there and on the way to the lecture, had stumbled upon the grisly sight of a young student hanging dead in the courtyard, the university motto etched into his back.

 

"Nid Byd, Byd Heb Gwybodaeth" – “A World Without Knowledge is No World.”

 

I didn’t think I would ever forget those weeks following. Holmes seemed particularly driven to find the murderer and had focused on Cartwright after he had found three distinct carriage tracks outside the residency halls and then again in the courtyard. I had wished a thousand times we hadn’t been introduced to such depravity, as certainly that murder could not be called anything but, and now it would seem the evil had followed us back to London.

 

When Cartwright disappeared and the other leads grew cold, we returned to the city and immediately got caught up in Baron Gruner and his dastardly deeds.  Holmes took longer than expected to recover from his beating at the hands of his enemies, and I just thought he had let the Wales case go. I had been mistaken. But how was Wiggins involved?

 

I felt Mrs. Hudson press a cup into my hand, and was about to protest – tea was not what I needed – when I realized it was whiskey. She then turned to Holmes, and like a mother feeding a baby bird, coaxed a few drops into his mouth. He stirred a bit, and Lestrade squeezed my shoulder and left.  I just hoped he wouldn’t be back with the wagon before I could figure out a way to tell Holmes the boy was dead.

 

The whiskey seemed to revive Holmes, and he eventually took the cup into his trembling hands and swallowed the contents. He lifted his head, looking directly into my eyes.

 

“Tell me, Watson.” His voice still shook, but I heard the familiar tone struggling underneath and felt heartened. “Just tell me.”

 

I walked over and took his cold hand in mine. I laid my other hand on his shoulder, but before I could get a word out, he rose from the chair, pushing me away, tugging his scarf off his neck, the cup clattering to the floor.

 

“No,” he shouted and moved toward the bed. “No. I will not allow it.”

 

I came up behind him and put a hand on his shoulder. “Yes, Holmes. There’s nothing you can do. He’s gone.”

 

He sagged against me and I managed to brace him with both hands as he stumbled backward and then regained his balance. He remained still for a moment, and then I felt his spine straighten beneath my hands, just as if he were a training skeleton in a lecture hall. He lowered his head and clasped his hands together and then turned to me.

 

“Help me clean him up, Watson.”

 

Holmes stared at the boy, perhaps searching for a clue to his horrific end, perhaps to commit the lad’s face to memory, perhaps to find some absolution – I couldn’t tell. I slipped out and found Mrs. Hudson and hot water and when I returned, Holmes was ripping the boy’s shirt.

 

“What are you doing?” I set the water down and moved to stop him.

 

“Look, Watson. Oh, it is too much. Look!” He sank down on the bed, covering his face with his hands.

 

I looked at the boy and saw with horror that his chest was covered with scratches – an etching. The etching. I could just make out the Welsh words. I stumbled back into the chair. “Good God.”

 

Holmes raised his head and looked at me. “What have I done, Watson? What have I done?”

 

“What have you done?” I didn’t mean it as an indictment, but obviously he had been pursuing this case without my knowledge. So there were two questions layered there.

 

Mrs. Hudson entered the room and Holmes moved quickly to cover the boy.  Then he reached into his pocket for a cigarette. I waited for Mrs. Hudson’s objection, but she just soaked a cloth in the hot water and began cleaning Wiggin’s face.

 

Holmes stopped her. “We can’t,” he said gently. “Evidence.” She looked up at Holmes and then burst into tears. He tried to soothe her, but with the cigarette in his hand and his natural disinclinations, he instead just dropped ash onto her hair.

 

We were all rescued by the sound of the door. Lestrade, back with reinforcements, was ushered in and Mrs. Hudson closed the door behind her. Holmes stood at the window and I remained in the chair – the events of the day beginning to tell on my nerves. I wished Mrs. Hudson had left the whiskey.

 

“Inspector Lestrade, this boy must be treated with the utmost respect.” Holmes didn’t look away from the window, and Lestrade gave me a look and I nodded and he nodded.

 

All of which did not escape Holmes. “And stop that infernal nodding. As you and your friend and mine know, Wiggins was often in my employ. I am sure his murder-“

 

“Murder?” Lestrade took off his hat.

 

“Yes, murder. Caused I now fear, by my own bumbling idiocy.”

 

“Surely not, Holmes. You can’t-“

 

“But I must. It is I who killed the miserable fellow as if I had driven the cart over his skull myself. Which I assume was the final cause of death?”

 

I nodded and Holmes moved away from the window and began to pace, which was difficult in Mrs. Hudson’s small room. “Lestrade, how much time do I have?”

 

“I don’t follow you.” Lestrade looked to me again and I just shrugged. I was as much in the dark at this point as he.

 

“Until I have to make an official recounting.” Holmes stopped moving and looked at me. “Do you think tomorrow morning would be soon enough?”

 

Lestrade looked at Holmes, and then at me, and then back at Holmes. I followed his gaze and realized the last question had been for me as Holmes stared intently in my direction.

 

“Don’t look at me, Holmes. I’ve just recently caught up to the point that Thaddeus Cartwright may be involved.” I moved out of his line of vision, opening the door, waving my hand against the smoke. “And stop smoking in Mrs. Hudson’s room. It’s rude.”

 

Both Holmes and Lestrade stared at me as I closed the door and moved to the chair. “I think you should let him take the boy. What good-“

 

“What good? What good? There is no good here, Watson. None at all.” Holmes jerked the door open. “Mrs. Hudson . . . Mrs. Huud-son.” He closed it with a bang and moved back over to Wiggins. “Come Watson; see what you can find before he’s stolen away from us.”

 

Mrs. Hudson opened the door and just poked the top of her head round. “You’ll do well not to bellow at me today, Mr. Holmes. Not today.” She dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief and then tucked it back in her sleeve.

 

“We need a blanket, some towels, and whiskey.” Holmes turned back to his work. “Give us an hour, Inspector. Then you may have my poor Wiggins.”

 

Lestrade frowned, but then nodded and turned to go. “One hour, Holmes.” He settled his hat back on his head and took Mrs. Hudson’s hand. “I’m so sorry for the intrusion, m’am.”

 

Mrs. Hudson pursed her lips. “Just find the murderer, Inspector. Find him and hang him.”

 

Lestrade shook his head, muttered, “Murder, it’s always murder with you people,” and disappeared out the door.

 

I stayed in the chair and watched for a bit as Holmes studied every inch of the boy. Mrs. Hudson returned with his requests and I poured myself a generous splash of the whiskey. The twanging in my nerves settled a bit and the embers of my irritation with Holmes cooled enough so I joined him at the body and helped him remove Wiggins’ clothes and wrap him in a blanket.

 

I was disheartened to see the state of the boy. I could count every rib. There were scars running down his legs and across his torso. His thirteen years on this earth had not been easy. Of course I already knew this intellectually. That when he left 221B those evenings, his belly full of food, his pocket heavier for his efforts, he didn’t go anywhere but back out onto the street, under a carriage, in a barn, up a tree for all I knew.

 

I felt a pang of guilt that we didn’t do more for him. Find him a school, take him in . . .

 

“So, Watson, how long are you going to punish me?” Holmes soft voice startled me out of my wallowing.

 

“Punish you?”

 

“For not including you in my inquiries. For not telling you about Cartwright being in London.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “For killing Wiggins.”

 

“You did not kill Wiggins.”

 

“That remains to be seen.” Holmes took out another cigarette and motioned to the door. “Let us retire to our rooms and I will tell you everything.”

 

“And the body?”

 

“Lestrade can have him. We’ve done all we can for our Wiggins. Now we must work with relentless precision to find his killer.”

TBC. . .