by Janina Woods
“Only a few bumps on the head.”
“Good,” she huffed and pulled off her gloves, which joined the coat that was already discarded on the floor. “Let me see that.”
“You don’t need to, Dr. Watson is-”
“I don’t care. Let me see.”
I sighed and let my head fall back. There is no use in denying Lucy Louisa Turner. None whatsoever. She took in the state of my arm and obviously pondered where to start working on it.
“How are you here so quickly?”
“You left the household staff in quite a disarray with your flight, dear Mycroft. It was only a short while until the rumours reached the ballroom.”
“And you knew immediately that it was me, because who else would flee in such a dramatic fashion, after all?” I huffed.
“Precisely,” Lou said and I flinched when she pulled at the cloth on my arm experimentally. “I’m never bringing you along again.”
“You know that isn’t true.”
“Maybe we should move you to a bed or-”
“Nonsense,” I cut her off. “I fear that any movement may knock me out properly, and I’d rather stay lucid for a little while longer.”
“We could-”
Now it was Edward’s turn to be cut off, as the door to the room was flung open once again. It was my brother, running through the house without any regard for the distressed butler, who followed after him and couldn’t stop apologising.
“Where is Dr. Watson?” I asked immediately.
“Watson is at Baker Street. He has been wounded,” my brother replied.
“Wounded?’ I cried.
“Quite so. I fear he may have taken a blow that was meant for me.”
“Is it serious?”
Sherlock shook his head.
“By some lucky circumstance, I dropped one of my gloves, just as we exited Simpson’s. Lucky for me, that is. Just as I bent to retrieve it from the ground, Watson took a step forward, as he was anxious to flag down a cab to take us back to Baker Street as quickly as possible. In that moment he was stabbed in the back, and the culprit quickly disappeared in the crowd. But let us have a look at your own wound first, brother. A gunshot?”
“Yes. To my upper arm.”
“And no one has tended to it yet?”
Lou shrugged. “I wanted to, but we better leave this to a doctor.”
“Watson won’t be able to leave his bed anytime soon,” Sherlock explained and removed his jacket, so he could roll up his sleeves. “I need warm water, clean cloth and bandages. Oh, and a pair of tweezers. The bullet is still in your arm, isn’t it?”
“I don’t doubt it,” I answered.
Lou went to the door to order the maid to fetch the required things. Now that she was home, it was immediately clear who was the master of the house.
“Are you going to perform the extraction?” Edward asked with a shaky voice. “Do you... know how to?”
“I’ve seen the doctor operate so many times that I can replicate his process. There is a procedure to follow and I know the details,” my brother explained in a steady voice.
“But you’ve done this before, surely?”
“Not once. But that’s not a problem.”
“Mycroft?” Edward asked then, clearly wanting me to stop this madness.
“There’s no reason for me to doubt Sherlock’s opinion. If he says he can do it, then he can. Besides... how hard can it be? Fish out the bullet, clean the wound, bandage it.”
“Indeed,” my brother confirmed.
“By all that is holy.” Edward sighed. “Here, have another drink, at least.”
He held the refilled glass to my lips and I emptied it greedily. The burn in my throat and the tingle in my stomach added to the dizziness from the blood loss and made me feel much more relaxed than I had any right to be. Still, compared to what I already had to endure for my occupation in the past, this was nothing. So as the maid arrived with the supplies, I simply took the offered piece of leather between my teeth and closed my eyes.
Sherlock refrained from removing the improvised tourniquet on my arm. On the contrary, he pulled it even tighter, and I knew why: The bullet was potentially blocking part of the blood flow in my arm. Once removed, the bleeding could start again, which had just barely stopped while I was lying on the table. Still, he needed to get rid of my jacket and shirt sleeve, so he grabbed a pair of large scissors, and cut through the fabric until he could peel it away sufficiently to reveal the mess.
My arm was swollen and dirty. There was no way to determine the exact location of the wound like that, so Sherlock and Lou carefully cleaned the area with warm water until the actual bullet hole emerged. So far, the pain had been manageable, but as soon as Sherlock reached for the tweezers, I screwed my eyes shut. Just because I had experienced this before, didn’t mean it would be any more pleasant this time around.
“I’m sorry,” my brother mumbled. “I could tell you that this will hurt me more than it does you, but that would be lying.”
I huffed a short bout of nervous laughter. Lou had procured another light from somewhere, and held it above the wound, so that Sherlock could see the bullet that had so rudely ruined my night. The light was so bright I could sense its presence through my closed eyelids.
Then I felt my brother’s hand on my arm, holding it steady, pulling the skin around the gunshot wound apart, so he could see inside the hole. Though I rationally knew him to be as careful as he could be, it felt like he was ripping the skin right off my flesh. I moaned in pain and bit down on the leather in an effort to quiet myself.
“I can see the metal,” Lou whispered.
“Yes, I think it might’ve been stopped by the bone. Let’s hope it isn’t fractured. The metal and the bone, that is.”
I groaned behind my gag, urging them to get on with it. There was only so long I could bear this, and I was starting to feel quite sick already.
“Right,” Sherlock mumbled, and I understood at once that his hesitation lay not in his ability to perform the minor surgery, but in the fear that he might hurt me further.
I placed my good hand on his arm, in an effort to tell them that I would be alright, no matter what he did, and I think he understood my intention, as his eyes narrowed, all focus on the matter at hand. Once again I had to close my eyes, as I felt the edge of the cold metal of the tweezers touch my skin. But nothing so far compared to the pain I felt while Sherlock tried to fish the cursed piece of metal from my body.
It couldn’t have been more than ten or fifteen seconds, but they felt like a lifetime to me. Tears formed in my eyes and ran freely down my face, as I bit the leather so hard I felt my jaw almost cramp up. Edward held my good hand, not only in support, but probably also in fear I would unintentionally lash out at Sherlock and make my own situation worse for it. In that moment I both hated and loved the man for his quick reaction.
“There we go!” I finally heard Sherlock say triumphantly, as he let the squashed bullet fall into his left hand. “Now for the boring part.”
I wanted to talk back to him, but I couldn’t keep my thoughts together. I could barely hear them chatter around me, fussing over the cleaning and bandaging of the wound, as all words reached me only through a haze. I floated for a while, all but removed from my body, as the actions of those around me didn’t register as having anything to do with me.
It was no surprise then that Sherlock had a hard time pulling me back into reality. By the way he said my name, when I registered that he was indeed talking to me, it sounded like he had to repeat it many times over already.
“Would you prefer to take something for the pain?” Lou asked as had returned to them.
“No, of course not. I’m in a bad way already. No need to worsen it.” There was no discussion. Everyone knew it was no
use arguing with me over this. Or they kept their energy for a much more important argument, because I already felt it hovering in the air.
“So, now that this is done... How is Dr. Watson?” I asked weakly, out of concern, but also to distract.
“The blade hit his shoulder. His coat was thick, so it didn’t penetrate very far, but he has lost a lot of blood.”
“I can relate,” I sighed and turned my head towards Sherlock.
I was still lying on the table, and I would have to keep still at least a little while longer as to not collapse right after I’d stand up. As soon as the help had been evicted from the room once again, my brother pulled up a chair for himself and sat down to receive my account of the evening’s events. The way he sat, already half in thought, head inclined slightly to indicate his curiosity, told me he was giving the matter serious thought.
“Chapman is at least partially connected.” I had turned my head to observe the ceiling for a moment, before facing the group again. “I infiltrated his office and tried to find incriminating evidence, but I was rudely interrupted.”
“Obviously,” Sherlock stated and gestured to my arm. “By Chapman himself?”
“By his new lady companion, in fact. She was already waiting for me in the shadows.”
Lou frowned and I could see her thinking.
“It’s true that she excused herself from our game a little while after you left. She claimed that there would be a surprise later in the evening, and that she would have to set it up. It was apparently important that she help with the preparations. I thought it a bit strange, but nothing out of the ordinary.”
“Well, the surprise was delivered.” I sighed. “She threatened me with a gun. When I didn’t want to comply, she shot me.”
“It was lucky she only hit your arm,” Lou added.
“It wasn’t. She fired three bullets. Two narrowly missed me, but they weren’t flukes. No, they had been placed with care, like the one in my arm. She had never intended to kill me there and then.”
“What makes you so sure?” Edward asked. I had almost forgotten him, sitting quietly behind Lou, but he was as present in figuring this out as we all were.
“It was something she told you,” my brother concluded. “She didn’t just threaten you - she told you why.”
“Only in the most vague of terms...”
I attempted to push myself up. It was maddening to be forced to lie down like this. Especially as I recalled the woman’s words, I felt the need to get up. She had taunted me, and I didn’t want to prove her right by giving in, no matter if she couldn’t see me here. Of course my arm protested the movement, and my head complained even more. For a second, I contemplated the possibility of something like morphine, but as I sat upright, legs dangling off the table, and the dull thumping in my skull slowly receded, I simply asked for another drink. If nothing else, it would help me sleep later.
“I am to pay for something I did. She wants to see me suffer,” I recounted slowly. “She wants to take everything that matters from me. At least that’s what she said.”
“You don’t do anything in half measures, do you?”
I grinned at Lou. It was forced, pained, sarcastic.
“You know me.”
“Everything is slowly coming together,” my brother said.
“Yes. I am sorry for unwittingly pulling you all into this personal problem. I think it may be best if you all stay out of sight until the whole thing is resolved. The doctor has already fallen victim, and he is even less connected to the matter as any of you.”
“But what is the matter she talked about?” Edward asked.
“She wasn’t exactly forthcoming with details, but it only confirmed what I already expected to be true: This is an elaborate plan to get revenge on me for something I did in the past.”
“With the message on the Thames, the murder, and now this? Who would go through such trouble, if not someone extremely desperate?” Lou mused. “And you really have no idea who she could be?”
Sherlock eyed me curiously.
“Her identity? No. Her role in this game? Probably major, if not the most important. She made it sound very personal,” I replied and shook my head. “But that was nothing I hadn’t thought of before. I just looked into the wrong person.”
“Not exactly wrong, Mycroft,” Lou countered. “We found her at his estate, so they are connected.”
“The question is how. She implied that Chapman is working for her, not the other way around. Then she also mentioned that she expected me that night... had hoped I would be drawn to Chapman. The woman had hidden in the office before I entered it, so she must have recognised me already in the ballroom, despite the mask. I don’t think many people would’ve been able to do that.”
Oh, how I despised being drawn into these stupid games. The events of this evening had not happened on my terms, and that was something that had to change.
“We can pull enough clues from your interaction to narrow the scope considerably,” Sherlock continued.
“Can’t we just send some agents to Chapman’s home?” Edward asked.
“There’s no guarantee she will still be there.”
“Mycroft, please, come over here,” Lou said and offered me her hand. “The armchair will be more comfortable.”
I followed her, half leaning on her shoulder, as she led me across the room to the large fireplace. As I sank into the plush armchair, the heat of the fire soaked into my bones, and the warmed cloth welcomed me with its embrace.
“How silly of me not to think of this already.” Edward shook his head and moved to the door to pull at the rope and call his butler, who appeared promptly... almost as if he had been eavesdropping on the other side.
“Fetch a set of clean clothes for Mr. Holmes. You can select them from my own.”
“Very well, sir,” the butler replied, bowed slightly, and closed the door behind him again.
“That is most kind,” I smiled.
“Please. Yours are wet, bloodstained and torn. No friend of mine will remain in my house in such a state.”
Lou placed a hand on her husband’s arm and a kiss on his cheek, before she led him to the divan opposite me. Sherlock made use of one of the chairs, which he placed between us to complete the circle, directly opposite the fireplace. He had turned it so that the seat faced away from the fire and sat on it the wrong way around, arms crossed over the backrest, head resting on them. I could see that he was almost as tired as myself. Very few would’ve been able to detect the worry that creased his brow almost imperceptibly, or the way his shoulders slumped ever so slightly, where he was usual carrying himself with much more confidence.
“Let me recount the facts as we have them now,” Sherlock started, and even though I knew him to be exhausted, his voice was as clear as ever. “Two days after Mycroft’s return to London, he received a threatening message written in body parts on the Thames. It was likely done to draw Mycroft’s attention to the incident, but potentially also to draw the public’s attention to him. Mycroft’s occupation is a secret one by nature, so I assumed the culprit might want to expose his work.”
I nodded. This was what I had concluded as well. Whoever had left the message knew me, my work, my traveling schedule and potentially much more.
“This leaves two groups of possible suspects: The first works with him. All other agents and staff know of his work, to a greater or lesser degree. It would be someone, who had been wronged by him in the past. Why else would you go through such lengths, if not for some sort of powerful feelings of revenge? The second group includes everyone, who has been involved with Mycroft’s work from outside the agency. Keeping in line with the revenge theme, this is much more likely, as my brother leaves a veritable string of corpses in his wake.”
I opened my mouth, but Sherlock sil
enced me with a gesture.
“I wasn’t finished. This morning, the police found the corpse of a woman, who is entirely unconnected to Mycroft, or any of his work. Still, the note left to find tells another story. I did my own investigation of the murder, and found that Violet Taylor had been in a secret relationship with her maid. The maid that found her body.”
“The flower,” I uttered.
“Precisely. A broken bond. A loved one dead, left for the lover to find.”
“How terrible,” Edward said and grabbed Lou’s hand a bit tighter.
“You don’t believe this was arranged intentionally to mimic just what I have supposedly done? The reason why that woman is pursuing me in the first place?”
“Very likely. I think so too,” Sherlock confirmed. “And your tale just now confirmed the theory. As did the attack on me. You are in no relationship, and the only person you love isn’t in this country.”
“Sherlock...” I sighed, half warning, half annoyance, but he wasn’t deterred.
“With no lover to threaten, she turned towards the people closest to you. I am the most likely target. Beyond that, you would have to enlighten us,” he continued.
“There is no beyond,” I said through closed teeth. “Absolutely none.”
“Mycroft, you can tell us,” Lou started. “If you-”
“I should count myself lucky, because I only have to look out for my brother,” I continued, and added the rest in a much smaller voice. “There had never been time to pursue anything, and on top of that I’m not sure it would fit me.”
Not after Songbird... No matter how terribly tragic that made me look.
“Sherlock said there’s that one person you love... in another country?” Edward asked.
“An old story. Not relevant,” I said, defensively.
I didn’t like the direction this conversation was taking. Not at all. My head cleared up through what I could only describe as a moment of panic. No, I wouldn‘t tell them about Songbird. He was gone. Not even Sherlock considered him anymore. How could anyone else?
