Mycroft Holmes and the Edinburgh Affair

by Janina Woods

  “That particular story had never been relevant,” I repeated when no one spoke up.

  Sherlock momentarily looked upon me with an aura of sadness, no doubt recalling the way I had fled Rome after delivering everyone into safety. I jumped out of the armchair despite my protesting muscles and light head.

  “I don’t need your pity! Yours least of all!” I shouted at my brother. “Are we going to formulate a plan, or are you all going to pry in my private life some more to ridicule me? If it’s the latter, I can very well continue without you!”

  I walked over to the sideboard with brisk steps and poured myself another glass of whisky with my good hand. Damn my high tolerance. Why wasn’t this affecting me yet? Or was I already so far gone that I didn’t realise the effects anymore? My arm pulsed painfully with every frantic heartbeat as a physical reminder of the threat I faced.

  “Right. Let’s concentrate on the matter at hand, then.” Sherlock cleared his throat after a bout of silence. I didn’t turn, but listened to him talk with my back to the fire. “The woman must be connected to one of Mycroft’s old cases. How old, I couldn’t say, but I would believe it to be either very far in the past or a recent thing.”

  “Why nothing in between?” Lou asked.

  “Either the deed has been done recently and the feelings are still strong enough to warrant such a response, or-”

  “They had a long time to let their hateful feelings simmer and now the whole thing boiled over through some external stimulus,” I added. “Yes, that’s what I thought, as well.”

  I didn’t need to turn around to know everyone was staring at me. I knew what was going through their heads: What exactly did I do to warrant such an extreme response?

  The answer was that I just didn’t know. Me, with my brain capable of storing such vast amounts of information, who could see the connections between everything that was told to me in an instant - like gossamer threads, spinning themselves through the air, wrapping around the clues and dragging them together.

  But in the middle, there was this woman, alone, isolated. She was flying, mocking me, with a few threads trailing behind, not catching onto anything. Sure, those had other connections and pointed to something potentially bigger, but they weren’t so much substantial bonds, but suggestions so fragile, I feared I could disrupt them by breathing, like a spider’s web. No matter where I pulled her, these connections broke and no new ones formed.

  “We’ve only examined a limited number of people,” I said, as no one came forth with additional input. “The live ones. We neglected the ones that have been sentenced or...”

  “The ones you disposed of?” Sherlock added as my voice trailed off. “Don’t avoid the obvious.”

  I could sense the disdain for my actions that just barely simmered under the surface of my brother’s words. He refrained from letting it shine through - as opposed to what Dr. Watson would’ve done - but it was enough for me to feel tense in a way that was entirely different from before.

  “Indeed,” I pushed out between clenched teeth, and reached for my glass again.

  Lou quickly jumped up, walked over to me and placed a hand on my arm to prevent me from taking another sip.

  “Don’t you think you’ve had enough of that now? I’m not a doctor, but even I know that it’s not the best idea when you’ve been shot.”

  I paused, frozen in my motion, glass half raised to my mouth. I didn’t do reprimanded. I didn’t listen to opinions that weren’t mine. And I sure as hell didn’t let anyone tell me when to drink and when not to. So as I looked at Lou with all of that in mind, her eyes widened just a fraction, before she pulled back. I took a few extra seconds to watch her hands fall down, before I downed the rest of the glass and all but slammed it back onto the side table.

  “I better go back to the club to look into more possible names,” I said, back still turned.

  It wasn’t that I was afraid to face my brother right now, but it would do me no good to launch into an argument. It wouldn’t be pleasant for anyone, least of all for Lou and Edward. No, not after the last time Sherlock and I had fought over my attitude towards the way I resolved my work. I had only won back his good graces months after we had resumed our conversations. There was really no need for this now.

  I don’t know if Sherlock saw it the same way, but when the butler knocked at the door to present me with a change of clothes, I excused myself, and I didn’t hear anyone uttering even a single word to stop me.

  The ritual of cleaning and dressing myself as meticulously as I could, brought some sense of normalcy back to my thoughts. Every piece of clothing had its place, a perfect way to sit on my body, and while I was working on achieving that, my mind calmed down and I blocked out all other things that were bothering me, losing myself in one of the things I enjoyed most. Edward’s clothes didn’t fit me perfectly - he was a bit shorter, and also a tad wider than me - but they did the job remarkably well, and with the coat that Lou had brought back with her, no one would notice a thing.

  It was a bit of a problem to slip into the sleeves with my injured arm. No matter which way I twisted, it put a strain on the skin around the wound and I had to push any pained sounds deep down as I moved. As soon as I had put on the shirt and closed the buttons with my good hand, I sighed because I had forgotten one of the most important things: To test if the bone in my arm had been fractured or not. I had broken bones before, and depending on how you break it, it can either hurt like hell, or be barely noticeable if you hold it in the correct position.

  I grabbed the suspenders and pushed the coarse cloth between my teeth, then went to my knees and braced myself against Edward’s bed, as I had been allowed into his sleeping chamber to dress. Then the voluntary ordeal began. I stretched my arm and moved it slowly in a circle, two times, counter clockwise. Then I angled it and tested another range of motion, moved my hand and fingers independently. There was a procedure to follow here to make sure you know exactly what kind of injury had been inflicted upon you.

  When my arm came to rest again, I knew two things. Firstly, it wasn’t broken, and no major muscles had been damaged enough to negatively influence the movement of my limb. Secondly, that Sherlock and Lou really knew how to bind a wound, as only a few drops of blood were seeping through the cloth, but everything was still in its place, securely fastened. I’d have to buy Edward a new set of clothes anyway.

  Finally I slumped down onto the floor and came to rest with my back against the side of the bed. The room was turning slightly, and even though I hadn’t moved, I felt out of breath like I had run like a madman along all of the parliament buildings... which was a comparison I could easily make, as I had done just that a little over three years ago, chasing a rather unsavoury character.

  As I closed my eyes to wait until the dull ache in my arm dissipated, my thoughts once again centred on what Sherlock had said earlier. It was true that while we didn’t fight each other on the conclusions and deductions of most cases, we couldn’t be more different in the way we resolved them. Not because I regularly refused to do any actual investigation, but he often took a more roundabout way to reach the truth.

  When I know all the details, I take only a few seconds to decide on a course of action, and I stick to it religiously. Sherlock is the same, but opposed to him, I also act as fast as I can. There’s nothing worse to me than putting something off and waiting for the slower people around me to catch up. My brother, on the other hand, always seems to draw everything out and enjoys showing off his accomplishments, especially to Dr. Watson. Maybe it’s the difference in our occupations, but I would rather let my actions speak for themselves.

  And that comment about the corpses... well, yes. Sometimes, to reach your goal in the quickest way, it’s necessary to clear said way of any obstacles. And that includes living obstacles. It’s like I had told the good doctor in Milan: By getting rid of our a
ttackers on the cathedral, I had turned the odds in our favour. Letting them live had meant also living with a certain amount of fear about getting attacked again, and in that way I had eliminated all doubts. And really... who would miss the kind of people I encountered?

  A spike of pain shot through my arm, as I pushed myself up from the floor, and at the same time the answer to my question shot into my head: The woman, who had set out to ruin my life.

  The rest of the dressing was a quick affair. I had dawdled too long already, and the others would only want to check up on me should I linger much longer. There was no way I would let them see me struggle. Finally, when everything but the cravat was in its place, I reached up and smoothed by hair down with my good hand. It was this final motion that calmed me again, centred me enough to face the group once more.

  I looked back at my old clothes, wet, dirty and bloodied, as they lay discarded in a wash basin. It was as if I projected all my insecurities on them, left them with the man I had been before I entered the room, and closed the door on him when I departed.

  With a new resolve in my heart, I walked back towards the parlour.

  “Can anyone assist me?” I asked and held out the cravat as I entered the room. “I’m afraid I can’t manage this on my own right now.”

  It was something I would normally never ask - I would just forego the particular piece of clothing altogether - but I needed an excuse to open the conversation in a more friendly tone. I still hoped they would help me after all. To my surprise, it wasn’t Lou or Edward, who jumped up to assist me, but my brother, who met me halfway into the room. He snatched the piece of cloth from my hands and I dropped my arms to let him work on the collar.

  Sherlock pointedly looked down at my clothes as he slipped the white fabric around my neck, but then he sighed silently and met my gaze as he tied the knot. He didn’t hide anything. I could see his anger and annoyance, but also his worry, tinged with sadness. And most of all his disappointment about the fact that we had once again almost fallen out over the same topic.

  “Look,” he said quietly, almost as if he didn’t want the other two to hear what he had to tell me. “I need you to listen to me, just once. This one is different. They... she knows too much about you and she doesn’t work alone.”

  I nodded, grudgingly.

  “You’re not safe. Not anymore,” Sherlock said as he carefully fluffed up the cravat and pushed the ends down into my waistcoat. “You haven’t been safe since you returned to London. I implore you to sit this one out. Stay here. Hide.”

  There was much I could’ve said. I glanced over at Lou and Edward, who had remained sitting in front of the fire, but looked at me like I was already on my deathbed, and I could slip from them at any second. I averted my eyes. This was too much attention.

  “I can’t,” I finally said. “This isn’t only about me, but about you and everyone else, who is in connection with me. We don’t know how much she knows, but this could fall back on Lou or Hawkins... hell, even Challenger and the Service. I can’t just sit still while-”

  “I knew you’d say that.” Sherlock sighed.

  “Is Dr. Watson safe at Baker Street?” I asked, after I had sat back down in the vacant armchair.

  “Lestrade has been notified that an incident connected to the case has happened. I have urged him to post a guard inside Baker Street for the night, and I don’t see why he shouldn’t follow my instructions.”

  “Good.” I looked towards Lou. “Can I trouble you for a little while longer? In light of everything, I don’t think it would be entirely wise for me to return to the Diogenes tonight... nor to my own residence for that matter.”

  “Of course you can,” Lou said and jumped up at once to leave the room. “I’ll tell the maid to make up the guest room.”

  Before we could stop her, she had left my sight and closed the door behind her. I looked to Edward with an apologetic face, but he just shook his head.

  “Don’t start,” he said. “If you knew what I am used to by simply living with Louisa, you would not even think this to be an imposition.”

  I had to grin despite myself. “I think I have an idea.”

  “I’m not staying,” Sherlock added.

  This had to be expected.

  “Be careful on your way,” I said as he turned to leave. “It was blind luck.”

  Sherlock nodded. It was true. The fact that he was standing before us and not lying in the bed instead of Dr. Watson had all been down to chance. We couldn’t count on such a thing again.

  “I will see you in the morning at eight,” he stated and shook his head as I was about to protest. “You need your rest after this ordeal. I will be here no earlier, and you will not leave the house without me.”

  “Yes, mother,” I mouthed and he pulled a face before turning to leave.

  In this way, I was left with Edward alone, and stared into the flames, just as he did. We sat in silence for a while, not because we didn’t want to speak, but because there was just so much to think about, it felt like it needed time to sink in properly. Finally he slapped his legs and rose from the seat.

  “Right. I’ll see if my cook can manage a little light dinner. You’ll need your strength.”

  I followed Edward with my eyes as he left the room. It was probably a good idea to eat, but I felt too sick to consider it. The alcohol had started to spread through my body, making me not only feel warm and dizzy, but also slightly off-centre. It would’ve been good to eat before drinking... but that hadn‘t really been a choice. With only the fire to keep me company I slowly slipped into a deep sleep.

  Chapter Eleven

  I didn’t wake with the sun. It wouldn’t show itself for a few hours yet, if it would be visible at all. The world behind my window was as dark as the small bedroom I had been appointed to, and what was worse: It had started to snow again. The ice came down in thick, fluffy flakes that piled up so high, I couldn’t make out any benches or tables in the garden I was overlooking. It was as if the world itself had closed itself to me, telling me I should not venture out anymore. There was nothing to find - everything was concealed.

  My pocket watch told me it was barely six and the house was still quiet. I imagined that the servants were probably busy doing one thing or another in the basement, but on the first floor, there was no one to be heard.

  Someone must’ve carried me to bed, as I didn’t remember walking there myself. It seemed I had turned on my bad arm in my sleep. Of course it hadn’t registered right away. No, the whisky had seen to that. I moved to the small fireplace and stirred up the coal, which had burned down to smouldering embers, and added another piece of wood onto it from a small pile, which I only found by feeling my way through the darkness. The log took a while to catch fire, but then it flared up and was almost too bright for a moment. The floor in front of the fireplace was still warm, and the carpet adequately plush, so I sat down with crossed legs in front of the fire and stared into it for a while, trying to clear my head.

  In the light of the flames, I took a look at the wound on my left arm and saw specks of blood on the borrowed nightshirt. I had agitated the wound in my sleep, though it didn’t seem to hurt more than last night. No use in prolonging the inevitable. I didn’t think I could get back to sleep now, so I returned to the bed and turned on the gas lamp on the bedside table. Lou had left the medical supplies in my room and I spread them out on the blanket next to me.

  Carefully I slipped out of my nightshirt and unwrapped the binding on my arm. I was glad not to see any blood running down my skin. The wound was still red and angry, but it didn’t seem swollen beyond what’s considered normal for a bullet wound. I would know what such an inflammation looks like, unfortunately.

  Lou had left a small bottle of carbolic acid. They applied some earlier, but had instructed me to do so again when redressing the wound. I held my arm
up and poured a small measure of the liquid into the wound to wash it out. I knew the way it would hurt, but the pain hit me too suddenly, so I dropped back down on the bed and pushed my face into the pillows, lest I wake anyone with my pained groans.

  Slowly, the burn subsided and I took another look at the hole, which had already started to close. I wrapped it again, as best I could, pulling the bandages not as tight as before, not only because I could only use one hand, but because I didn’t have to stop any bleeding.

  It had been a rather well-placed shot. Just enough to inconvenience me for a while, but not remotely in danger of hurting anything vital. Just who was that woman? It irked me that I still couldn’t place her, even with my thoughts less muddled by pain and alcohol. She had to be connected to someone I killed in the past. That much was clear now, and there was no use mincing my words. Revenge for a loved one. Yes, that would be something that could simmer over a long time, only to return with a vengeance. It fit the picture perfectly.

  Now, I just had to find out who the woman had lost.

  It was something I couldn’t do without additional input, as much as I let my colleagues believe I could. My mind was vast - that was true. But there was one flaw, and it pained me to admit it to myself: I had only bothered to remember the details that were important to myself. And that were my successes. The people in my way... didn‘t even register. And that was why I would have to do the research. But would those names even be in the reports? I wrote them on my own, and if they were unimportant to me back then...

  I shook my head. No use in cultivating negative thoughts while everything was still more or less undecided. They would only hinder me. I finished wrapping my wound and slipped back into the clothes Edward had so generously lent to me. My shoes had been salvaged, as well as my personal items, so I distributed them among the pockets.

  The face staring back at me from the small mirror above a sideboard was almost unfamiliar. I had spotted the reflective surface and wanted to check my skin for any visible blemishes, but the picture surprised me more than I thought. Yes, there weren’t any wounds on my face, no cuts or blue spots, but my skin was of an almost deathly pale colour. I looked as if I hadn’t slept in days or been severely ill. There were dark circles under my eyes that betrayed the anxiety I was feeling, even though my body felt adequately rested. My thoughts drifted back to the words the woman had thrown at me.