by Cavan Scott
A thought struck me and I rushed to the double doors at the far end of the corridor. They were open, and even as I approached I could see that the chamber beyond was as spotless as the rest. The operating table was gone, as were the metal tables at the sides. The buckets. The equipment. All missing. Even the floor was freshly mopped and the tiled walls scrubbed. If I had entertained any hope of finding fresh evidence, even by my meagre abilities, it was gone. The operating theatre was as sterile as it had ever been, even when the sound of patients and staff had echoed down these empty corridors.
I stood in the silence, numb with the realisation that I had hit another brick wall. Surely the investigation had come spluttering to an end. There was nowhere else to go, no one to turn to, and without Holmes I was lost, hopelessly out of my depth.
Admitting defeat, and hating myself for it, I turned and uttered a cry of alarm. There, in the open doorway, stood a man, staring at me with amused eyes. A tattered cloth cap perched on his head while a thick ginger beard almost covered his smirking mouth. It was the cabbie who had taken me to the Diogenes Club. So he was involved.
“What are you doing here?” I demanded, raising my cane. If the man had been sent to deal with me, then by God I would make it difficult for him.
The fellow raised his hands, still leering. “Now, we don’t want to get excited. After all—” The hands dropped and with them the driver’s north London accent. “—we have both suffered considerable injuries over the last couple of days, if the bruise on your forehead is any indication.”
The end of my cane clattered on the floor.
“Holmes?”
The cabbie smiled, and his body underwent a remarkable transformation. He stretched, and I realised for the first time that the man had been hunched over. Now, standing erect, he pulled off both his cap and wig to reveal tousled grey hair, which he attempted to smooth with long fingers. Next came that damned beard, yanked free of the theatrical gum that had glued the fake whiskers to a very familiar face.
“It’s good to see that the knowledge dear Albert imparted all those years ago can still pull the wool over your eyes, Watson. I feared that you would see through my disguise outside the Diogenes. Tell me, how is brother Mycroft?”
Stuffing the beard into the pocket of his jacket, my friend strolled around the room, his eyes sweeping the floor as thoroughly as the mops that had cleared away every last remnant of gore.
“B-but I saw you,” I stammered, “in the hospital. You were barely conscious.”
Holmes nodded. “Indeed I was. I have to tell you, I am still not feeling quite myself. The blow I received to my head has left me with a rather persistent case of tinnitus, and I admit I am finding it considerably harder than usual to concentrate.”
A realisation hit me. “I let you drive me around London.”
“Oh, you were quite safe,” Holmes laughed. “I nearly blacked out only once. Maybe twice.”
Now, when I looked at my friend, devoid of his disguise, I could see how tired he still looked, how grey. Perhaps his appearance had actually aided his subterfuge.
“We should get you back to hospital,” I insisted.
“After I worked so hard to escape?” said the detective. “I think not.”
“You discharged yourself?”
“Nothing so official, I’m afraid. I first became aware that something was wrong when I came to. I could hear voices, fading in and out, including yours I think, and that of friend Tovey.”
“We didn’t leave your side, at least until the inspector insisted we go home.”
“And I’m glad you did, otherwise I may never have slipped away, and I mean that in terms of extrication, not passing into heaven’s embrace.”
“Extrication? You believed you were in danger then?”
“Not until a certain voice pierced my stupor. And a familiar voice at that. My brother’s.”
“Mycroft?”
“At first, his presence hardly seemed peculiar. I was at death’s door, after all. But then, as I began to come around, I was unable to work it out. What was my brother doing there?”
“As you said, you were quite unwell, or so we thought.”
“Come now, Watson. You know my brother. He is usually to be found in one of three places. His offices in Whitehall, his chambers in Pall Mall, and within the club he founded. If he can avoid travelling anywhere, he will, and he has a legion of lieutenants scampering all across London, probably the entire planet, gathering information and delivering messages on his behalf. And yet he was there, talking to young Doctor… what was his name?”
“Dr Gibbs,” I supplied.
“Ah yes, Dr Gibbs. You’ll have to forgive me. As I said, my faculties are unfortunately a touch impaired. So, I lie there, listening to my brother quiz Dr Gibbs. What is my condition? Does he expect me to make a full recovery? A man expressing concern for his sibling, or so you would assume if you were unacquainted with Mycroft.”
“You think he had an ulterior motive for being there?”
“Think? I know it! The questions continued, but I could hear in his voice that something else was coming. Gibbs was outlining the treatment he had planned for me, the tests he would perform the following morning, and so on. It soon became apparent that Mycroft had no intention of leaving me in the good doctor’s capable hands. ‘Thank you, Doctor,’ said my brother. ‘My family is in your debt, but I shall be moving Sherlock to a private facility. I need to ensure that he receives the best possible care if there is hope of him recovering.’
“Gibbs argued, his professional pride affronted and rightly so. He assured my brother that Charing Cross Hospital had my best interests at heart, and would stop at nothing to nurse me back to good health, if such an aim were even possible. My brother remained resolute and I became aware that another man was present in the room.
“‘I need you to go with my colleague,’ Mycroft informed the doctor. ‘He will take a statement, and then you can go about your duties.’”
“A statement?” I repeated. “To what end?”
“A pertinent question, Watson, and one I asked myself. If Mycroft was going to transfer me to this ‘private facility’ he would have full access to the doctor’s notes. Why would there be need to interrogate the poor fellow?
“And yet, Dr Gibbs was removed and I was left alone with my brother. Thankfully I had enough of my wits about me to play dead, or at least to convince him that I was still unconscious.”
“Did he try to hurt you?”
“No, of course not. He merely stood there, in silence. I could feel his eyes upon me, Watson, examining my face, looking for any sign that I was awake.
“‘Oh, Sherlock,’ he finally said. ‘Why did you have to involve yourself in all this?’ And with that he turned and left. I realised that I had only a few moments. Before he could return, I got myself out of bed – which was more difficult than I had anticipated – and struggled to the door. To be honest with you, I struggle to remember how I made my exit from the hospital.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“I have scraps of memory. Stealing into another room to help myself to a fellow patient’s clothes, coming across a stairwell, missing a step to find myself sprawled on a half-landing.”
“Holmes, you were in no fit state…”
“What choice did I have? I couldn’t stay. Finding myself on the ground floor, I stumbled into the laundry, where to my good fortune the women boiling the sheets were engrossed in tittle-tattle. Thank the Lord for gossips and tattlers. I was sure they would notice me as I opened the back door, but I was out and away in seconds.”
“Where did you go?”
“I still have boltholes across the city, Watson, and so I squirrelled myself away, making use of the pharmaceuticals I had stored for such an occasion. A wash and a change of clothes and I felt a new man, albeit one who could barely remember his own name.”
“So, you rested…”
“Briefly, although I knew I had to see Tovey.�
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“As did I,” I interrupted, “but he has gone away.”
“So I understand. To Cornwall of all places, if you believe the story.”
“Which I don’t.”
Holmes nodded. “I have no doubt that the inspector is on a case, but one that was hurriedly found for him, rather than one that he chose himself.”
“And the cab?”
“One of the Irregulars is now a cabbie. Young Geller, do you remember him? Not so young any more, but happy enough to lend me his taxi – for a good price, of course.”
“He was always a shrewd businessman,” I said, recalling the grubby lad I had once known, part of the ragtag bunch of urchins employed by Holmes to be his eyes and ears on the street.
“No one pays attentions to cabbies,” Holmes said. “Especially when they already have a fare in the back.”
“Geller again?”
“I had him jump out when I saw you outside the hospital.”
I shook my head. “I thought you were part of it, Holmes. The cabbie – you, I mean.”
“I must admit I was surprised when you opted to walk earlier this afternoon. I can only imagine that your appointment with Mycroft did not go the way you hoped.”
“He is involved in all of this,” I said, “whatever this is.”
“Reluctantly, I am inclined to agree,” Holmes said, genuine sorrow in his voice. “I am surprised they failed to clean the lobby as well as these rooms. His footprint was unmistakable.”
“Whose?”
“My brother has four pairs of shoes, all of which were crafted by Mr John Lobb of St James’s Street, on the recommendation of the Prince of Wales no less. The tread is quite familiar. Mycroft has travelled more of London in the last twenty-four hours than he has in the last twenty-four years. Something is afoot, Watson, and I shall get to the bottom of it, whether Mycroft wants me to or not. Now, I suggest we leave. My earlier self-medication is wearing thin, and my chest feels as if it is on fire. I assume that you have painkillers at home?”
“Of course, but—”
“To Chelsea it is then,” Holmes cut in, placing the cap firmly back on his head. “This time there is no need to walk a marathon. I know of a cabbie who will be pleased to drive you home.”
“I don’t think you should get behind the wheel again,” I said, following him towards the stairwell.
“Nonsense,” came the reply. “I am more than capable of—” My friend stopped, his nostrils flaring. “Watson, can you smell that?”
“What? Holmes, I—”
I took a sniff, and realised what Holmes was talking about. “Something’s burning.”
“Your torch,” instructed Holmes, grabbing my arm and pointing the beam of light at the swing doors. Smoke was billowing from beneath them. Dark. Deadly.
“Watson, the building’s on fire!”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
LIKE SOLDIERS OF OLD
Holmes yanked open the door, yelping as he gripped a handle that was already too hot. Smoke rolled in, stinging our eyes and forcing us back.
Covering his mouth with the cabbie’s cap, Holmes strode into the thick cloud, almost disappearing from view. I followed, peering down the stairwell, the glow of the flames flickering from below.
“Come on,” Holmes shouted, charging down the stairs straight into the inferno.
“Are you mad?” I shouted after him. “Those steps were treacherous enough before!”
“Somehow I can’t see either of us throwing ourselves out of a window,” he called back, coughing on the fumes. “Not in our current condition.”
Grudgingly I was forced to agree, and began my own descent, barely able to see, so thick was the smoke. It needed only another rotten step and we would tumble down into the blaze.
My chest felt heavy and I struggled for breath as we passed the first floor landing to turn down to the lobby. Holmes stopped abruptly and I did not need to ask him why. Flames were dancing along the lobby floor, blistering already blackened paintwork on the walls and spreading up to meet us. Our escape route was well and truly blocked. We would never make it to the bottom step, let alone the front door.
“Back upstairs,” Holmes commanded.
“But you said—”
“Save your breath.”
I wanted to stop. I wanted to sink to the steps and wait for the inevitable. I knew such thoughts were tantamount to suicide, but it felt that my lungs were about to burst and I could barely see. The heat was unlike anything I had ever experienced, the smell unbearable; but the noise? That is what you never understand about fires until you are standing in the heart of one. The crackling. The roaring.
“Watson! Come on!”
I couldn’t give up. We were at each other’s side once more, as we had always been. Holmes and Watson. As close as any brothers.
Grabbing the banister, I took the first step, and then another. I felt the hairs on the back of my neck singe, imagined the skin blistering, sparks catching my coat, but I ran, not as Mycroft had hoped I would, but towards escape, one step at a time.
“That’s it, Watson,” Holmes said, as I wheezed onto the first floor landing. “Almost there.”
“Almost where?”
“I’m a fool,” was his only reply.
“What do you mean?”
He pushed open the doors.
“Give me your torch.”
It was a miracle I hadn’t dropped it in my flight. I passed it to him and he swept it across what little we could see of the floor.
“This way,” he half-choked, pulling me to the right. I stumbled blindly after him, until we reached a door at the end of the corridor. He flung it open and we found ourselves standing in a small box-like room.
“No!” Holmes cursed, stepping back into the smoke-filled corridor. “It must be here somewhere.”
“What are you looking for?” I spluttered, blinded by the smoke, although I could hear Holmes running his hands along the walls.
“This,” came the triumphant cry, accompanied by the opening of a door. A hand emerged from the murk, grabbing my shoulder and pulling me forward. I cried out as pain lanced up my arm, but found myself in an enclosed stairwell that was thankfully free of smoke. The flight curved around a service elevator that would be useless without power, but the stairs themselves were still passable. Holmes was already racing down them, and I followed suit, holding onto the handrail as if my life depended on it, which it probably did. Smoke billowed up the shaft like a chimney, but there was no sign of flames save for an ominous glow from the gap beneath an already steaming internal door.
We reached the bottom, and spied another door. Holmes tried the handle, only to find it locked. He handed me the torch, but before I could ask him his intentions he surprised me by drawing a revolver from his belt and firing once, twice, three times into the lock. The noise was deafening, even above the clamour of the blaze, and I threw up a hand to protect my face from flying wooden shrapnel.
Holmes threw his weight against the door, tumbling forward as it flew open. I cried out, rushing forward to help him up, only to find the man flat on his back, laughing hysterically. I felt cool air on my face and saw the sky above us. We were out.
Struggling to my feet, I stood over my amused companion.
“What the devil is wrong with you, Holmes?”
He grabbed my forearm and, placing more strain on my already near-ruined shoulder, levered himself up. “Twice this building has tried to kill us, Watson, and twice we have escaped.”
“We’re not clear yet,” I said, looking around. We were in a tiny loading yard, trolleys that would have once housed piles of linen overturned against a six-foot wall. “How do we get out?”
“Down here,” Holmes said, pointing out a tiny alleyway that ran along the side of the burning building. I cast the light of the torch down the passage, noting with dismay a wooden door that blocked our exit. Holmes limped down to investigate and, rattling the barricade, realised that it was locked from the other
side.
“What are you waiting for?” I asked, hobbling up behind him. “Use your gun again!”
“That is the unmistakable sound of a padlock,” Holmes said, pushing past me, back into the yard. “Even if I were at the height of my powers, striking a lock through a solid door would be a trick shot worthy of Wild Bill Hickok.”
“Then how will we get out? We can’t go through the blaze again.”
“Indeed we can’t. Help me with this,” Holmes said, trying to raise one of the trolleys back onto its castors.
“You can’t be serious.”
“Watson, please,” my friend croaked. “My resources are wearing dangerously thin. I haven’t the strength by myself.”
Pocketing the torch, I joined Holmes and manhandled the trolley upright. We rattled it over to the passageway and, lining it up with the locked door, gave each other one last look. From somewhere in the building there came an almighty crash as a floor or ceiling gave way. Grinning despite myself, I looked into Holmes’s soot-covered features.
“This is why my wife doesn’t like me spending time with you,” I said.
“Nonsense,” came the reply. “It keeps you out from under her feet.”
With a cry born chiefly of desperation, Holmes and I charged down the alley, pushing the trolley with all our might. It crashed into the door, the impact causing both of us to cry out in pain, although there was no time to nurse either shoulder or ribs. Instead, we pulled back and let fly again, like soldiers of old attempting to batter down the gates of a castle.
This time the door gave a little more, wood splintering. At last, on the third attempt, the latch sprang open. The trolley trundled through the open door and Holmes had to catch me before I fell flat on my face.
We staggered around the side of the building, like drunkards returning from a night in a gin palace. We stopped only when we reached the riverbank, turning to gaze at the flames that were claiming the ruined hospital from within.
Flames that had very nearly claimed us as well.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
AN ULTIMATUM
My wife was at the kitchen table, her head in her hands. I hovered at the door, not quite knowing what to do. I had heard her sobbing from the hallway, and knew all too well the reason for her despair. When Holmes and I had entered the house, she had appeared at the drawing-room door, her face ashen. What a sight we must have looked, blackened from the soot and as weary as the dead. I tried to explain what had happened, but she refused to meet my eye. Instead, she bustled around me, rushing upstairs to run our guest a bath, instructing us both to bundle together our smoke-infused clothes for washing. Holmes had insisted that I bathe first and retired to his room to smoke a pipe, as if his lungs had not yet sustained enough damage.