Was I truly reduced to tantrums? Was I a child? I was not. I wiped my face, wiped it again with the pillow, blew my nose on it and stared at the mess.
It could be cleaned, same as I would get over this. I just needed time.
Getting back to normal could begin, now. I switched on the electric lamps, retrieved the envelope from the middle of the floor, and pulled out the letter inside, only realizing then who it had come from—Ramsey Foxx.
Dear Miss Moriarty,
I hope you are well, and London is agreeing with you.
How had he found me? I checked the envelope and realized it had come to the Iron Oak from Mrs. Loaf, and she did know my whereabouts. I began to read again.
I would like to offer you a job opportunity, similar to that on the airship—a clerking type of job. It is nothing spectacular, but I believe you may have fallen on hard times. If you wish to consider the offer, please be at the office on the second floor at 22 Logan Street on the 29th between 3PM and 5PM.
Yours sincerely,
Ramsey Foxx
Yes, I fell on hard times because of you, you ass. You stole my money. I threw the letter and watched it flutter down.
The twenty-ninth was tomorrow. If I went to him, I could yell at him. Then my mind decided to interrupt. Sherlock had said that Ramsey was dangerous, and I’d heard him talk about the caged women brought in on the airship going missing. That could have been me. Foxx was likely involved in the entire affair. The dots were connected, somehow. It seemed obvious, though I was missing a lot of dots, and a lot of connecting lines.
I needed to show this letter to Sherlock.
I really needed never to see him again too.
I slipped off the edge of the bed to the floor, landing with a bump on my ass. It was a familiar place for me now. Rock bottom was perfect when considering anything to do with Sherlock.
I could tell Dr. Watson instead?
Yes, brilliant idea, Wilhelmina.
I flopped my head back against the bed. Soon, I would get the energy. Maybe tomorrow morning, after some sleep. I simply could not deal with anything to do with Him again today.
My lip quivered, and more tears leaked from my eyelids.
I turned and buried my face in the bed sheet—suffocating myself was a terribly good solution too.
20
Mistakes
Before she’d shut the door, I was removing my tie then my shirt. I dropped into the armchair, well aware of the deerstalker perched on my head. This was bizarre yet necessary. Turning on the filter device had been a jolt—as if I had dumped a bucket of ice water over my brain, and it was slowly trickling down through the layers, percolating in, cooling every atom of my existence.
She’d gone, and I was alone.
The task of being Sherlock Holmes, the sleuth without peer, beckoned to me and yet, and yet…
I felt a lack. I was a blank gray slate compared to what I had recently been. Black and white where the world had been full of color with her beside me and the ME pulling my strings.
It had made me a puppet, a salacious, perverted puppet.
With that woman at my feet. Naked. Writhing.
It wasn’t that I still wanted her exactly, it was the memory that pawed at me. A raw need for being there again, in that situation. My mind was clear, unhindered by that prodigious, tidal sea of lust for her, but there was this other thing.
Which, I couldn’t quite put my finger on.
Then Watson knocked and opened the door and in that second, I recognized what had happened.
I knew the draw of cocaine and was familiar with what had happened to Willa with her laudanum. She’d been close to becoming a true addict of the poppy.
Agitated, I launched myself from the chair and paced to the window then swiveled and paced across the room to the bookshelf that held hundreds of tomes. Something here might aid me? But how could it? This was unique.
I had become an addict—addicted to the world magicked up by the malignant energy. Willa’s hypothesis had skimmed this. I remembered the taste of being a man with dire and magnificent appetites. I wanted that again. I was hungry for it, with this craving forever on my tongue.
There was always a way past these trivial human weaknesses. Meditate on being calm, stick to the precision processes of thought, ignore the emotions.
“Holmes, are you okay? It’s Dr. Watson.”
“I know it is.” I held up a hand, showing him the back of it. “Can’t you see I’m thinking?”
What to do? There was this case also. Mycroft and the government needed my help. Dead women. Like the one in the mortuary, which made me remember Willa up on the stage. I’d done bad things, which was why this, now, today.
I faced the window again and was struck by how late the hour had become. How dark it was outside. My lamps were on, and I could not recall turning them on.
“Holmes?” You should stop walking for a moment. Can I ask why you are doing this? Is it to do with the airship?”
“What?” I looked at the man. “I’m thinking.” I rapped my knuckles on the windowsill then on the side of my temple, knocking the hat. I had to grab it quickly. “Thinking…”
The craving was unhinging me, still. I inhaled.
Watson sat in the second favorite armchair looking concerned. Beside him was his opened doctor’s bag or the spare one from my attic. “I’d like to check your vitals. You’ve not stopped moving for hours. Have a drink and sit down.”
“What? Hours?” I stared at the glass of water he held then strode to him and gulped it down, along with a second glass I poured from the jug. “I’m not rational, am I? The cure for this thing is currently worse than the thing itself.”
“The thing? I’ve never heard you be so imprecise.”
I stared at him, recognizing the doctor in spite of his outlandish hobo garb. I clamped down on my thoughts. “I know. We must wear out this night until I come through the other side, cured and moral and impeccable.”
“Of course.”
I patted my shirt for my pocket watch, surprised to find I was naked from the waist up. “Hmmm. Do keep an eye on me.”
His smile was taut, a worried one.
“I’ll pull through. Mark my words.”
Except that hours later, when I woke to myself again, I was perched on my chair, squatting and completely naked, bar for the hat, rocking slightly. Watson was before me, gently offering more water. He draped a coat over my shoulders.
“Oh, thank you again.” I swallowed it all. “I hope I haven’t pissed on the draperies, or worse?” It was a true worry.
“Not yet, no sir. I managed to guide you to the water closet.”
“This is… a version of delirium tremens.” A severe symptom of alcohol withdrawal that alcoholics sometimes suffered. “I may need to be admitted to the hospital, if this does not improve.”
“I have considered that. Your vital signs are good so far, you’re simply incoherent.”
“Yes. And naked.”
He chuckled. “Yes, but I am a doctor, so don’t worry about that part. This is the best conversation I’ve had with you. Perhaps you’re improving?”
I nodded yet was unconvinced. The craving for the way I’d been had not slackened. Surprisingly, I had not let my hand sneak up to turn off the device while I was rambling about. Which meant I really was quite Neanderthal-ish when I lost track of myself. I feared this madness had a while to run before I could be rational again and take on cases.
My hand, when I held it up, trembled. Was it from dehydration, fear, or a lack of that woman?
I don’t crave her, I reminded myself. It is the ME. And I definitely am not afraid.
The night wore on, I may have slept somewhere, curled up, but I’d definitely not been on my bed.
When it was dawn, he asked permission to go somewhere. I replied with my assent.
I’m not sure where he is going.
The windowpane shuddered with light, and I shut my eyes. If I took off the hat, t
his would end. My hands were so cold; the whole world around me seemed to have plunged into the Arctic.
Take off the hat.
But I cannot do that, I reminded myself, for that would mean surrendering the man I always was to become another man, one I was horrified by. Remember?
Willa had loved ninety-nine percent of that man, but was that enough of a reason?
21
Delirium
Last night, I hadn’t needed any laudanum, I’d been that fatigued. Bright and early, I stood outside the Baker Street rooms waiting for Dr. Watson. The man came here daily, from what I’d heard. At seven AM, Watson exited from the front door—unusual but then perhaps they’d been canoodling all night? Talking each other’s ears off, most likely. The bastards.
Nervous but determined, I intercepted him before he went too far down the street.
“Dr, Watson. I need you to take this envelope to Holmes, please.” I waved it.
“Oh. Ah. Miss. He is not at his best. Can you tell me what it is?”
Not at his best? Neither was I. My eyes were a pair of overboiled eggs with sauce poured into them.
“It’s… about Ramsey Foxx.”
“Who?”
“Damnation. Just give it to him!”
“I will not.” He drew himself up taller, and his thick neck seemed to puff up like a rooster about to peck. “I told you he is indisposed, and I don’t know why that letter is important. I fear anything that stresses him further might push him to the edge.”
What was this?
Frowning, I considered my options. “Could we discuss this over tea or coffee? There is a small shop just down the street? A patisserie such as the French have in Paris.”
I persuaded Watson to come and try coffee and croissants. He had tea.
We sat inside, for the weather had turned to a drizzling rain. The two croissants on his plate vanished into his mouth while he read the letter.
“This.” He tapped the paper. “Is from a man Holmes called dangerous? Then I see your point. You should not go.”
“He stole money from me, but I think he is linked to a bigger case Sherlock is following.” I waved my hand, vaguely. “Missing women, murders…” I peered at him, unsure how much he knew. “The women he saw on the airship? That case.”
“Ahh. Of course.” He sent me a patronizing smile.
Watson did not believe me. I rapped the table. “This is important. Lives may be lost.”
“Hmmm.” His chair scraped as it slid backward. “How about I think about this, while I’m away. If, when I return, Mr. Holmes seems up to it, you can take this to him and see if you can explain your reasoning? I confess the coincidence seems too much—that your problem should be linked to our case.”
“When will you return? This appointment is for today. I thought you didn’t want him stressed?”
“I’ll be back by lunchtime. Midday. Do not go in without me. He’s not decent.” His stare became a little too direct, and he added, slowly, “You are in a unique position. Whatever has happened, perhaps you can cure it, Miss?”
Oh. Now I understood. He thought I would somehow cure whatever moping Sherlock was doing with sex.
Lips pursed, I took the letter from him. “I will wait for you.”
“Excellent. While I’m out, I will reconnoiter that address in the letter. Tell Sherlock I’m being careful, though I expect it will amount to nothing.”
“It should be the airship company office. It’s on the letterhead.” I thought of telling Watson to stay well back. He might frighten Foxx away. But the man would not have listened to me anyway, and he was trained in this detective work.
Instead, I merely sat and drank more coffee then wandered down to some shops, and back again well before the lunch hour. As far as I could see, the doctor had not returned. Three hours later he still was absent. My feet were sore.
And so, I gritted my not-so-very British teeth, set my jaw, and I went to see Sherlock, even though it was the very last place I should be.
Dr. Watson was correct, he was indecently naked and sitting on his favorite chair where he’d pulled it to the window, like a bird on a perch. Had I driven him mad with the filter?
Gob smacked, I blocked the view of him from Mrs. Hudson and shut the door behind me.
“Sherlock Holmes! Is this how you greet your guests?”
“You are not a guest, Miss Moriarty, you are a pest. Please leave.”
I hesitated, found my lip quivering. I hated him, remember?
“I cannot. Your assistant, Dr. Watson, is missing. I think he may have visited Ramsey Foxx.” I took a few steps forward.
“Stop!” He held out a hand. Clarity and reasoning bloomed in his eyes. “Why would he do that?”
“Because…” I gulped. “I showed him a letter from Foxx offering me employment. I wanted him to give it to you, thought it might help you with that case, which I assumed is connected. He said he would go reconnoiter the office but be back by lunch time. Then he was going to bring me to you.”
I neglected to add that he wasn’t definite about the latter.
“What time is it?”
“Three-fourteen PM, sir. I may have waited too long.”
At the sir, he looked at me.
“Damnation.” He covered his face with his hands, and I heard muttering. “You’re correct in both. Foxx is connected. The doctor has been abducted. He would be back otherwise. He knows I’m ill and never shirks his duties.”
Abducted. My doing. I should have warned him.
“What can we do? There are less than two hours before the time expires. They may have left already.”
“We? I will have to rescue him, and they will have left already, with him. I must determine where he has been taken.” He smacked the side of his head, as if that would somehow make his mind fix itself.
It wouldn’t.
He planned to rescue Dr. Watson? Naked, and while he looked a half-step away from becoming an inmate at the mental asylum?
“What is wrong with you?” I pleaded. “The filter has done this? Turn it off, now!”
He blinked, screwed up his face. “It… It’s not your filter, exactly. I suffer from withdrawal symptoms, I believe. ME delirium tremens. My mind became too used to being bathed in malignant energy. I crave it.”
I walked toward him, purposeful, with a determined set to my jaw.
Sherlock Holmes leaped from the armchair and snatched a letter opener from his table. He brandished it. “Stay where you are, Wilhelmina Moriarty! If you think I cannot deduce your intent, you are very wrong.”
It would have been daunting if not so ridiculous a spectacle—naked, his private parts dangling, and a letter opener? At this very moment, it was difficult to hate him.
“You… you missed the revolver on the table, sir.” I pointed out, giggling, before I collapsed into the opposite armchair. If Watson hadn’t unloaded that gun, he was a terrible minder. I switched to my serious face. “Can we talk? Please? You have to turn down the filter.”
22
The Balance of Madness
“You want me to turn it down and become a slave to my lusts again?”
Her demand was tempting, of course.
“I don’t mean turn it off fully. That would be stupid. There are calibrations on that dial. I did tell you to try lesser ones first. This is your choice, but your friend is at risk of dying.”
“Hmmm.” I eyed her. Strangely, simply by being before me she was helping me think more clearly. Slowly, I sat down on my armchair, drawing over my lap the coat the doctor had given me earlier.
With so little time my options were limited. I could function as a detective with ME flooding my system, but I could not as I was currently. There also was the police force, but the probability of them responding rapidly was close to nil.
I reached up, found the dial and unwound the cord leading into the hat until I could see the numbers. Slowly, this time, having learned from my prior experience, I reduced the filter
to fifty.
Warmth flooded my mind, and everything that had been lifeless, cold, boring, was now filled with life and color—not as much as without the filter but that was expected.
This was what I was missing. Beauty and life.
I eyed her, the temptress, the Judas, the demoness? No, she was only a few of those labels, and though the attraction had risen, it was not enough to compel me to drag her over my lap and spank her. Though I knew I would have done this in the past.
I scrubbed my scalp then my chin with my fingers, waking myself with the sensations. With my other hand I placed the letter opener on the table. Instead of it, I retrieved the revolver and checked the chambers. Empty.
“We’ll need this, and a few others.” I rose, my bones and joints creaking as I stretched. The coat fell to the floor.
“We?”
“Yes. You can come. I know you’ll only sneak along following, if I don’t allow it, but you must obey me.”
“Yes. Agreed.” Willa jumped to her feet. “Ummm, where are we going?”
“I’m not sure as yet.” Nothing came to me.
There remained a background nibbling, asking for more ME. Sighing, I turned the filter down to thirty, then twenty.
“You will stay back if there is any fighting. I’m not having your wounding or death on my conscience.”
“I already said, yes.”
“Hmmm. You realize staring a kraken in the face across the open sea, is not the same as being shot at? Or having to kill a man?”
“Yes! And it was more than that. It had tentacles, and it snapped away bits of ship while I watched. I am not some shrinking violet. I promise I will stay back. I just want to be there… with you.” She cleared her throat and blinked several times.
Tears then, she was tearing up. Over me? After how I’d shooed her away.
“You do appear to have a good amount of courage.” I smiled at her.
Clockwork Stalker: The Dirty Heroes Collection Page 16