Archive of Our Own ^beta

The cards landed in a heap before I reached the third level. Alright. So much for that. Now what?

A slow survey found nothing of interest. Holmes and I had filled our sitting room with books, journals, newspapers, and even a few small puzzle boxes, yet I found myself completely unable to involve myself in a project—any project. A faint sigh drifted through the room as I limped to my chair. If I could not do something, I could at least be somewhat comfortable while doing nothing.

Unless the furniture chose to dump me on the pillow Holmes had left on the floor. I could not halt a laugh when a glance found smooth glass and fabric beneath the chair’s legs. Despite spending less than an hour at home in days, Holmes had still managed to fulfill his threat. The mischief paid me back for the salt in his coffee last week.

Even a retribution prank itself required retribution, however. Holmes would expect a trick in return, and a moment’s work moved his furniture sliders to his own chair—with the full intention of claiming he had put them there—before I dug through my bag. Did I have any more of that additive?

I did. The cork’s seal broke with a faint pop to let me put two drops in the bottom of his pipe. He would never taste the heat-activated dye. Could I set anything else? Pranks made an amusing way to spend the day.

No, I finally decided. Too many traps invited an entirely different hazard level that I had no wish to encounter, which put me back where I had been not ten minutes ago. I needed to find something to do.

My bag did not need inventorying. The medical journal had not yet put out a new volume. That book had been horrible to the point of being evil. I should probably burn it rather than give it away.

Which was more uncomfortable to do in the heat of summer. I shoved it to the back of my shelf to wait for winter.

My most recent attempt at writing a book had gone to a new agent yesterday. I would not receive a response for at least a week. Mrs. Hudson had all but asked me not to borrow her kitchen for a day or two—something about a surprise. Holmes did not want my help with his cases. How could I spend this dull, dragging day?

Bored, apparently. I finally took several books to the settee and opened the oldest. Whether the story pulled me in or put me to sleep, I preferred the attempt over staring at the ceiling.

Irrelevant. Unlikely. Blatantly false. He had already known that. Useless. Holmes quickly sifted Lestrade’s notes, more interested in keeping the information straight than watching the passing streets. Had Miller or Burks enjoyed the races?

Burks. Miller liked card games, as evidenced by the frequent trips to the less than honorable tavern near his home. The information mattered more in Burks’ case than Miller’s, but Holmes could not afford to confuse them. He barely glanced up from the sheaf of papers on entering the Yard, though familiar footsteps announced the inspector he sought now walked behind him.

“Lestrade mentioned you saw Miller yesterday.”

“I did.” Peripheral vision caught Gregson’s confusion. The Yard’s next amusing rumor would entail Holmes having eyes on the back of his head. “At that pub on Oxford. He wore a large, brown wig and thick glasses, but his crooked nose gave him away. He nursed a beer for just under an hour before he headed south. The barmaid did not realize he had left until she tried to close his tab. By then, I had no way to find him.”

And Holmes did not yet have enough proof for the other charges to stick. His cuffs easily held the information that would not fit on the papers in front of him. He would search for any indication of Miller’s routine in relation to that pub, but he slipped out the door on his way to the grocer without replying. He still needed Johnson’s notes on Burks, the last piece of the burglary case, and whether Carver had anything new on that smuggling ring at the docks. Ten simultaneous cases meant he gathered bits of data for each one and desperately tried to keep them in line.

Not that he would complain. Better too much work than not enough.

While the grocer’s pigeonhole remained empty, Johnson’s handwriting covered a stack of notes in the one next door, including an unexpected bit of information about Achlan. He would have to remember to provide an extra threepence the next time Johnson came for his wages. The counterfeiter would be behind bars before dark.

A convenient Irregular took the information to the Yard to let Holmes continue around the corner to the Whitehall tanner, but Carver’s preferred pigeonhole remained empty. No matter. Holmes had asked for a report by tomorrow, after all, not today. He could check again in the morning, and distracted steps carried him down the inside edge of the sidewalk. If another omnibus decided to turn the many puddles into an impromptu bath, he could let the other pedestrians shield him from the wet. He had better things to do than detour home for fresh clothes.

“Yes," said..."but I wish…not going…away, I think. I wish they…home."

An irritated growl escaped when I once again reached the end of a paragraph with no idea what I had read. Sensational romance, ocean adventure, American west, even Dickens, my mind refused to focus. The novel thumped against the rug as I studied the room. Surely I could find something to do today?

Intermittent rain showers killed any interest in a walk. The smell of caramelized sugar had started drifting from the kitchen an hour ago to prove Mrs. Hudson still worked on her present. Holmes would never forgive me if I touched his chemistry set, and his books consisted solely of research materials. They would provide less entertainment than my own. Perhaps I could find a diversion at my club?

That required risking a drenching, which interested me less than my well-stocked library. I finally resigned myself to trying another stack of books. That novel a young patient had given me might prove entertaining—if only for its sheer idiocy.

Or maybe Holmes would let me help with one of his cases. The door below opened, then shut, and familiar steps sloshed up the stairs.

Wait. Sloshed?

“Holmes?”

Grumbling answered me. A stack of papers—amazingly dry—slapped the landing’s small table before he shut himself in his room, and I used the closed door to hide a chuckle. A cab must have taken a corner at splashing speed.

The irritated glare when he emerged said he had heard me, though even long, angry strides across the room did not kill my grin. This might be fun.

“Did the Irregulars convince you to try their method of washing up?”

“Every cab and omnibus in this city insists on aiming for the puddles,” he nearly growled, my amusement only heightening his frustration. “Even walking against the buildings does not block the tidal waves.”

“A small splash can hardly be called a tidal wave, Holmes, and what do you mean walking against the buildings? Are you using the other pedestrians as moving shields again?”

His harrumph declared his opinion on the unwanted water being small, but he ignored that in favor of my question.

“Why should I not? If they are idiotic enough to walk next to the street, let them take the cab’s drenching. They get the ‘satisfaction of being useful,’ as you call it, and I do not have to detour for a fresh outfit.”

I could not fault him. London’s large population had long filled the city sidewalks to bursting, but that did not mean he should do it on purpose—or that I would pass up the less than serious argument.

“I did not say that.” My pillow fell to the floor as I turned to sit upright. “Being useful is satisfying, yes, but it is the knowledge, not the action, that matters.” A different idea lit his gaze to spark a laugh. “If you announce what you are doing,” I quickly halted the forming plan, “you will find yourself the most avoided man in London. What would that do for the career you are trying to build?”

He almost visibly deflated even as he tried to deepen his glare. I sat back with a wide smirk. Bickering with him at least passed the time.

“You might try slowing down,” I suggested. “If you did not have a dozen cases going at once, you could stay home on days like today. No speeding cab is going to provide an unexpected bath in the sitting room.”

The company might give me something to do as well, but I would not say that. Holmes’ unusual career choice did not include entertaining his flatmate.

I would try a different path, however. “Or you could let me help,” I added when he waved me off, moving as if to bury his face in his notes and pace the rest of the day away. “You have admitted more than once that voicing the case often illuminates the solution.”

“It is mostly data collection at this point,” he dismissed. “Johnson is researching the Miller case, and Carver started following Burks this morning. The Yard should have Achlan behind bars tonight, but that makes one in ten finished. With Carver and Johnson also watching for those two smugglers, my notes keep getting crossed.”

“That is simple enough.” Today’s rain did not prevent me from reaching the desk, and he watched as I readied pen and paper. “Getting your notes in order will make the case go smoother. Now—" I double checked my pen had sufficient ink. “What do you have for the Miller case?”

He stared at me for a long moment, as if stunned. While I had thoroughly enjoyed my part in the Jefferson Hope case in March, I had very carefully stayed out of his work unless invited. No matter how intriguing, the cases remained his livelihood. I would not risk imposing.

But I truly believed this would help him not run himself into the ground. He had not spent more than an hour at home at a time for nearly a week, and I had no idea where or when he slept or ate. He could not keep this pace forever, but nor would he slow down as long as he had work. I did not mind helping. He could continue his work with all of his information easy to find, and I would have something to do for an hour or two.

If he agreed, anyway. He stared for so long I began to fear I had overstepped. I finally decided to give him a way out.

“Unless you do not wish me to know the details?”

The question snapped him out of his thoughts. “No, of course not. I simply—That is—” The sentence died as his ears reddened, and when he shuffled the pages without elaborating, I did not press. I had already seen how difficult he found expressing his own thoughts. We did not have to discuss that now.

Or at all, and I carefully blanked my expression when he moved toward his chair. Was I about to regret my prank?

No. He merely scowled at me, not for a moment believing my innocently raised eyebrow.

"How very original."

Concentrated effort barely prevented my laugh from escaping.

“I have no idea what you're talking about. Why did you put sliders on your chair?"

"I did not." He dragged my chair over instead. "I put them on your chair.”

I shrugged. “Why would I repeat a prank? Now what was that about Miller’s gambling habits? And why in the world do you have notes scribbled on your cuffs?”

He grumbled something about “obvious tells” but started reading his notes aloud as I spread the details between their respective sheets. The scribbling on his cuffs became a piece of the Miller case, one on his hand referenced a pertinent address, and the double-written slip carried a mixture of three different cases. No wonder he struggled to keep the respective facts straight. Perhaps he would see the use of organized note taking after this. The structured format could only aid his cases.

After all, if he wanted to build his niche in an invented career, he would need to display why he could fill that lack. Perhaps he would let me help occasionally in exchange for writing everything in one of my journals.

Or not. I enjoyed the afternoon, at any rate. I had not known he had taken a case from a cousin of the royal family.