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j-eryewrites · 9 months

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The Dancing Men (Final)

Part 18 of The Arbitrary Lives of the Occupants of 221B Baker Street

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Word Count: 6.7k

Warnings: Guns, violence, descriptions of violence and crime scenes, gore, canon typical violence and shenanigans, Sherlock is Sherlock, crime, breaking and entering, mentions of stalking and yandere themes.

Author's Note: Finally, it's out. Yay! I really hope you enjoy it! Also thank you so much for your patience with me!!

Good News and Bad News. That’s how it always seemed to go in Sherlock’s line of work. Good news: Sherlock had cracked the code; This finely crafted lingo of dancing men turned into words and cohesive phrases. Now that the code had been broken, the case was soon close to an end. Bad News: The last phrase of code was an ominous one. The contorted drawings spoke of one thing and one thing only, death. Hilton Cubitt was going to die. The man behind the code was going to kill Cubitt.

Now once bad news came Sherlock’s way, more bad news tended to follow. The first wave of bad news came in the form of Sherlock's lack of car keys. John had them in his possession and John was asleep in another room with the door locked. As a consequence of the late hour, Hilton was not answering his phone. That was the second wave of bad news. Now came the third wave. This bad news took form in the shape of ignorant police men.

“No! You aren’t listening. My name is Sherlock Holmes. I’m a consulting detective, and my client is going to be killed. Hilton Cubitt. That’s his name. Lives on–” Sherlock barked. His voice thundered about the shared room. His feet walked him back and forth about the room adding to the noise that jolted Y/N awake.

“Sherlock?” Y/N hoarsely said as she rubbed the sleep from her eyes.

Sherlock barely glanced Y/N’s way. His frustration with the oblivious, obtuse, bird-brained officer over the phone. A man’s life was at stake and as a fallout so were the lives of a mother and child.

“You’re awake. Get John!” Sherlock told Y/N before turning back to the phone. “A man and his family are in danger. Someone will die and worse may happen if you do not listen to me!” Sherlock reprimanded the officer over the phone.

Worry began to overcome the weariness in Y/N body. Why did she need to get John? Hilton was in trouble? His family? “Sherlock?” Y/N said with concern.

Again, Sherlock paid Y/N no mind, all of his efforts were going into convincing the officer to send someone out to the Cubitt home.

Sitting up from the bed, Y/N approached Sherlock’s disoriented figure. His intellect fighting with idiocy, for the sole purpose of pride and correctness was one thing, but with the cost of a man’s and quite possibly his family's life on the line in the battle of intellect was another thing.

Carefully, Y/N placed a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. It was only a hand, but it lent the man a beacon of light to ground himself to. Sherlock’s chaotic pace stilled as some peace crept into his mind. He wasn’t alone.

Tension filled the air as Sherlock’s jaw tightened and Y/N’s grip on Sherlock’s shoulder tightened. Sherlock turned his head away from the phone to glance over at her. “John,” Sherlock harshly whispered. Y/N tilted her head in confusion. “John has the keys!” Y/N’s eyes widened as she understood what Sherlock was asking her.

Immediately, Y/N withdrew her hand from Sherlock’s side and ran out of the room to bang on John’s door. Like the beating of a drum, Y/N pounded on the door over and over again until the door creaked open, and a groggy John came up to the door.

She didn’t give John the chance to say anything before she dragged him back to her and Sherlock’s room with a look of panic on her face. Once the door was shut, John was now privy to the conversation. It did not take long for John’s face to mirror the concern and horror on Y/N’s face.

Words were said. Seconds passed, yet they felt like years, as Sherlock crushed his fingers around the phone. The officer had hung up, but not before telling him he was a wanker who had a few too many drinks at the pub.

It was silent. John’s eyes were wide as the dumbfounded expression grew on his face. Y/N brows clenched together in a worried expression as she watched Sherlock. He was as still as the surface of a lake in the early morning with not a ripple in sight. His mouth was close, his eyes neutral as he stared at the distance. The only sign of life in Sherlock was the whitening skin of his hand as his grip constricted his phone more and more.

“He’s dead,” Sherlock whispered.

John and Y/N shared a distressed look with each other. Yes, a man would now be dead. His family was put in danger, but what scared John and Y/N the most was their friend. He looked broken. Defeated. Sherlock had lost clients before, but never like this–never in a battle with ignorance.

Y/N gave a comforting squeeze to Sherlock’s shoulder. He wasn’t alone, yet Sherlock couldn’t help but feel trapped in the empty halls of his mind.

_____

The car ride up to the Cubitt household was a solemn one. Everything seemed paralyzed: the streetlights flickered on and off and not a soul was outside. John didn’t enjoy the view outside, but the solemn view was better than the view of Sherlock’s stone-cold face with his blue eyes filled with anguish.

A sickening feeling stirred in each of their stomachs the closer they got to the Cubitt home. As the familiar roads twisted and turned the insides of their stomachs sloshed around. Y/N felt like she was going to be sick.

As they reached the street where the Cubitt home was, a new feeling grew from the sorrow in the consulting detective gut–fury. Where once was a yellow warmth from the streetlights, there was now the blaringly cold, red and blue lights from police cars.

The cab came to a halt and the three of them climbed out onto the street in front of the Cubitt home. Police were everywhere. Some carrying their cameras taking photos of everything they deemed important and others whispering amongst themselves about who knows what.

Y/N gulped at the scene and found herself reaching for Sherlock’s concealed hand. She needed the comfort, to know that she was not alone. The moment her fingers brushed past his, Y/N’s hand was enveloped by Sherlock’s warmth. It seemed that he too needed to know he wasn’t alone.

“This is a closed crime scene–” An officer approached the three of them with his thick fingers spreading apart to stop them from moving even further.

Something snapped in Sherlock at the officer’s gesture and his grip on Y/N’s hand tightened. “Nothing you could do would stop me from entering the scene. I am Sherlock Holmes–”

“Ah!” The man’s eyes flashed with recognition. “I suppose you’re the detectives from England,” the officer said in the most nonchalant voice possible. “The one who called last night?”

Before Sherlock could implode and before her finger lost all feeling, Y/N stepped forward. “We are. We were hired by the Cubitt family and know more about this case than you idiots who ignored our concerns last night. Now a man is dead.” A silent fury was coming through Y/N’s voice as she spoke.

“Excuse me miss. That’s not at all–” the officer tried to redeem himself and the Clifden police department, and was doing so poorly.

Y/N took in a deep breath before slightly raising her voice. “No, I'll stop you there. Where’s your Chief Inspector? I–we demand to see him.”

“Right, miss,” the officer paused, looking between the three of them. “The Chief Inspector wanted to see you anyway. This way.” Then the officer turned around and walked away expecting them to follow.

Through the crime scene they traveled; What once was a cozy family home, with only happy memories is now an empty casket with no family to be found.

“Where’s Elise and–” Y/N questioned the officer.

“Save your questions for the Inspector,” the officer replied.

Y/N scoffed and felt Sherlock’s hold on her hands tighten again. She glanced up at his stern figure and saw that his jaw was tightly clenched. He looked as if he wanted to strangle the man and add another body to the crime scene. She tugged his hand towards her direction causing Sherlock’s gaze to fall on her.

“It’s alright,” she whispered as she began to rub her thumb across his knuckles.

“These the English Detectives?” A husky voice boomed.

“Yes, sir,” the officer said before leaning in to whisper something into the other man’s ear. Once the message had been relayed, the officer excused himself.

The new man didn’t take long to introduce himself. His hair was an auburn shade with gray strands speckled amongst his head. Matching his hair on his head, was a patchy beard with adorning sideburns and hazel green eyes that appeared more brown than green.

“My name’s Martin. Inspector Martin of the Clifden Constabulary.” He extended out his hand waiting for someone to shake it. No one did. Awkwardly, Martin put away his hand and cleared his throat.

“It’s a terrible business,” said Martin “They were both shot, Mr. Hilton Cubitt and his wife. She shot him and then herself—so the neighbors say. He’s dead and she’s in the hospital. Not to mention their daughter’s gone missing. I can only assume the worst.”

“What do you mean their daughter’s gone?” John asked.

“Well…we’re not quite sure. All we knew that the child was missing when we arrived. Mr. Hilton was dead, and Elise was wounded,” the Inspector explained.

Y/N’s face paled. This case turned out worse than she thought it’d be. First, the death of their client, the injury of his wife, and the missing presence of Hilton’s daughter.

“Mr…” the Inspector asked.

“Holmes.”

“Right, Mr. Holmes, if you don’t mind me asking, the crime was only committed at three in the morning. How did you know the incident would happen?”

This question irked Sherlock, but nevertheless he answered it. “I anticipated it. I called the Clifden police in the hope of preventing it,” Sherlock said as every part of him oozed contempt for the inspector.

The Inspector’s face paled slightly as he cleared his throat, realizing his mistake. “Then you must have important insider knowledge that we need for the case.”

“We only have the dancing men,” John said.

The Inspector only looked puzzled at John’s answer. Before the Inspector could open his mouth to respond, Sherlock stepped forward. His blue eyes bore a warning to the Inspector.

“In order for me to help you and your insolent police force, I need one thing and one thing only…” Sherlock’s voice was cold. The Inspector nervously gulped. “Access to the crime scene and all knowledge you have gathered from it.”

“Done,” Inspector Martin said with a shaky voice. “Although I must apologize on behalf of my staff. It would benefit us all if you worked with us.”

Sherlock made an expression with his eyes as if to say, “You don’t think?”

Despite all the hesitancy and nervousness that the Inspector previously displayed, he seemed to understand what he needed to accomplish next: He promptly showed the consulting detective and company to the crime scene and provided Sherlock with the space he needed to observe.

They were in the Hilton’s master bedroom. It wasn’t a room that they had previously seen before. It was a well decorated room, and one could tell it was a safe haven of sorts for its late occupants with the memories hanging on the wall and the sentimental works of crayon art. The bed sheets and throw pillows were the same scarlet red. A shade that mimicked the pool of liquid underneath the body in the middle of the room.

Hilton lay on the floor with a hole in his chest right where his heart should have been beating. He was shot. His death was quick and painless. At least that’s what John had gathered looking at the body. The information would have been of the sort that would be used to comfort those living, but not Sherlock. It didn’t matter how Hilton had died, he was dead, and it was a death that could have been prevented. As he examined the body, John found it extremely hard to look at Hilton’s face. Thoughts of “if” were running through John’s brain as he looked at Hilton’s lifeless body: If he had just woken up earlier, if he and Sherlock took the room with two beds, if Y/N had the keys. Hilton’s eyes were still open, frozen in the instant of his death. John was sure if he looked close enough, he’d see what Hilton saw when he died.

Meanwhile, Y/N occupied herself with the rest of the room. Her eyes refused to look at the body of the man she knew had been alive hours earlier. She wouldn’t–couldn’t let herself grieve. Hilton’s daughter was missing and that was her priority. As she walked about the room, Y/N’s mind pondered the words of the Inspector. He had believed Elise did it. He concluded that Elise shot her husband and then herself in the stomach. A shot that would have been fatal in most cases, but it seemed fate was merciful. The bullet had only skimmed her vital organs.

Despite all the evidence pointing to the Inspector’s conclusion, Y/N knew that he was wrong. She believed it with every fiber of her being.

Sherlock, on the other hand, pushed every ounce of feeling that boiled to the surface. This case was like any other, except that it wasn’t. He’d visited crime scenes before and that’s all they were–crimes. Crimes were built like puzzles: you’d have all the pieces–the facts, and then connect them together to see the truth. That’s all they were supposed to be, facts, yet now the facts were stories. They were smiles. They were fears. They were alive, well, not anymore.

“Inspector?” Sherlock called out. The Inspector appeared in the doorway. “Has the body been moved?”

“We haven’t moved anything except for Elise,” Inspector Martin explained. “We couldn’t leave her lying wounded on the floor.”

Sherlock nodded his head as his mind placed Elise’s figure into the crime scene. “Has anything been touched? Any evidence removed from the room?” Sherlock asked.

The Inspector shook his head. “We’ve only had time to take photos of the scene before you arrived. Oh, that reminds me, there are footprints.”

Sherlock turned around to face the Inspector. “Footprints?”

“Yes, footprints by the window.” The Inspector pointed his fingers towards the window that hung open in the early morning air. Strange, thought Sherlock; Most people tended to keep their windows closed in the colder months. Then Sherlock quickly stepped closer to get a better view. There were indeed footprints underneath the window: dirt and grime still wet, from what Sherlock observed was the rain, was imprinted into the rug. Raising his brow, Sherlock peered outside the open window and looked down.

Pulling back from the view outside, Sherlock nodded and shoved his hands into his pockets before making his way around the room. He needed to find the puzzle pieces: the body, the gun, disturbed bed sheets, open window in the middle of November, footprints by the window, missing child, wife hospitalized with her haunted past, and the dancing men.

Y/N watched Sherlock as he moved about the room as if he was in a dance. His feet were placed meticulously on the floor as he traced the steps in his mind. It was amazing to watch Sherlock work. Just from the look in his eyes, she knew the wheels in his brain were turning. Each image his eyes produced would be remembered. Each thought would be cataloged along with the evidence in his mind palace. It was a forlorn sense of beauty watching Sherlock.

As the dance continued, Y/N noticed Sherlock pullout his phone. His fingers grazed the surface of the screen, quickly typing something before placing the device back into his pocket.

“There was a third person,” Sherlock announced.

Inspector Martin’s look of perpetual confusion grew. “What do you mean there was a third person?” It was almost a scoff. The noise continued to chip away at Sherlock’s patience.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed at the Inspector. “The footprints. Both inside the room and in the flower bed beneath the window.” Inspector Martin, cautiously meandered to the window to see, and indeed there were matching footprints in the flower bed below.

“How did you even see it?” Inspector Martin asked in awe at the new evidence.

Rolling his eyes Sherlock answered, “Because I looked for it.” John and Y/N held back a snicker. “Hilton–the body is barefooted,” Sherlock continued. “Elise Cubitt’s feet are too small to fit the ones underneath the window. Therefore–”

“Another person,” John finished.

The Inspector glanced between Sherlock and John before clearing his throat. “Do you have any clue as to who?”

Sherlock looked at John and Y/N. “No clue. But I believe that more evidence can be found in other rooms of the house. Where’s the child’s room?”

The Inspector was startled by Sherlock’s new demand but showed him and the others to the daughter’s room.

A light pink and floral wallpaper lined the walls of the room. It was a delicate design that reminded Y/N of a magical forest you’d only see in fairytales. On the far side of the room there were two windows, one of which hung open with the latch undone. In between the windows lay a tiny oak bed that would fit a small child. The sheets were a snow-like white with numerous stuffed animals and toys on top. As Sherlock, John, and Y/N stepped further into the room, they noticed the set of drawers that lie open and disturbed. Clothes were scattered on the neighboring floor: dainty socks, dresses, shirts, trousers, t-shirts, jumpers, and even some shoes.

The evidence in front of Y/N pointed to only one thing. “Sherlock–did he…”

“Not now, Y/N” Sherlock hushed. It wasn’t a dismissal of any sorts, but more a request for silence that Sherlock’s magnificent mind needed if he was to solve the case.

Peering outside the open window, Sherlock observed, once again, the very same footprints found in Hilton’s room and in the flowerbed. In the blink of an eye, Sherlock darted out of the room and weaved between the officers on the scene to find himself outside.

By the time John, Y/N and unfortunately, Inspector Martin had caught up to him, Sherlock’s theory had been proven correct. The footprints outside the daughter’s window were deeper than the ones in the flower bed outside Hilton’s room. The culprit kidnapped Cubitt's daughter, causing a deeper impression in the dirt when he exited out the window.

“Sherlock, what are you doing in the mud–” John began.

“The daughter was kidnapped,” Sherlock stated as he got out of his crouched position on the ground.

Y/N felt sick to her stomach as her fears were confirmed. Sherlock continued, “The foot impressions here are deeper than those in the flower bed underneath Hilton’s bedroom. The daughter’s room was in disarray as if the culprit was searching for clothes and other necessary things to care for the daughter. Then he made his escape with the materials and child in hand.”

“Why?” Y/N muttered under her breath.

Sherlock opened his mouth to supply Y/N with his theory, but Inspector Martin cut him off with his imprudent questioning. “Who do you suspect?” Martin asked again.

Sherlock turned away from the Inspector and began to march to the rental car. “I don’t have a clue.” Then Sherlock looked over his shoulder and called, “John. Y/N.”

Together the three of them left Inspector Martin dumbfounded standing in the garden with a completely new case and so many questions in his mind.

_____

A wave of confusion befell John and Y/N as they sat in the rental car. It was a lie. Sherlock had lied to the Inspector. If they had learned anything from the consulting detective, it was how to catch a lie. Even so, Sherlock didn’t even try to conceal the fact that he withheld information from Inspector Martin. The man in question sat in the passenger's seat directing John as they drove along the winding roads of the Irish countryside.

After a moment of silence from the trio, John released a vocalized sigh before turning his friend seated beside him. “Why’d you lie?”

Sherlock returned the sigh and that was an answer enough. John pinched the bridge of his nose.

“They’re the police, Sherlock. You can’t just lie to them,” John muttered.

“I can and did,” Sherlock said.

“Sherlock,” Y/N hissed. He looked at her with expectant eyes. “You know who did it. Don’t you?”

Sherlock nodded. His eyes briefly scanned the cab’s surroundings as the car drove away from the Cubitt home to a destination only Sherlock knew; Although the destination was hardly a concern for the other passengers in the car.

“How–how did you know?” Y/N asked.

“I feel like I owe you both an explanation,” Sherlock began.

John let out a sarcastic chuckle. “An explanation would be nice. Also, where the hell am I driving to?”

“A place called Eldridge's Farm.”

“Right, exactly. Eldridge's Farm. How could I not have known?” John grumbled to himself.

“John,” Y/N hissed.

John glanced back at Y/N as he responded. “Sorry, it’s just–”

“I know and I get it. We are all feeling on edge, guilty, responsible, you name it. We are all together in this, but right now, we need Sherlock to answer some questions for us,” Y/N pleaded. John nodded in agreement and returned his sight to the road.

“There are rules that every ‘secret’ code follows,” Sherlock explained. “From the first dancing men message, it was hard to decipher anything, but I was positive that one symbol stood for the letter E.”

“Why E?” John questioned.

“E is the most common letter in the English language, so it's expected that a small message would contain at least a few E’s. There were fifteen symbols in the first message and four of them were the same, so I made the reasonable conclusion that they must stand for E.”

“Huh, makes sense,” Y/N commented, her eyes filled with intrigue as Sherlock continued to reply to their questions.

“But for the other symbols, I had to wait for the next messages in order to find their alphabet counterparts. Then it was a simple matter of using the next few common letters: T,A,O,I,N,S,H,R,D, and L. In the second message, there was one word that consisted of two E’s. Then I tried a few different words until I found one that fit.”

“So, then you knew what those symbols were? So, you could solve more words?” Y/N asked.

Sherlock nodded. “Exactly. As I was going through this tedious process, it occurred to me that Elise’s name would be present in the message. With those letters discovered I continued my search until I was able to decode the first message: AM HERE ABE SLANEY.” Sherlock looked back at Y/N to gauge her reaction. His eyes were wide open as if he expected a specific answer from her.

Y/N only responded with a confused look. “What? Am I supposed to know who that is?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and returned to his original direction. “Abe Slaney is an American. The name ‘Abe’ is an American contraction of the name Abraham. This also factors in Elise’s mysterious past in the United States.”

“Sherlock,” Y/N chuckled. “Just because I’m American doesn’t mean that I know every American. The country is huge! It’s bigger than the United Kingdom.” Y/N had to bite her lip as Sherlock mumbled angrily under his breath, for someone quite smart he could be clueless.

“Since the man is American, I called a frie–a colleague for more information and–” Sherlock was cut off by John.

“You called your brother. Mycroft.” It wasn’t a question but more of a conclusion.

Sherlock took in a deep breath through his nose. “It was my brother. That’s besides the fact, Abe Slaney is a gangster from Chicago and one of the most dangerous criminals there.”

A silence fell over the car as John and Y/N consumed the information Sherlock had just given them. Soon a tapping was heard as John began to fiddle with the car’s steering wheel.

“Eldridge's Farm. That’s where he’s at. Abe Slaney. We're driving right into the hands of a murderer and kidnapper.”

“We are driving to Eldridge's Farm; Abe does not reside there.”

Sherlock’s words did little to ease John. “You lied to the Inspector; you could be lying to me…” John mumbled under his breath.

Y/N adjusted her sitting position and leaned forward so her head was between John and Sherlock. “Just tell me we won’t be doing anything illegal. I don’t want John nabbed by the cops again.”

John shivered remembering what happened while they were solving the Blind Banker case. ”Yeah, I second that. Sherlock, no illegal stuff.”

Sherlock did not give them an answer.

_____ It was very much an action that would and could be considered illegal in a court of law.

“You want me to do what?!” John gasped.

“Break into the house,” Sherlock replied. “It’s easy. Break the glass and unlock the door.” John groaned. “You served in the military, John. This should be easy for you.”

“Sherlock! If I remember correctly, breaking into someone’s home is a crime,” Y/N reprimanded.

“You’d be correct,” Sherlock agreed.

Y/N raised her brows waiting for Sherlock to continue. At the very least, she wanted an explanation as to why they were breaking into a home. It was an explanation that did not come.

“John, you don’t have to do this,” Y/N said as she approached John by the door.

“No–I can. Sherlock! Why can’t you do it?” John questioned the curly headed detective.

“My coat is not thick enough. If I broke the window the glass would cut into my skin and–” The sound of glass shattering stopped Sherlock further explaining further.

“I did it,” Y/N muttered as she swung the door open.

For a moment John and Sherlock shared the same look of bewilderment on their faces.

“What?” Y/N looked back at them. “If anyone asks, it's because I’m American. It’s in my blood–I’m being sarcastic, just let’s go.” Then she entered Eldridge's Farmhouse.

A quick expression of pride flashed on Sherlock’s face as he watched Y/N enter the home. Then he and John followed after her.

“What exactly are we looking for?” Y/N asked as her eyes peered around the dark room. It was in the early hours of the morning where there was barely enough light illuminating through the windows. Y/N contemplated using the flashlight on her phone, before deciding against using such a bright light in a home that she broke into.

“Elise and Hilton Cubitt’s daughter,” Sherlock stated.

John and Y/N froze and turned to look at Sherlock’s dark figure.

“You said Abe wasn’t going to be here!” John harshly whispered. “Sherlock!”

“I said Abe did not reside here. Eldridge's Farm is a BnB. Abe is a guest,” Sherlock clarified.

John furrowed his brows and placed his hands on his hips as he muttered a few curses.

“Hey, let’s focus more on finding the kid, calling the police, and getting out of here before a gangster from Chicago wakes up with intruders in his BnB!” Y/N quietly suggested.

“John, take the rooms to the left. Y/N and I will take the rooms to the right,” Sherlock instructed.

John grumbled a bit before sneaking his way to the room on the left side of the home, leaving Sherlock and Y/N alone in the dark.

There was something so tranquil about standing in the living room of a home in which you were intruders. Though, Sherlock determined it was not that different from the frequent guests coming and going as they went about their travels. It was quiet and a small breeze snuck through the cracks in the glass causing a few goosebumps to creep onto his forearms. The other tiny bumps along his skin were from her. It was the only reason. They were alone. It was dark and he could feel her presence standing near him. He could hear the air pass through her lungs as it energized her existence. As they stood there, his mind thought of one thing; That night when he should have gone after her and molded his lips to her. It was that night he should have told her that just like the air in her lungs, her presence gave life to his universe. Sherlock cursed himself. This was the worst of times; he shouldn’t be thinking abou–

“Sherlock? Are you coming?” Y/N whispered.

Suddenly, a bright light cascaded the room. Sherlock and Y/N briefly clenched their eyes shut before reorienting themselves.

“I wouldn’t go anywhere if I were you.”

Under any other circumstance, Y/N would have been overjoyed to hear someone else speak like her. There was only so much of “you sound like a movie star” that she could handle. However, there was the context that the man who was speaking was a gangster with a gun to John’s head. Immediately Y/N froze in place as from the corner of her eye she saw Sherlock take a small step in front of her.

“Abe Slaney,” Sherlock addressed the man. He had dirty blonde hair and dull blue eyes. He stood a few inches taller than John, but his height was still significantly smaller than that of Sherlock’s. However, everything about Abe screamed ‘threat’.

“So,you know who I am. Bravo,” Abe said sarcastically.

“You killed Hilton Cubitt,” Sherlock noted.

“Again. Congratulations on figuring that out–”

“But Elise…” Sherlock continued as he chose his words carefully.

Abe’s grip around John tightened. “What about her?”

“You killed her too.”

At this suggestion, Abe’s face paled. “What? I didn’t kill her–she!” Worry began to set in Abe’s face. “Elise…”

“Then what about the daughter?” Sherlock continued.

Abe squeezed his eyes shut. The light reflected off the tears trickling down his face. “I LOVED HER!” Abe bellowed as he pointed the gun in Y/N and Sherlock’s direction. Y/N gasped and grabbed hold of Sherlock's arm as he placed himself farther in front of her. Sherlock’s clear gaze never faltered.

Then a sob escaped Abe’s mouth. “I could have never hurt her. When I say that a man could never love another woman like I love her, I would be saying the absolute truth. She was mine until that–” Abe’s voice grew sour, “until Hilton took her away from me. I was only taking back what was mine!”

“She was married, Abe.”

Abe's sad expression grew into a sneer. “Until death do us part, right? That’s how it goes? But when I killed him, Elise, she tried to fight me. She had her–that man’s gun and was going to shoot me. I–” Abe began to cry again. The weapon found its resting place back on John’s head. “The gun. She–”

“So, you killed her,” Sherlock finished.

“NO! No, I–she was still alive when I left. I called the police. She’s alive. She has to be.”

John winced in pain as Abe constricted his airways. “Sherlock,” John groaned. “Maybe don’t anger the man with the gun to your friend’s head.”

Sherlock’s eyes briefly flashed with worry at John’s condition before continuing his interrogation. “Their daughter.”

“She’s not his daughter. She’s–She looks so much like Elise,” Abe explained.

“So, you thought, since you killed Elise, that you’d take her daughter instead?” Sherlock inquired.

“I DIDN’T KILL ELISE!”

“Sherlock!” Y/N whimpered as John flailed around in Abe’s arms.

“Tell me about the code. Why the dancing men?”

Abe seemed to calm down with the change in subjects. “Elise’s father. He’s the boss. He wrote the code, so we could work in secret. Elise never liked that business, so when he came, she ran away. She was mine. We're supposed to be married. That kid was supposed to be mine, but she left me. I told her that I would find her again and I did.”

As Abe relayed his story to them, Y/N couldn’t help but a prickling of fear spread all over her body. Abe was obsessed. He called it love, but he was possessed by Elise. The poor woman only wanted to get away. She wanted to be safe, and she was with Hilton. He never asked about her past. He never asked her to relive that horror and trauma, but Abe had found them and destroyed her peace. With how Abe acted, Y/N was beginning to fear the worst. He was a stalker, kidnapper, and murderer. Who knew what else he was willing to do at this point? It was all about Elise. All of his motives were for her.

Y/N’s eyes widened as she came to a realization. Cautiously, she loosened her grip on Sherlock’s arm and stepped out from behind him. “Abe,” Y/N said softly and with as much gentleness and care she could muster, she continued to address him. “I can tell you really loved Elise.” Abe nodded. “Good. Now, think about what Else would want you to do. Would Elise really want you to take her daughter back to the business she hated?”

Y/N could see the wheels turning in Abe’s head as he listened to her words. “No, she wouldn’t–”

“See. Abe, can I tell you a secret?” Y/N waited for Abe nod. “The greatest act of love is letting the person you love go. If you love Elise as much as you say you do, then you need to let her go. You need to let her daughter go.”

Abe’s face contorted as he fought with Y/N’s words. Sherlock could only watch as Y/N pleaded with Abe. She was beautiful. The panic in her eyes as it blended with the gentleness of her soul. He couldn’t take his eyes away, and for a moment Sherlock thought he never would be able to. She was magical–no that wasn’t the right word. Y/N was intelligent in a way Sherlock could never be and it was breathtaking.

Slowly, the gun fell from John’s head and Abe let John go. Soon after the man collapsed to the ground in distraught. In his obsession, maybe he really did love Elise. It didn’t take long for Y/N to find Cubitt's daughter. The young girl really did bear a resemblance to her mother; a mother who was recovering from her life saving surgery in the hospital.

Abe Slaney didn’t struggle as Inspector Martin placed dull handcuffs around his wrists. He kept his head down and his mouth shut as they led him out to the car. Just as the police opened the door to the guarded backseat of the patrol car, Abe snapped his head up as if he just remembered something. In a loud voice, he called out to Sherlock.

“M says hello,” then the door was shut and Abe was gone.

_____

Normally, once a case was over, the trio would call it a day and return to their lives at 221B Baker Street; However this was not a normal case. Elise was released from the hospital a week after her incident and a funeral for Hilton was held a few days afterward. Normally, Sherlock never attended funerals. The dead were dead and that was all he needed to know, but this wasn’t a normal funeral.

They stood in the back. John, Y/N, and Sherlock, in that order, stood with their heads hung low. Each of them shared a sense of guilt as all the questions of ‘if’ from before filled their heads. Even if they didn’t pull the trigger, it felt like they helped aim.

The service was nice. There was a lot of sentiment and a lot of condolences for Elise and her daughter. Y/N made sure to bring flowers to leave on Hilton’s grave, but once the flowers were placed, the three of them excused themselves. To them it felt like they were imposters imposing on the grief of a family, and not the heroes they were painted out to be.

Not a word was said once, Y/N and Sherlock got back to their hotel room. The two kept to themselves as they prepared for their journey home. Y/N busied herself with packing, so long as her hands were busy she wouldn’t be able to think. Sherlock, on the other hand, had already packed and was forced to sit with his silence. Instead, he sat on his bed and his eyes were placed in the direction of the window, but Sherlock wasn’t looking at the view. He was trapped in his own mind. All the emotions and fears burst to the surface of his mind. Sherlock was forced to feel and he felt alone.

It was the stillness that caught Y/N’s attention. Sherlock wasn’t really one to sit still in silence unless it was for a case, but even then there was much going on around him. After a few moments, the worry began to set in. Y/N left all thought of packing behind as she approached Sherlock’s bed.

The scene in front of Y/N broke her heart. Sherlock’s lips were shaking as his eyes glossed over, yet not a sound was coming from him. Slowly, Y/N kneeled in front of Sherlock with one hand coming out rest on his hand and the other on his cheek.

“Sherlock,” Y/N whispered as she feigned a comforting smile. “Sherlock.” His pupils dilated as they refocused on her. “I’m here.” Y/N took a deep breath. “You are not alone…It is not your fault.” Her eyes darted between him before she leaned in and entangled him in a hug. It was the best way to prove to him he was not alone.

Sherlock devoured the warmth that came from Y/N’s body as he buried his head in the crook of her neck. Y/N was there with him. He wasn’t alone. He was in her arms and it felt like that was where he was always meant to be. In her arms, he was safe. In her arms, he was home. At that moment, Sherlock only thought of one thing. He didn’t think about Hilton. He didn’t think about the failure of a case. He didn’t think about Elise or Abe. At that moment, he knew he was in love. Sherlock loved Y/N.

Pulling away from the hug, he bore into her marvelous eyes and saw the world. With each breath his gaze fell downwards until he saw her lips. The very lips he should have kissed all those days ago. At that moment, he didn’t care if she had a boyfriend. Sherlock didn’t care if she was his employee, a friend, and his neighbor. The only thing Sherlock cared about was tasting her lips and sharing a breath with her. He knew if he didn’t kiss her then, that every breath he took, every sip of water, and every wink of sleep would never be enough to sustain him. So he did. Sherlock brushed his lips against hers and decided that he wanted it all. With a desperation he never existed, Sherlock kissed Y/N and she kissed back. As Sherlock kissed and ignored his lung’s pleas for air, a voice echoed in his mind.

“The greatest act of love is letting the person you love go.”

All of a sudden, Sherlock remembered. Y/N had a boyfriend, she was happy and he was perfect. Sherlock was not, everyone was saying so. She was his assistant, his neighbor, and friend. She was practically Mrs.Hudson’s granddaughter. She was everything he couldn’t–shouldn’t have.

The room felt colder as he pushed her away. He left her in the room as his legs retreated to the streets of Clifden. His shoes clacked across the sidewalks as his mind came to one conclusion: he was alone.

______

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Author's note: after 117,809 words they finally kiss. I know, I'm all for the angst, but I promise that it will all be worth it. Please just hang in there. Also, thanks for reading and if you could show your support by commenting or reposting that would be amazing!! Great Game is up next!

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marta-bee · 1 year

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I’m rereading “The Adventure of the Dancing Men,” mostly because it’s the basis for the next Granada episode, and since I’ve just read SCAN, I’m noticing all sorts of fascinating parallels between the King of Bohemia and Hilton Cubitt, the client in DANC.

By the end of SCAN, it’s pretty obvious the king is more the villain than Irene: not evil, but certainly at least as interested in controlling her than being safe from her supposed threats. Hilton is more unambiguously a good man. Doyle describes him thus: “He was a fine creature, this man of the old English soil, simple, straight and gentle, with his great, ernest blue eyes and broad, comely face. His love for his wife and his trust in her shone in his features.” He accepts Elsie’s decision to keep her past secret for him, at at first. By period standards he seems pretty progressive.

But for all his words, he really struggles to let Elsie manage her past on her own terms. Even at his first meeting with Holmes, when Holmes suggests the man just ask his wife why she was so bothered by the titular dancing men, he responds, "A promise is a promise, Mr. Holmes. If Elsie wished to tell me she would. If not, it is not for me to force her confidence. But I am justified in taking my own line – and I will." He promised Elsie before her wedding never to ask about her past, and he’s abiding by the letter of that promise. But the spirit, which was surely not to involve himself in that part of her life, he’s much less willing to go along with. He’s hiring a detective to look into why these drawings are so alarming to her, which, if it’s not quite violating his promise (Holmes is investigating the drawings, not Elsie), it’s at least right up against the line.

When I said I was seeing parallels between the King in SCAN and Hilton in DANC, I was really thinking of the final part of SCAN, where the king learns Irene has married someone else. This effectively takes Irene out of his sphere of control --she is now another man’s wife-- and he seems to regret that at some level. It seemed he enjoyed having her as “the other woman,” perhaps not an ongoing sexual partner but certainly as the emotional parallel of a mistress or courtesan. He didn’t want to be free of her so much as in control of her.

And Cubitt is nowhere near as sexist and controlling, but there’s still a milder version of that dynamic. (Speaking as a 21st-century single woman with all the sensibilities and expectations that carries with him.) He’ll agree not to ask Elsie about her past because that was the only way she’d marry him; but what she clearly meant was not to pry, to leave her past to her to manage; and that’s something Hilton’s manhood won’t let him give her. it’s his duty to protect her, and leaving her to manage her past means ceding some of his... domain, for lack of a better word, to her. Masculinity, especially in the context of husband/wife relationships, just won’t allow it. In much the same way that later, his pride as a respectable quire from a respectable, solid family, won’t let him withdraw and go somewhere else.

At the risk of imposing concepts I’m not sure how to apply to the Victorian period, both because they’re so contemporary and also because I just don’t know enough about Victorian social norms, the problem here is heteronormativity, and to a lesser extent, a commitment to being respectable. Elsie’s past and her keeping it to herself isn’t easily reconciled with what it meant to be a husband and wife in their social setting. Certainly not once the messages start appearing and her past becomes much more relevant to the present. This isn’t the King of Bohemia’s blustering about and trampling over Irene’s autonomy. Hilton is trying, bless him. He’s a “man of the old English soil, simple, straight and gentle.” But everything about that won’t let him give Elsie control over this domain, much as Irene couldn’t have control over her life without being the pinnacle of virtue as a respectable English (unmarried) woman, and even then, she really only got security when she took shelter as a proper wife. The King would have been much more sympathetic as a character (which he wasn’t supposed to be; which was the point) if he’d only been concerned with protecting himself from blackmail, rather than maintaining his control over Irene. And in a much milder but still in many ways similar way, Hilton would have done much better to truly leave Elsie’s past to her to manage, rather than trying to square his promise with his need to protect her, almost to subsume her past into their combined present.

All of which makes the little domestic scene at the beginning so interesting. I’ll quote the whole bit, because it makes me smile but also because it’s actually a really interesting alternative to the whole dynamic between Elsie and Hilton.

"So, Watson," said he, suddenly, "you do not propose to invest in South African securities?"

I gave a start of astonishment. Accustomed as I was to Holmes's curious faculties, this sudden intrusion into my most intimate thoughts was utterly inexplicable.

"How on earth do you know that?" I asked.

He wheeled round upon his stool, with a steaming test-tube in his hand and a gleam of amusement in his deep-set eyes.

"Now, Watson, confess yourself utterly taken aback," said he.

"I am."

"I ought to make you sign a paper to that effect."

"Why?"

"Because in five minutes you will say that it is all so absurdly simple."

"I am sure that I will say nothing of the kind."

"You see, my dear Watson" – he propped his test-tube in the rack and began to lecture with the air of a professor addressing his class – "it is not really difficult to construct a series of inferences, each dependent upon its predecessor and each simple in itself. If, after doing so, one simply knocks out all the central inferences and presents one's audience with the starting-point and the conclusion, one may produce a startling, though possibly a meretricious, effect. Now, it was not really difficult, by an inspection of the groove between your left forefinger and thumb, to feel sure that you did NOT propose to invest your small capital in the goldfields."

"I see no connection."

"Very likely not; but I can quickly show you a close connection. Here are the missing links of the very simple chain: 1. You had chalk between your left finger and thumb when you returned from the club last night. 2. You put chalk there when you play billiards to steady the cue. 3. You never play billiards except with Thurston. 4. You told me four weeks ago that Thurston had an option on some South African property which would expire in a month, and which he desired you to share with him. 5. Your cheque-book is locked in my drawer, and you have not asked for the key. 6. You do not propose to invest your money in this manner."

"How absurdly simple!" I cried.

I’ve joked before how normal roommates don’t store their personal documents in each others’ desks like that; and since Watson was a published writer, it’s not like he surely didn’t have his own desk somewhere in the flat. I suppose it’s possible it didn’t have a locked drawer (maybe Holmes as an investigator has more of a need to keep documents secure?). Perhaps there’s a good explanation that doesn’t just ooze old-married-couple vibes. Perhaps it’s just a device to make Holmes’s reasoning dramatizable. Perhaps there’s also just no point in trying to keep secrets when Holmes’s piercing observations are thrown into the mix. But Watson having to involve Holmes if not outright ask his permission before he can act on a financial decision really does scream married domesticity more than cohabiting bachelors (confirmed or otherwise).

It’s really interesting, though, the way Holmes positions him and Watson here. Yes, Watson would have had to ask for the key, because it’s his desk drawer and the kind of thing Holmes would have possession over. But there’s no sense that Holmes would have imposed himself on Watson’s decision. Watson has the autonomy to spend his money as he likes.

Holmes will know, because that’s just what Holmes does; but it’s Watson’s choice what to do with his own money. It’s all very shared, but still not comingled in the way Elsie’s and Hilton’s married life is. Watson has parts of his life he has control over. And it doesn’t lessen Holmes not to have control over Watson’s money because they’re not husband and wife with the social expectations that carries with it. We can joke that they’re practically married, and that response isn’t coming out of nowhere, but if it’s anything like a marriage it’s free of what it would mean to be husband and wife. And this is really only possible because they’re queer, even if that’s queerplatonic or something else that doesn’t actually involve the erotic. Holmes can be masculine and still give Watson space to be his own man in a way a man more literally married to a woman never could be precisely because he’s (they’re) queer.

Would that Hilton Cubitt had been so lucky. He and Elsie would have both been so much better off by the story’s end. Which is pretty much the point.

************************

There is so much I could say about BBC!Mary here, the problems of your past being your business, etc., but it’s 2023 and I’m pretty sure everyone’s made up their own minds of how to read HLV by this point and I’m not quite brave enough to tiptoe into that foray on a Saturday night, so.

#marta reads #sherlock holmes #the adventure of the dancing men #holmes/watson #a scandal in bohemia #doyle

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