SH Fanfic: Conceits

[goldvermilion87]

My first proper Sherlock Holmes fanfic.  A series of 221B drabbles written for an AU challenge on watsons_woes .   It is an AU of "The Final Problem," and (for the  sake of convenience) in Granada-verse or any verse in which Watson never marries.
 

Conceits

I

I saw him through the window of the tobacconist, waiting for the clerk to fill his order. The bell tinkled as I walked through the door.

“My dear fellow! You did not tell me you would be home today!”

“No, I did not. And in consequence I have sat alone all afternoon. But you are coming home now? We have much to discuss.”

He looked concerned. “Yes, of course. This is the last…”

“Doctor, come quick! There’s a man been run over by one of them mails!”

“Where?”

“Just the street over.”

“I’m coming. You’ll wait for my parcel, won’t you? I’ll meet you back at Baker Street.”

The transaction was completed, and I walked out of the shop. After this morning’s threat I should go straight home, but I felt uneasy. I would at least learn how long the doctor would be occupied with this accident.

I listened for the commotion that invariably accompanies any disaster, but heard nothing. My unease increased as I walked down the street, in search of some sign of him. And there it was—in a quiet alley sat the black bag he carried on his rounds. On it fluttered a note. “Now do you stand fast?”

What I fool I was! No mail carriage came this way! How could I have been so blind?

II

“Good evening, Dr. Watson. We have never been formally introduced. I am Professor Moriarty.”

I could not respond, as I was bound to a chair and gagged, but I must have looked my confusion, for he said, “He has told you nothing of me? I am almost disappointed, but then anonymity is my greatest strength.”

I wondered for a moment who “he” was, but Moriarty’s next statement left no doubt in my mind that “he” was Holmes. 

“To most of the world I am a respected Mathematics professor, but he has discovered that I am also a criminal mastermind. We have been engaged in a gentlemanly duel for several months, but with your capture my blade has been unbated and envenom’d. His rescue mission will lead him to my house.  If he is not shot as an intruder, he will be apprehended breaking into an innocent citizen’s home, and discredited—No, doctor, you are not in my house. You are in the house of an associate about whom your detective friend knows nothing—Never doubt that when I have dealt with him, you will shuffle off your mortal coil along with those uncomfortable ropes.”

It is strange that instead of considering my plight as Moriarty exited, I remembered lazy days beside trout streams. I would never feel the same about bait.

III

“We should not get a warrant to enter Moriarty’s house? But you just said that’s where he’s keeping Dr. Watson!” Holmes baffles me—rude he might be, but I had seen him move heaven and earth to protect a client. Would he not do more for his “friend and colleague,” Dr. Watson?

“Yes, I know. But as I have already explained, the doctor is safe until Monday. Moriarty is treading on thin ice and he knows it. Right now he is still trying to preserve his organization, but he needs Watson as his final bargaining chip if he should need to protect his own life. You and I both know that one false step might bring this whole case tumbling down over our ears. Think of the murders we will avenge, and the crimes we will prevent. We cannot go after Watson before we have Moriarty. This is bigger than one man, Lestrade”

Despite my frustration with that insufferable man I could see that under his façade of indifference lurked concern, even fear for the doctor. He had already opened the door to go, when I said impulsively, “Mr. Holmes, we will rescue Dr. Watson.”

He turned to look at me with one supercilious eyebrow raised. “You, Inspector?” And he slammed the door shut behind him.

Why do I even bother?

IV

For want of a nail the shoe was lost.
For want of a shoe the horse was lost.
For want of a horse the rider was lost.
For want of a rider the battle was lost.
For want of a battle the kingdom was lost.
And all for the want of a horseshoe nail.

Holmes repeated the proverb to himself—the proverb that had he had memorized as a young boy, years before he realized its practical application by combining its guiding principle with his unique powers of observation. Certainly it applied to Professor Moriarty. In his conceit Moriarty had overlooked the very traces that led Holmes to him. Even after Holmes had uncovered his identity, Moriarty’s kingdom seemed impenetrable. But one fateful day he made another false step and exposed his kingdom to destruction. Yes, Moriarty did want a nail, but it was not a horseshoe nail. Holmes had stolen it from him, and in his hands it was a coffin nail.

And yet…

Was Holmes not in the same position? His confidence that Moriarty would ambush him, his lack of observation—these created the want of a nail that lost him Watson—the rider? The battle? No, he would not become enamored of this conceit! Focus on the facts! Still, such a small mistake—he had momentarily forgotten the mail carriage’s route, nothing more—and now Watson was in mortal peril. 

Yes, it was a blow to his conceit—from the loss of a nail to the loss of a battle with no intervening steps. All that Holmes could do now was see to it that this not be the war’s deciding battle.

V

Mycroft was the one who deduced that it might have a bearing on the case. The coded telegram came to governmental attention because of its similarity to the code of certain foreign spies. But the spies’ ciphers produced only gibberish. Mycroft was my confidante during my investigation of Moriarty. I had deciphered many of Moriarty’s codes. They were always based on complicated mathematical formulae, but I was no mean mathematician, and I made it my business to master his work in mathematics. I shared these ciphers with my brother, who, ever the accountant, recognized that if one zero in the message were exchanged for a six—an easy confusion in handwriting!—one of Moriarty’s ciphers revealed an intelligible communication, mentioning a hostage. O felix culpa! This error was less than a nail—it was a nothing. When Watson wrote this story he would call it “The Cipher and the Cipher”! No, that was too clever, even for a public drunk on the witticisms of W.S. Gilbert! I unearthed some unsavory facts about the intercepted message’s intended recipient, Colonel Sebastian Moran. They were not enough to convict him, but when I rescued a prisoner from his house even the slowest British juror would vote “guilty.”

No number of friends in high places could equal more than a cipher beside my one brother.

VI

“I’m fine, my dear fellow, though deucedly cramped. I’ve been fed and watered over the past three days. Live bait is best, I suppose.”

Holmes seemed momentarily confused by my odd choice of words. “You are certain you have not sustained any serious injury?”

“To my pride, perhaps. Being a prisoner and a hostage is not good for the ego, I can assure you.” I could not decipher the face he made in response to that—Sympathy? Anger? Chagrin? “But what of you? Moriarty—you must tell me more about him!—said you were following a trail that led to his house, and a trap.”

“Yes. But he made a seemingly negligible error that led me to you and to the secret of his second in command. Speaking of whom, let us go downstairs and meet your host.”

On the ground level we met Lestrade with some constables and florid faced gentleman in handcuffs. 

“This is monstrous! I am a British citizen and a soldier of her majesty’s army!”

“And you are a scoundrel of the first water, Moran!” Holmes almost shouted. “We have you on a charge of kidnapping, which is grave enough, and I have evidence linking you with Moriarty—whom you will meet when you get to the station, I have no doubt.”

The old man’s face blanched.

VII

“Tea?”

“No!”

“What is the matter with you, Holmes?” I could not account for his irritability. “It must be something serious to put you in a black mood while Moriarty stands trial.”

He glared at me. “If you must know, I am frustrated that in confronting my worst foe, I failed.”

“Failed?”

“I pride myself on my observation of details, and yet I overlooked so many. I did not even know about his second in command!”

“But you captured them both in the end.”

“Yes, but it is galling to think that I could have saved both of us a grueling three days if only I had been a better detective. If I had realized that Moriarty had a powerful lieutenant, if I had seen through that farce at the tobacconist’s—If I had observed! This case is my crowning achievement, and I was inept. We might have awaited the arrests in our flat, or even gone to the continent for a week or two. I might have apprehended Moriarty personally, instead of rescuing you while some constable did the honors! ”

I chose not to be offended by his last statement. Instead, I settled back and opened the evening paper.  “My dear Holmes, life is contingent on so many details. It is probably useless to ask what might have been.”

Comments

[esther-99.livejournal.com]

Agatha Christie's The Clocks; page 210. Poirot quotes that 'For want of a nail"...

[goldvermilion87.livejournal.com]

YES!

Just three or four days of this comm starting to turn into something, and I am already dying to read Poirot! Up till now I've seen one TV episode, and one move. :-)

When I think of that poem, I always think of "What Katy Did," one of those early 1900s young adult classics that no one knows about anymore. But it seems like the stuff of detective work, no?

[capt-facepalm.livejournal.com]

How did I miss this gem?

I find the 221B format to be a challenge and yet you have strung seven of them together in an interesting and coherent story.

Your wordsmithy skills are such that despite the format constrictions, your story comes across as neither forced, nor contrived! Well done!

[goldvermilion87.livejournal.com]

Thank you! I do feel that this set was a bit self-indulgent, but I sure did have fun. (which I suppose is the definition of self-indulgent? Ah well...)

In some ways I prefer to write with constrictions like the 221B. It makes writing less...frightening, I suppose?...because it turns it into a puzzle.

I do have to go back, though. I just realized that I counted the words on Microsoft word, and it counts worda--wordb as only one word. So, these might not be proper 221Bs. I think I'm going to check right now while I'm thinking about it.

[goldvermilion87.livejournal.com]

Oh no, it's this that Word counts as only one word:

word1...word2

A good thing to know, if you rely on it for word counts. :-D