Shadows of London - IC

[Sherlock Holmes]

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OOC THREAD AVAILABLE HERE

Sherlock Holmes || Oxford Street, heading towards Baker Street

Evening was falling and a light fog was beginning to roll in from the edges of the river, slowly curling through the streets of London and silently brushing against the ankles of those who were out and about on that cool mid-September night.

A tall and thin figure was among the passers-by, favorite silver-topped walking stick in his gloved hand, top hat on his head, and a small smile gracing his angular features. A well-thumbed program was tucked under his arm, almost entirely obscured by the sleeve of his black dress coat, but still noticeable to anyone who was observant. If they had any small skills in deduction, they could easily have put two-and-two together to come up with the reason for the pleasant expression on the famed Consulting Detective's face -- Music did seem to have the effect of being able to 'soothe the savage beast', as it were, and Holmes certainly had a reputation for being on the 'abrupt' side at times (to put it mildly).. Still enthralled by the concert he had just attended, however, Sherlock's mood was as light and happy as it had ever been; he'd even opted to walk home part of the way instead of taking a cab the entire distance, such was his contentment.

The sky was clear and a large moon was steadily rising overhead, lighting the streets far more effectively than the gas lamps that were steadily flickering to life along the edges of the cobbled roadway. The lowered temperature of the approaching night felt refreshing and the rhythmic sound of the passing carriages made for a pleasant stroll; even the chatter occurring in the various shops Holmes passed had a calming effect as it mingled with the other familiar sounds of the city streets. Hopefully the weather would hold and the fog would remain thin on that peaceful night, deciding not to turn into one of London's notorious 'pea-soupers'. Luckily, this seemed unlikely as Sherlock's nose didn't detect the smell of sulfur that usually heralded the approach of the infamously dense yellow smog. (A good 'pea-souper' could quite quickly turn a nice day into a sour experience.. Which would have been most unfortunate considering the general pleasantness of the evening thus-far.)

Holmes paused momentarily on the edge of the curb and allowed a Hansom to pass him before jogging across the split roadway towards a young boy selling evening papers on the opposite side of the street. Well-familiar with the youth, as Holmes was with many of the less-fortunate children in that area of London (his dutiful Irregulars), his smile effectively dissolved and he adopted a more business-like air on approach. "Anything to report, Hutchins?" A dark eyebrow arched slightly with the inquiry and Holmes began fishing for the correct coinage in his coat pocket as the boy handed over a paper.

"No' yet," the boy replied with a quick glance around to see if anyone else was listening. His voice dropped slightly in volume before adding, "Bu' I hear tha' Jenkin's is on a lead tha' might pan out before the night is done, if you catch my meanin'."

"Excellent," Holmes replied, a pleased smirk threatening the corners of his lips once more as the evening edition of The Standard quickly joined the concert program already tucked under his left arm. He then moved to prize an extra Shilling from within his pocket, flipping it to the lad with a curt nod. "See that Wiggins reports to me first thing in the morning with any developments."

"Will do, Sir," the boy replied with a solemn nod and a mock salute before pocketing his newly-earned fee, a satisfied grin passing over his mildly dirt-smudged face.

The dialogue would probably mean little to anyone who might have overheard, but it was definitely a curious exchange to witness all the same..Those of a certain level of affluence usually went out of their way to ignore the many street urchins that roamed freely throughout the great city, as if their turning a blind eye would somehow make the problem of the poor disappear. The generally strict separation of the classes that was so common, however, was something Sherlock had never paid much mind to -- status meant very little to him when all was said and done and buying into the widely accepted system of social segregation was something his decidedly Bohemian nature strongly rebelled against. He wouldn't hesitate to accord the same measure of respect to a homeless person as he would to a businessman or even a King. (Well, unless Holmes was quick to peg any of them to be an idiot.. In that instance his levels of respect and acceptance tended to be much less forgiving. As his good friend Dr. Watson could no doubt attest, Holmes was not a man who willingly suffered fools for long - Sherlock felt his time was far too valuable to bother with their nonsense and couldn't spare it out of politeness, even if that's what social convention usually demanded.)

Update acquired (and no fools currently in sight), however, Holmes continued on his way once more, heading in the direction of nearby Baker Street with his contented expression fixed in place again. The night was getting better and better. The promise of new information was always a welcome one, especially considering the grotesque turn the headlines had taken over the past few months..

Several murders had taken place and the police hadn't a single clue between them from what Holmes had been able to gather. One arrest had been made, but the man had been able to provide an alibi for the murders and was subsequently released. No other progress had been made aside from that singular disheartening and unsuccessful attempt..

..It was simply inexcusable.

And Holmes, never one for mincing words, had said exactly as much to Lestrade, the Detective Inspector at Scotland Yard, when he'd initially offered his assistance with the investigations after the latest murder in Whitechapel. Otherwise unoccupied by any cases and the death toll clearly on the rise, Sherlock had been eager to relieve his growing sense of ennui; he'd been using far too much as of late and, while the delicate 'seven-percent solution' was a vice he typically allowed himself to indulge in downtimes, the promise of a problem to apply his skills to was a far more attractive prospect than the needle ever could be.

..Little did he realize that he in for a bit of a shock upon contacting The Yard.

Typically glad for any insight Sherlock was willing to provide in seemingly difficult cases, Lestrade had surprised Holmes by telling him (in no uncertain terms) to 'keep his nose out of it'. The uncharacteristic behavior made Holmes strongly suspect Lestrade was up for review -- Knowing how much the Detective Chief disliked Lestrade's previous occasions of enlisting 'help' from any 'amateur sources', it wouldn't look good for Lestrade to have Holmes poking about.. Not good for the department at all.

Needless to say, the encounter had ended on a sour note and, what had been a somewhat comfortable working relationship until that point was now clearly under strain.

Not one to give up a chase, however, the Consulting Detective (in his usually stubborn fashion) had decided to thoroughly to ignore Lestrade's warnings about involvement and continued to investigate on his own, but from a careful distance so as not to upset the situation further. There was precious little to go on due to being actively thwarted by the Police at almost every turn; not being allowed near any of the crime scenes within a useful timeframe after the murders or even being given the professional courtesy of having a cursory glance at the corpses as they were resting in the morgue certainly did little to aid Holmes in his research -- That didn't mean all other efforts were in vain, though. Sherlock had been keeping an ear close to the ground through his network of informants (and through his own clever footwork), hoping that some small piece of evidence might surface which would help in shedding light on the identity of the as-of-yet unnamed killer. Even the smallest detail in the eyes of others had the ability to break a case wide open in Holmes' experience, such was his peculiar method of dealing in 'trifles'. Given the pattern that seemed to be emerging from what little he'd been able to gather so far, Holmes was almost positive the deaths of Martha Turner, Mary Anne Nichols, and (most recently) Annie Chapman were linked by the same unfortunate thread of violence.. There were far too many similarities to ignore, even with the sparse facts Sherlock currently had to work with.

Hopefully that situation would improve with young Wiggins' update come the morning, though.

Despite Lestrade's initial reluctance, the death toll was slowly mounting and Holmes was quite sure he'd be hearing from the Yard soon. If London truly had a serial killer on its hands, it was only a matter of time before desperation kicked in and the local authorities took advantage of any help that might be available in pinning the murder down before he had a chance to strike again..

It was just a matter of time.

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[xXFallenAngelxX]

Walking along the darkened streets with only a few light posts fully working, with also the silence along the streets, it gave off a sort of eerie feeling to those who were walking. Either it was the neighbors outside taking their precious pooch out for a night walk, or just a young couple enjoy their night out, it still seemed so calm. Too calm that was. Not many people seemed to be on their guard as usual. They didn't even seem the slightest bit of worried with the news about the various murders. It just seemed mad.

Among the few of the people who could give the slightest care in the world, there were also those who did want to keep themselves and their families safe. One of those people being Ms. Rachel Montgomery, "daughter" of Mr. & Mrs. Dundforth, a wealthy family who seemed to be intact, but also very protective over their loved ones, now that these new crimes seem to be happening mysteriously, and without anything to trace anything back.

Rachel walked along though the brisk chilled night, as she was making her way back home from her job at the local Pub spots. She's pratically a show girl, along with the rest of the other women. The only difference is, she does the best performances of all times, with her singing and dancing that could drive anyway crazy, including her parents as well. Yet of course, they supported her at all costs. Even if things did get out of hand at times.

As she walked along, her eyes shifted about the streets, as of sge were expecting to pop up out of no where and possibly grab her, dragging her to her death kicking and screaming. But of course, it didn't seem likely. A smooth, chilled sigh escaped from her lips as she looked straight ahead. "Why should I be worried about this right now? It's not likely of something jumping out at me." she reassured herself, a little bit of hope in her voice and thoughts. "But still, I must be on my guard if anyone tries any funny business. I'm too tired to even be bothered with such foolishness anyway." she grumbled to herself, eyes flickering and lighting up as she grew closer to home. 'Just hope my parents aren't worried right now.'a thought echoed through her mind.

As she reached the house, there were quite a few lights on. The house was about two stories, with a nice looking cost of cream colored paint, which only made it look warm and welcoming to others. Only a few shrubs and trees surrounded the place, nothing fancy at all, well besides the inside of the house. Going up the steps and entering the home, Rachel was instantly greeted by her Butler, Mr.Thomas. He was kind ole' fellow in about his 50's or late 60's at the least. "Glad to see you made it back safely Ms. Montgomery, your parents were quite worried but I reassured them that you would be safe and everything. They've gone off to bed though, so I suggest not waking them."he smiled softly, taking her coat as usual. Rachel nodded with a smile. "Thank you, Thomas. I'm sure they won't be worried when your around."she chuckled softly. "I think I'll head on over towards the family room, just to read a book. You have a good night."she nodded. Thomas nodded back before walking off, leading Rachel herself to walk off as well.

Rachel grabbed one of her favorite books of all time, "Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland". She greatly enjoyed this book with a nice cup of herbal tea. She could only read for so long though, as her own job tired her out. Her reading was cut short after about a few minutes, as the poor thing had already fallen asleep halfway into the story. She could now only dream, and hope nothing would go wrong in her new home.

[Haemonculus]

Dr. John H. Watson - 221B Baker Street, Bathroom

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"I swear, Holmes," A shout echoed from within the washroom, the sounds of constant toilet flushing hushing the voice into a quiet murmur, yet the rage still withheld, "Continued use of these... narcotics is going to kill you. And then what? Sherlock Holmes found dead in his house; what will London do without its famous Consulting Detective? Next thing you know Moriarty's forming a coup to seize the British Crown."

The man within the lavatory was down on his knees, eyes buried deep within the bowl of the toilet as it flushed away Holmes' infamous 'Seven-Percent Solution'. Holmes was a man of habit, and such habits and those now found in the toilet, which was ominously floating back up, were detrimental to his overall health. Dr. Watson would be a mockery of a doctor and a friend were he to allow Sherlock's continued abuse of the substance. He could deal with tobacco, but the stuff in those damnable vials had to go. Gladstone's bark, the old bulldog sitting at attention by the door, only sufficed in his hurrying. Were Holmes to catch him in the act of disposing of such nasty chemicals, there would be consequences to such actions. However, Watson would wait until the man was preoccupied before he ever told him what happened to his 'magical potions'. That man was a master at Chemistry, why in the bloody hell would he spend his time on such a bane to his mental and physical health?

Watson stood from his spot on the floor, eyes warily glancing into the hall. He bent over, a clutter of chinks loudly filling the small washroom as the doctor picked every bit of those vials and jars from the ground. Quick and effective disposal would have to be made later; there simply wasn't enough time to dig a large hole in the park and bury everything there, to forever be unseen by the public eye. Watson's dufflebag would have to suffice--Holmes would never think to look there, right?

"What am I fooling myself," John let out a deep sigh, snapping the bag closed, "Damn it all."

Gladstone let out another huff, hustling as fast as he could to the door. Any minute now and the Detective would barge right through, his whole day ruined at the sight of chemicals in the toilet and the evidence scattered everywhere he could see and partly on Watson. Shame would only come from this, mostly in himself for being so sloppy in his work. What could one do with such limited time?! He hadn't found those unbelievably unhealthy substances until minutes ago, hunger pains seemingly rousing him from his waiting position on Holmes' armchair.

In a hurried attempt at concealing the crime he had just committed, regret immediately piling on--why hadn't he chosen a better time to dispose of those materials, those cursed chemicals that somehow reacted with each other in the damn toilet and was more than obvious to even the untrained eye--he dashed into the hall. Watson stopped mid-stride, looking down at the bulldog and then over toward his dufflebag. Just one quick movement was all he needed: a leap back, hands snatching the handles, a dash forward, free arm scooping up the still barking dog, and finally a slide back into the lavatory. The only thing causing Watson to pause was the sound of breaking glass, or rather the sound of multiple jars colliding into a hard surface before finally shattering and coating their tiny particles of super-heated sand on the inside of his bag. The pause was but a millisecond, his hands immediately forcing the door closed and fumbling to lock it.

A foolproof plan were Holmes to miraculously be without keys. Watson didn't seem to acknowledge the thought, setting Gladstone upon the small corner of the room as he worked to remove the bits of glass from his new bag. His brand new, however, cheap bag that he got on sale from an antique store. It was simply the fact that he paid money for it that worried him so. Not long after fiddling with the contents inside, and earning multiple, and rather tiny slices to most of his hand, did Watson finally give up. He'd buy a new one; with that thought, the bag was tossed aside. Watson settled by the toilet bowl, staring intently at the contents within, as if the obvious proof of his misdeeds would suddenly vanish were he to stare as intensely as humanly possible.

Not a moment later was Watson's pants now soaked, sweat drenching from his neatly tossed hair, and hands erratically forcing an unused plunger into the toilet. "I... will be damned... if Holmes... caught... me... doing this," Watson puffed and panted, trying so hard to push the liquid and its evidence down into the sewage where rats and bums could deal with it. Gladstone all the while making a scene behind him, occasionally dashing to the bathroom door and back to the Watson's ankles.

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[Sherlock Holmes]

Sherlock Holmes || 221B Baker Street

Forget his keys? Sherlock Holmes? Ha. It was more likely that Holmes would walk into their flat and announce he suddenly believed in supernatural drivel such as 'ghosts' and 'fairies' than to do something as terribly mundane as forgetting his keys..

Tsk, tsk.

The front door to the foyer opened and Holmes stepped in, removing his silk hat from his head with one hand and shutting the door firmly closed behind him with the other. He heaved a small sigh - it was good to be home.

*Flush*

Apparently he wasn't the only one there, either.

With the new plumbing having been recently installed, the noise of a flushing toilet still sounded foreign to Holmes' sharp ears; a master in minutia, he had well-catalogued every single regular noise of the house throughout his years in residence and could easily tell from the creak of a particular floorboard, to the way a door closed, exactly who and what was going on in almost any location of the house at any given time. However wonderful the upgrade had been in a practical sense, it was a new noise to get used to at 221B and it would take some time to be able to properly ignore it. Being an intensely private man, Holmes somewhat dreaded using the new facilities, if only for the fact that one inevitably had to flush the damn thing, announcing to practically the entire household one's.. activities. It made for awkward moments. Especially when one was trying to do something simple like enjoy one's breakfast.. There were certain things no man should have to be subjected to before he'd even had so much as a cup of coffee or his morning pipe; it distinctly made for starting the day off on the wrong foot.

*Flush*

Holmes' earlier look of blissful contentment faltered as second rush of water broke the relative silence of the house, effectively washing away with it the pleasant memories of the music that had been occupying Sherlock's brain only minutes earlier. His gray eyes narrowed in a questioning manner at the repeat flush, then slowly slid up the staircase in the direction of the flat he was now sharing again. He tentatively began pulling off his leather gloves and placed them inside the brim of his hat for keeping, eyes still fixed suspiciously in the direction of the top landing, a look of mild concern beginning to etch itself on his features. Perhaps Watson was feeling ill..

*Flush*

An agonized groan suddenly echoed down the hallway and then Gladstone decided to chime in, adding quite nicely to the growing list of oddness currently unfolding itself on Baker Street. Holmes paused all movement as he heard hurried footsteps pass over his head, the bulldog's barking become more frantic, and a flurry of activity as things were clearly being shuffled around upstairs. He could just make out Watson's voice through the racket the dog was making, but the words were muffled sounding and fairly unintelligible from Holmes' vantage point on the first floor. While the words couldn't be clearly understood, their tone was unmistakeable: distress and agitation, punctuated quite nicely by the sound of breaking glass.

Something was clearly very wrong here.

In the blink of an eye, Holmes had flown up the 17 steps to the top landing and catapulted himself around the newel post just in time to see Watson's heel quickly disappearing back into the recesses of the lavatory. The door slammed shut and locked a split second later in a highly disconcerting manner, both dog and master continuing their duet of misery from somewhere inside the tiny tiled room beyond, giving no discernible indication of stopping their cacophony any time soon.

Still standing in the main hall, Holmes' expression had gone from mild concern to down-right alarm as he hovered just outside the firmly closed door and listened to the noises emanating from within. He quickly moved to hang his hat and cane on the coat tree situated just outside the entry way of the nearby sitting room in an attempt to free up his hands -- He fully intended to bang on the bathroom door for all it was worth until his friend either came out or at least gave some confirmation that he was alright.. Until something in the main room caught the corner of Holmes' eye and gave him pause. A quick double-take and suddenly the entire situation made far more sense.

The middle drawer to his desk had been left partially open - it was as good as finding a smoking gun.

Anger swiftly began to replace concern as Holmes charged into the sitting room, his lithe figure effortlessly vaulting itself over the top of the settee in an attempt shorten the distance between his present location and the targeted area, the bottom edge of his top coat elegantly fanning behind him like a cape in his wake. Gritting his teeth together upon arrival and issuing an indignant hiss of air, a quick glance downward into the half-opened drawer clearly told the Detective everything he needed to know about what had transpired in his absence. So, it was this old battle again, was it? The vials of solution were clearly all gone, but the neat Morocco case containing his syringe remained undisturbed. Even Watson was smart enough to know where to draw the line, apparently. Holmes sharply pushed the drawer shut, the force of the gesture almost upsetting the brass oil lamp that rested on the back corner of the desk, and his attention slowly turned back in the direction of the hallway where he could still hear noises of abject frustration and general dismay issuing rather comically at regular intervals.

Holmes suddenly had a small urge to laugh as the absolute absurdity of the situation finally struck him. He didn't, far too peeved to allow himself the moment of dark humor, but he did pass a weary hand over his face as some of his initial anger ebbed away and he began to master himself once more. He moved to untuck the evening paper and concert program from where they'd been firmly pinned under his arm and he slapped them down on the dining table with a satisfying 'thwack', a heavy sigh immediately following.

This was not how he'd intended to spend his evening..

The Cocaine issue was old ground between them; an argument that had been rehashed so many times Holmes had almost lost count at this point. Watson would make his comments and voice his concerns, Holmes would placate the man and then continually brush the matter aside.. It had become old hat, neither side totally willing to concede their position, but too considerate of the other to escalate the matter to unfriendly levels. It wasn't that Holmes didn't appreciate the doctor's worries; he knew they were well-intentioned (if a bit grating), but they were entirely unnecessary as far as he was concerned. While John Watson was undoubtedly a man of action, this sudden bout of bravery was definitely a new development on the front of their old stalemate. The Doctor had never taken so drastic a measure before..

..Then again, they'd never had a flushable toilet before now, either.

Still feeling largely irritated, but at least not entirely seeing red anymore, Holmes crossed the room and went back out into the hallway. He tersely shrugged off his dress coat and hung it on its usual hook before stepping off in the direction of the bathroom and issuing an abrupt rap on the door.

"Watson!"

No answer.

He knocked louder, bordering on pounding as he used of the side of his fist, and raised his voice to ensure he'd be heard over the din emanating from within the washroom.

"Watson! Open the door!"

He didn't want to have to go get his lock-pick set, but he would do so if it came down to that. Watson, being a fairly clever man himself (and well-familiar with Holmes' unerring level of tenacity), would know that he couldn't evade his friend for long - the jig was up, so to speak.

[Cat Rampant]

It was a relatively quiet night at the Dragon, relatively being the operative word. The singer she'd booked had cancelled, so after the diners left Nadine had her regulars and the late night drinking crowd. A rowdy group of Portuguese sailors occupied two tables near the bar. They were singing at the top of their lungs and entertaining the attentions of three of the local prostitutes. Of course the local demimondaines were plying their trade despite the recent murders, not that they had any choice in the matter.

Two of her regulars, young scruffy-bearded men full of passion and ideas--and pride, from the way they always argued over the finer points of anarcho-syndicalism with each other--were having at it again. Both were shouting, one pounding the table with his fist so hard he spilled both their drinks. The other bolted out of his seat. At that, Nadine's bouncer, Ranjit, rushed over to their table even before Nadine could signal him. The tall Sikh stood well over six feet not even counting his turban and so far, he'd never had to drawn the curved dagger at his belt. Much as Nadine had never had to actually fire the Winchester that hung over the bar. Though, what with the murders, she was now keeping it loaded. "Madame would like for you to take this outside, if you must," Ranjit said to the two in his deep voice.

The fool threw a punch anyway. At Nadine's quick nod, Ranjit seized both men by their jackets and manhandled them out into the street. Nadine followed. Once they were all outside and the other fellow was stumbling away, she caught the aggressor by the arm to keep him from pursuing. "Only fight once you've won," she said, softly. He looked at her in drunken puzzlement, but at least his comrade got away.

Nadine went back inside, sighing in frustration. Those two reminded her so much of her friends Andre and Marcel, so long ago. It was strange to realize how young they all were. Those boys would come to blows every week it seemed. Always some bit of doctrine between them, even in the midst of the struggle. After the barricades fell, from where she hid she saw them hug like brothers before the soldiers lined them up against the wall before the firing squad.

At the memory Nadine went over to the bar and poured herself some cognac. Not that it helped much. Especially with these horrid murders going on. For the thousandth time Nadine thought of selling the place and going back to Paris. Surely it had been long enough for those things in '80 not to catch up with her....

The sailors left with the whores. At least those three might be somewhat safe tonight, if you didn't count drunken fists or diseases. Earlier the ladies were discussing the murders while they got a bit of liquid courage. Nadine couldn't help but listen in, especially as they were discussing Annie Chapman, the latest victim. "Gutted her like a fish, he did. And I hear he even cut out her..." the sudden whisper and the gasp of shock telling Nadine exactly what even the papers tried to put delicately, "and must've took it with him! Don't want to even think on what he's up to with that!"

Poor Annie. The big, middle-aged prostitute had been here barely two weeks ago, sporting a black eye she didn't care to talk about.

At least the police seemed to care this time about a murdered whore, now that there were now so many of them.

That night after she closed the club around one a.m., she was already having trouble falling asleep when she heard a noise downstairs. Her flat was on the second floor towards the back. She could hear rain ticking against the window and thought it might be thunder, but it did not stop. Bolting up, she realized it was someone knocking at the club's back door. Whoever it was didn't give up easily. "Merde" she swore to herself as she crept downstairs in her dressing gown.

Before she approached the door, dark thoughts came to her mind about the murders. She took the rifle down from behind the bar and brought it with her as she went up to the door. "Who is there?" she asked, the th shifting to a soft z.

"It's me," came a young boy's voice. "Wiggins."

Nadine opened the door just a crack to see the boy standing there, wet as a drowned rat. He was alone. "Mon Dieu. What on earth are you doing out at such time?" She opened the door to let the boy in, slinging the rifle over her shoulder and keeping it well away from him. Once he was inside, she closed and bolted the door.

Wiggins shrugged. "Important business."

"Important enough to catch your death?" Nadine asked him, with a smirk. "You are soaked, and must be cold."

"Nothing I can't handle," Wiggins said, puffing out his scrawny chest.

"Then why are you here?" Nadine said. The 'little man' deflated. "Wait here, I may have something you can wear while your clothes dry." She set the rifle back on the pegs above the bar and went up to her room for a moment, coming down quickly with a man's workshirt. It was a frayed castoff from a former lover and would of course utterly swallow young Wiggins, but it would do at least for him to sleep in. She'd kept a few of the cots from the opium den in the back room, just for such visits from the local urchins who had no where else to go.

[Haemonculus]

Dr. John H. Watson - 221B Baker Street, Holmes' Living Room

________________

What a racket, what a loud, unforgiving racket he was making, all in vain it seemed. No matter how hard he tried to plunge, it simply wouldn't go down. Sherlock's most likely newly bought plunger was simply spent, unwilling to revert back to its shape. Gladstone was still angrily nipping and barking, though his attention shifted from ankles to door in quick bouts of barks and claws scuffling against tile. The oddness of the situation, Watson found, was the fact that this was probably the only time the toilet was ever in use. And now, the flush-latch was broken, at the contents within the toilet were threatening to spill out.

Watson turned his head, eyes widened at the noise being mad behind the locked door. Holmes... Holmes was home. No, no! Watson wasn't done yet, he still had evidence to dispose of. He still had that syringe to bury along with the shattered remains of the vials. Not to mention the excuses he had to build up. He already had a prime suspect, that being the notorious Moriarty, but with Holmes home that plan was sure to crash and burn. And the toilet! The evidence was still stuck insi--the evidence was now coating the tile floor. It was liquid for God's sake! How did it clog the toilet up so much that it overflowed?! Watson whipped his body around around, eyes as wide as they could get and staring intensely at the puddle lapping at his feet, turning ever so slowly into a pool of water and drugs. His new shoes were getting ruined, he could tell by the way the water seeped into his socks, and it wasn't even higher than his--

Knock! knock! knock!

"Watson!"

Knock! Knock! Knock! Knock! Knock!

"Watson! Open the door!"

Watson's head darted to and fro, eyes falling on everything in the room. He was too busy to notice Gladstone lapping at the tainted toilet water, too busy to even mind where he was stepping. A loud crash emanated from the washroom, coupled with the sound of something breaking. Gladstone's bark soon followed, cut off by a light lapping sound.

"My God, Gladstone, stop drinking the water!" Watson shouted, throwing his dog back into the corner. He immediately regretted the action as a sharp pain rain through his back, and the cuts on his hands found the wet fur to be unpleasant. Watson struggled to stand, his pants and part of his tan dress coat were soaked beyond belief. Now, what exactly was that breaking sound; it sounded like glass. Ooh, that's why his elbow hurt; it hit the damn toilet cover.

"Uh.. uh..." Watson's attention was reverted back to the incessant pounding upon the door, "Just a minute, Holmes! I'm just tidying up! Boy, was it a doozy; I can't seem to figure out how your new toilet works!"

What an utter lie. What an obviously, stupid, and now blatant lie. Holmes had eidetic memory, or at least that's what Watson had always assumed. No doubt he'd recall the letter about installing the new washroom and Mary getting stuck inside. The memory just about had Watson rolling in the drug saturated water, if not for the fact that Holmes was standing right outside.

The door flew open, Gladstone suddenly flying pass Holmes legs before he slammed it shut again. "Just let me freshen up! I just arrived from a 3 hour carriage ride all the way back. Uh, and I looked terrible, and the rain in the country! My God, Holmes, you would have hated the constant smell of sheep piss and cow manure."

He did his best to initiate small talk while he did his best to fix the still running water, whilst also attempting to keep from falling yet again. Watson sighed, grabbing a hold of the dufflebag and in one desperate act of... well, of desperation, Watson shoved the thing inside, hoping to God it would stop the flow long enough for someone to fix it.

With that achieved, Watson did his best to slip out without giving Holmes too much of an inside look on the disaster he'd just caused. He knew he'd question the obvious wetness of his pants and bottom half of his coat and shirt, but Watson chose to ignore it--make him believe he was even surprised to see the soaked clothes. Knowing Holmes he'd have none of it. That one thought stuck inside his mind as he stared at the man in front of him for a good long minute. Well, if he was going to die anyways, might as well go out with a bang.

"I'll have you know, Sherlock Holmes," his brows immediately furrowed, eyes inflamed with fury, "I'll have you know, that nothing good comes from drugs! You'd sooner die of an aneurysm than... than marry some broad on the street."

The man was being frantic now, pushing pass the man to grab his now high-as-a-kite dog. Watson sat the poor thing down on an armchair, not caring about the water that seeped into the nice cushioned seat. The drawer containing the last piece of Holmes' little collection of exotic substances. Watson's hands shot up, syringe tightly squeezed between index finger and thumb.

"Do you know how easy it is to overdose on Cocaine, Sherlock? Quite easy--it is relatively easy to overdose on your magic drugs. And what for? A sense of relaxation that can easily be achieved by one of your many methods, much safer methods I might add," Watson paused, stuffing the syringe in his coat pocket as he stroked the well-trimmed mustache hanging neatly on his upper lip, "Do you know what killed my wife? Tuberculosis killed her, though it could easily have been drugs! It could have easily been the drugs you so lovingly take."

Watson's hands shot forth, reeling the dog into his chest. Gladstone simply stared pass Holmes, eyes dead and glazed over, tongue hanging out and jaws moving up in down slowly. Were he allowed to walk, there was no questioning how quickly that canine would find himself rolling down the stairs. Watson, still oblivious to the dog's condition, made his way toward the stairs and toward Holmes. It was only a matter of time, though, and the moment he noticed, Watson made an abrupt stop mere meters away from the detective.

"By Jove, Holmes! Look what your drugs did to my dog," Watson shouted, dismay edging its way out of his voice as he held the poor thing in front of himself. His eyes were knitted together, arched in utter concern and mouth just slightly agape.

The once well-composed John Watson, was now stricken with terror and broken down by the stress and frustration that had encompassed his miserable five days. Yet, more and more things seemed to pile on, threatening to leave the man withered and broken for Holmes to deal with. Were Gladstone to overdose and leave him for a better place, Watson would be nothing. Who knows what else would be taken out of his now mockery of a life.

"Holmes..." Watson frowned, legs propelling him back into the previous room and onto a solitary couch, "I don't know what to do anymore." He buried his face into the short fur that coated Gladstone, drool slopping down onto his broad shoulders.

________________

[MZambos]

Heading North, on Whitechapel, towards Limehouse

I Believe. Thought Hercule Poirot. That I may have taken a wrong turn.

Indeed, the surroundings of the shorter Belgian had changed drastically within the past few minutes of walking, transforming from the cleaner scene of Aldgate to the mangy Whitechapel. Questionable objects, animals, and persons littered the road oft avoided by those of London's upper classes, all illuminated by silent lights hanging over head. Buildings lined the streets, though most all the businesses had been shut down until morning. This provided some difficulty for the odd man standing in the road. For now he had naught a place to sleep until day, and he was stranded in an unfamiliar place. He knew not where he was, but it most certainly wasn't Lant St.

If my little gray cells would cooperate, I might comprehend exactly where I am... Thought Poirot, drowsy and strange from seasickness. He recalled his past endeavors with boats, one moment in particular echoing in his mind. He had told a compatriot with whom he was traveling: "When the Mal de Mer takes me, I, Hercule Poirot, become less than a common man, unable to utilize even the simplest of logic. Even now, this had remaind true. His estomach was dreadfully sensetive to any movement whatsoever, and his skills as a detective suffered as a result.

He went through his movements of the night, layed upon a mental map of London. His boat had at last landed, after quite a long trip, upon the southern shore of The Thames at Billingates Wharf. From there he had headed southward, away from London bridge. Turning right at the first major opprotunity, he continued along his path until his current location. The only possible place he might be besides Lant street would be Bourough Rd., and this place certainly didn't...

Attende... Thought he. Is not Billingsgate Wharf upon the North side of the River Thames? Suddenly, M. Poirot felt as though all of London's industrial district had landed on top of him. Parableu! I am not at all near Lant St.! I have gone North, not south! I am at Whitechapel! His surroundings had suddenly seemed much more foreboding. Poirot had heard the stories surrounding the murders that had occured here. Young women, butchered beyond all reasonable belief. Of course, he wasn't a young woman, nor did he have any intentions of being butchered, but those thoughts hardly provided any comfort, as even without the tales of the infamous "Murderer of Whitechapel", the street itself possesed a sort of reputation that would instill fear into anyone not familiar with it.

Pressed with a sudden feeling of urgency, the older gentleman searched for a place that rented beds. Truly, he had no problem as to where he slept, so long as he found a place to sleep. Beggars can't be choosers. Thought Poirot, recalling the phrase that a certain grande Englishman always felt bore repeating.

He continued down the road, carefully checking each of the businesses and homes, to see if any place might be open, or anybody awake so that he may ask directions to anyplace that would still be open for business. With each step he took, the road seemed to become more foreboding and worrying. The paved road streching on for what seemed like miles, its edge not appearing anywhere in sight.

At long last, he saw something that gave a glimmer of hope. Meters down the road was a large building, inscribed into the sides the words "Le Dragon Rouge". Most striking about the building, however, was not anything concerning the building itself, but rather, the the two people standing underneath. The first was a younger woman, possibly the propertier. The second was an even younger boy, obviously one of the many people residing as a resident of the London poor.

The two were in deep conversation, although M. Poirot could out nary a word. Mere meters before he had approached into view, however, the two stepped inside. Slowing his pace, Poirot walked toward the building. Upon reaching it, he lifted his hand and knocked gently on the door.

[Sherlock Holmes]

Sherlock Holmes || 221B Baker Street

Any lingering anger Holmes had been harboring about the invasion of his privacy promptly dissipated as he watched his friend emerge from the bathroom and proceed to all but have a breakdown in front of him. Half-soaked and highly emotional, Watson clutched his dog to his chest, finally broaching the real issue at the root of all this trouble..

It wasn't about the cocaine; it really had nothing to do with it at all.

As 'cold' and 'machine-like' as Watson often depicted Holmes to be on the pages of the 'stories' he wrote, it wasn't the entire truth. There were moments where the surface of marble Holmes typically presented would crack and compassion would peek through, proving that Holmes did have a heart and some scope of feeling for his fellow man somewhere inside. Perhaps the change in demeanor was so subtle that he typically failed to see it, but Watson had a gift for drawing out the kinder side in Holmes moreso than any other person he'd ever known. Then again, Sherlock had never had many people he had allowed himself to be close to, so Watson was rather unique in that respect..

"My dear friend," he began quietly, frowning at Watson in a sympathetic way as he moved towards the sideboard in the sitting room and proceeded to uncork a square glass decanter. He poured out a small measure of brandy, still glancing at his troubled companion over his shoulder as the brown liquid splashed into the tumbler. "I cannot pretend to fully understand the grief you must be feeling, but this is certainly no way to deal with it."

Holmes crossed in front of the settee and crouched down, pushing the glass into Watson's hand and taking the dazed dog from him in turn, but at an arm's length. Gladstone didn't put up much of a fight with the change of hands, if he even realized it at all, or fuss when Holmes gently laid him down on the floor before the fire grate to dry off. (Wet Watson on the furniture was one thing, wet dog was another.) His lips pursed as the dog stretched out to enjoy the warmth of the burning coals, the glassy-look of his eyes causing a brow to raise on Sherlock's face as he idly wondered how much of the narcotic the dog had ingested. It couldn't have been very much; the water would have diluted the majority of it and, judging by the soaked state of his friend's clothes and the squishy sound his shoes had been making as he had exited the bathroom earlier, there had been quite a lot of water.

Holmes didn't even want to know what the bathroom looked like, but he was quite sure Mrs. Hudson was going to have an absolute fit..

"If you feel you must express yourself," Holmes continued at length, settling himself down into his usual chair on the right side of the fireplace, his eyes lingering on the doped-up dog a moment longer before they shifted in Watson's direction. "There are surely more constructive ways to channel your bereavement than to wreck the house and to rifle through my belongings."

(.. Said the man who had once saw fit to decorate the wall with bullet holes out of sheer boredom.)

Watson having pocketed one habit, Holmes decided to indulge another and he reached into the pocket of his black frock coat to prize his silver cigarette holder. Flipping the case open, he withdrew a thin white cylinder and expertly pinned it between his lips before beginning the routine of finding a match to light it.

[xXFallenAngelxX]

A couple minutes later after Rachel had drifted off into a snooze, Mrs. Dandforth had made her way down the stairs, thinking that she had heard someone talking downstairs earlier. The first place she looked was the book room. She checked about the corners, looking to see if anyone was there. Slowly and also tiredly, she then made her way to the family room. To her own surprise, Mrs. Dandforth noticed Rachel had returned home already. Figuring it was only a few hours ago, she went over towards her. But, as she got closer, sudden realization struck her after seeing that she had fallen asleep. The book that laid across her chest and the tea on the coastser was enough to tell that she had made herself very comfortable in the chair.

"Ah, I probably shouldn't wake her, but she still should be in her own bed." she mumbled softly to herself before standing in front of her. Gently, she grabbed her arm then held her up as they both tiredly walked up the stairs. Rachel was now in and out of sleep, so she could barely walk.

As they reached her bedroom door, her mother creaked it open, then guided her daughter to her bed, laying her down then tucking her in. "Goodnight sweetheart." she smiled softly, kissing her forehead, even if she was too old for goodnight kisses.

Soon after she was done tending with Rachel, Mrs. Dundforth made her way back towards her own bedroom. Her husband was still fast asleep as she reached their bed, getting in and covering herself in the blanket. She slowly nodded off and on until she could find her state of sleep. After a few minutes of doing so, she finally drifted into a deep sleep, which could possibly be only woken up by the sunlight or the call for breakfast.

Now that everyone seemed to be well put in the house, Thomas thought it was also time for him to hit the sack now. He slowly made his way towards his own room. It was medium sized, but very roomy with a comfy bed and a few other items and furniture he would need since he also lived there. After he was all changed and ready for bed, he climbed into his bed, instantly falling asleep as his face hit the pillows. The pillows were the softest, do they could make you sleep faster.

With the house now at peace and calm, the rest of the night just seemed perfect. With knowing this, it just showed how relaxing others felt at night. But of course, nightine must come to an end at some point in time. Of course, just to start off a new day with the old tactics. One of those being work.

[Cat Rampant]

Another knock at the door! Was half of London out there trying get themselves stabbed? At least this one didn't pound like he was trying to wake the dead.

Nadine edged closer to the door, regretting that she'd put the gun back up already. Perhaps someone had seen the gaslights flickering inside - despite not being in the main part of the club - and had gotten the wrong idea? Another gentle knock.

She fastened the thick brass chain in the door before hesitantly unbolting it and opening it just a sliver. "We are closed," she said to the man standing before her. He was an inch or two shorter than she was, with one of those fussy little mustaches that Belgians seemed to prefer, and looked decidedly out of sorts. Poor fellow was apt to get himself robbed or worse being out in this neighborhood at night....

She paused to consider, then shrugged. "But obviously you are lost," she said to him in French, "Come in before you get killed." Nadine shut the door to unchain it and then let him in, her every instinct telling her this was a mistake. The little Belgian looked like he had more money than sense, and if it weren't for the murderer about she'd leave him to his fate. Yet her she was, with the murderer about and letting a strange man in, even one so seemingly harmless.

"So what do you want?" she asked him, rudely using the familiar "tu" form and making no attempt to hide her accent of working-class Montmartre. She gathered her dressing gown closer around her, drawing the robe's collar higher to cover the faded scar where a bullet had grazed the side of her neck. Not that she much cared what this fellow thought of her...