Part 67 - Threats & Promises

[soledad_writes]

THE ADVENTURES OF A CONSULTING TIME LORD
by Soledad
CHAPTER 05 – THE SERPENT’S LAIR

Author’s note: This story takes place several weeks after “The Blind Banker” but before “The Great Game”. A few lines of dialogue are borrowed from the original ACD story “The Speckled Band”. Dr Roylott is “played” by Anthony Stewart Head.

Beta read by my good friend Jenn Calaelen, thanks! All remaining mistakes are mine.


PART 67 – THREATS & PROMISES

Sherlock and Mrs Hudson managed to get back to Baker Street before John, who’d been asked to pull a double shift at the surgery (flu season was coming up, and the first victims were already filling the waiting room). They’d even remembered to buy milk and, after some consideration, Sherlock decided to get rid of the feet that had been sitting in the fridge, next to John’s cans of beer, for at least a week.

The experiment he’d got them for was no longer of importance, and perhaps John would appreciate the gesture.

Then he pulled out the file of Dr Roylott, sent to him by Mycroft via Jeeves, and submerged himself into the sea of data, trying to separate the significant ones from mere trivia. Somewhere in all that knowledge had to be a clue that would tell him something about Roylott’s hidden motivation.

It took him an hour of meticulous research to finally reach the one document of true importance: the will of the man’s deceased wife, Mary’s mother. The contents of the will were… interesting, to say the least. Highly informative, too.

At the time of her death, Mrs Morstan had disposed over a considerable amount of money, which she’d inherited from her first husband (Mary’s late father), and which she’d left in equal parts to her second husband and her two daughters.

However, the phrasing of the will was such that Mary and Julia – or Jemimah, as she had apparently been called lately, for whatever reason – could only have control over their share of the money after they’d got married. Should their marriage fail for any reason – either by divorce or by permanent separation or, and that was the strangest part, by getting widowed – the money would go back to the family and be handled by their stepfather… until and unless they'd remarry.

Mrs Morstan had clearly had a very conservative view about what her daughters could – and should – be allowed in terms of personal freedom. Financial independence was not among those things. Her thought processes must have been stuck somewhere back in the nineteenth century, Sherlock decided.

It wasn’t surprising at all that Mary wanted out, at all costs. What was surprising, however, was the fact that she’d go back to her family voluntarily, as soon as John had left for Afghanistan.

Perhaps she’d been forced in some way; if not physically, then by threats or emotional blackmail. Many people reacted very predictably to that sort of thing. For not the first time in his life, Sherlock was grateful that sentiment had never played a role in the Holmes clan. It was messy and useless and left one vulnerable.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
His concentration was rudely broken by a rather vocal argument from downstairs. Obviously, Mrs Hudson was trying to keep someone from coming up – and losing the argument. Sherlock hurriedly swept the documents together, stuffed them back into the folder and kicked the folder under the sofa, just in case.

In the next moment, the living room door was suddenly dashed open, and the door-frame was all but filled by the oddest man that had crossed the threshold of 221B for a long time. And that, considering the clientele Sherlock usually had, was saying a lot.

The newcomer was just a few inches taller than average but managed to appear much larger than that, due to his powerful build. Although clearly an Englishman, he was wearing a long-sleeved black achkan – the traditional, knee-length Hindu jacket, similar to a sherwani – that had the standing-up Nehru collar, as it was still custom in North India, with the matching tight-fitting trousers known as the churidars and a white Gandhi cap.

His broad face was deeply tanned, like that of those who had spent most of their lives in tropical or subtropical areas, although it had begun to fade for some years. His small, pale, almost colourless eyes were deep-set, and together with the shadows beneath them and the long, old scar across his right temple, gave him a vaguely sinister look. He appeared to be in his late fifties or early sixties, if his thin, greying hair was any indication.

He marched in, not waiting for an invitation, his tight, economic movements revealing a deep, controlled rage beneath the serene surface.

“Are you Holmes?” he demanded without preamble.

Sherlock raised an unimpressed eyebrow. “You’ve guessed my name. Congratulations. Are you going to tell me yours or must we play twenty questions first?”

His visitor scowled at first but then forced himself to an answer.

“I’m Dr Grimesby Roylott,” he announced disdainfully.

“My pleasure, doctor,” Sherlock rose from the sofa, undisturbed by the fact that, once again, he was clad in a dressing gown and pyjama bottoms only. “Do have a seat. Tea? The kettle has just boiled.”

“I’ll do nothing of the kind,” the older man replied with another scowl. “What I want to know is: what were you and that old hag of yours doing in the spice shop of my stepdaughter?”

“Careful, Dr Roylott,” Sherlock warned him coldly. “I don’t care what you think of me, but you’ll control yourself when it comes to Mrs Hudson. She is a perfectly respectable old lady, and the likes of you would do well to treat her like one. Whatever your problem is with me, she has no part in it. She merely wanted something for her arthritic pain and I was accompanying her. That’s all.”

Dr Roylott gave him a humourless grin. “And you just happened to came across the Spice Bazaar by accident, I suppose?”

“Of course not,” Sherlock replied with a hideously false smile. “A friend of mine has recommended it to me. But I think you already know that, don’t you?”

“Oh, I know well enough who you are,” the visitor said darkly. “I’ve heard of you before. Holmes, the meddler. Holmes, the busybody. Holmes, the Scotland Yard’s Jack-in-office.”

Sherlock smiled at him in the same unpleasant way as before.

“Your conversation is most entertaining,” he said. “Unfortunately, I have no longer the time to continue with it. Please don’t let the door hit your back when you leave.”

“I’ll go when I’ve said what I have to say,” Dr Roylott replied. “Don’t you dare to meddle with my affairs! I know who your flatmate is. I know you’re doing this for Mira’s ex-husband; but I warn you: I’m a dangerous man to fall foul of.”

“So am I,” Sherlock returned, grinning like a shark.

Dr Roylott shook his head. “Oh, no. You have no idea whom you’re dealing with. I’ve dealt with arrogant young fools like you many times. I am still here; but who could tell where they have gone?”

“Well, I agree that the police are shamefully incompetent, most of the time,” Sherlock said languidly. “But even they will find the corpses eventually.”

“What corpses?” Dr Roylott asked in cold amusement. “You don’t think I’d do anything so mundane as killing them – or you, for that matter.”

“You wouldn’t?” Sherlock asked back, decidedly unimpressed. “How elitist of you.”

“There are other methods; subtler and more permanent ones,” Dr Roylott said. “I’ve checked out your website, Mr Holmes. The Science of Deduction – sounds impressive. You seem to be unduly proud of that brain of yours. Arrogant even.”

Sherlock shrugged. “Never said I wasn’t. But I earned my arrogance, I think.”

“Perhaps so,” Dr Roylott agreed softly. “The more a wicked shame it would be if your brain would turn into vegetable, wouldn’t it?”

“I don’t do drugs,” Sherlock replied with another shrug. “Not any more.”

“Not that you know of, no,” Dr Roylott allowed. “But do you really think you could control whether something is slipped into your food or not? Even with equipment like yours,” with that, he waved in the direction of Sherlock’s makeshift lab, clearly visible through the open kitchen door, “there’d be no way to control everything.”

“Indeed,” Sherlock drawled. “It’s a good thing, then, that I rarely eat, isn’t it?”

Dr Roylott shook his head with an expression that could almost be described as pity. Almost.

“Even if you starved yourself to death, you’d only prolong the inevitable,” he said. “There are substances so rare and so old that they wouldn’t show up in any analysis, simply because they are unknown to modern silence. They could be in your water, or dispersed in the air of your bedroom, or all over those expensive suits of yours by the dry cleaner’s. The result would be the same, in any case.”

“Are you threatening me, doctor?” Sherlock asked quietly, with a faint edge of steel in his deep voice.

“Oh, no,” his visitor replied in the same tone. “I’m just explaining you what’s likely to happen if you don’t keep yourself out of my grip. Don’t do anything foolish. I’ll find you. And even if some unknown substance did show up in your blood test, with your past as an addict, who would dig any deeper? Once an addict always an addict, isn’t that what they say?”

“That,” said Sherlock dryly, “wouldn’t stop my brother finding out the truth. And he’s a lot less amiable towards people who try to harm our family than I am.”

“Who said anything about trying?” Dr Roylott smiled coldly. “I’m long beyond the experimental phase. But let’s say your brother does find out the truth. In what way would that help you, once you’ve become a bumbling idiot in a padded room, with the mental state of a two-year-old who's still wetting his bed? Some of the old poisons have a permanent effect, you see. If I were you, I’d seriously consider if the risk is worth taking. Good day, Mr Holmes.”

He turned around to leave, but stopped again for a moment on the threshold, firing off his last warning.

“You can tell John Watson to back off, too. I know he’s too much of a stubborn idiot to think of his own safety; but if he wants to keep Mira alive, he’ll stay the hell away from her. She’s useful for me, but not indispensable.”

And with that final salvo he left indeed, leaving a very thoughtful Sherlock behind.

When John came home two hours later he found the feet gone, two cartons of milk in the fridge, and Sherlock lying on the sofa, dead to the world, obviously lost in his Mind Palace.

“Right,” he muttered, switching on the kettle. “This is gonna be a fun evening.”

~TBC~

Comments

[sammydragoncat.livejournal.com]

Great update! I hope you enjoyed your trip! Dr. Roylott shouldn't have threatened Sherlock like that - it makes him more determined, which would have been the opposite of what he wanted.

[soledad_writes]

That is nothing! Just wait until Mycroft learns about it! Then, there'll be real fireworks!