Chapter Text
Dressing in widow’s weeds was predictable but useful.
It allowed Charlotte to conceal her face without doing anything so out of the ordinary as to draw unwanted attention. Furthermore, dark colors were generally unremarkable and unmemorable, particularly against the backdrop of the dreary London autumn. It also had the benefit of making those who did not know her look away politely, grateful that they were not experiencing such misfortune for themselves.
It was a disguise she had used many times over the past two years, and it ought to have felt familiar. Yet today it only added to the strangeness that seemed to permeate her consciousness. She was home in more ways than she had ever thought would be possible again, yet lost in others that she had not previously considered. The dark fabric made her feel even further from her former self.
She had not been the girl – for it felt as though she had still been a child, looking back now – who commissioned dresses with daringly bright patterns and indulged most of her impulses where sweets were concerned in a very long time. Yet now, when perhaps she ought to feel that those things were more within reach, she felt further removed than ever.
It was not quite raining when she made her way out of doors, though it was not dry either. The air was cold and felt thick with a fog that was nearly too heavy to stay suspended. The effect was that she felt immediately chilled to the bone, the fabric of her dress unpleasantly clammy. It had been a long time – or had it? – since she had last been significantly bothered by this sort of sensation. Not since childhood, at least as far as she could remember. But now she felt dizzy, as though the wind from a passing conveyance might knock her over entirely. She felt her stomach turn with equal parts nausea and anxiety, making her regret the breakfast she had forced herself to eat.
Had she reverted to her childhood self so completely?
Swallowing and resettling her hat so that the veil might shield her face more completely, she forced herself to move toward the unmarked carriage she had requested to take her to see Inspector Treadles. It was perhaps not the most subtle strategy to walk from the front door to a waiting vehicle, but she lacked the stamina to walk any significant distance, particularly considering the energy she had already expended on dressing in disguise. She was counting on the fact that most people would not expect her to be alive at all, let alone staying at this residence. And those she most needed to avoid clearly already knew.
She was expecting Mrs. Watson to accompany her: They had discussed their approach while locating the pieces of this disguise, folded up in a trunk from her own days of genuine mourning. She had clearly been emotional upon fishing the garments out of storage, though she had tried not to show it. And she had been the one to insist that Charlotte could not go on this errand alone, no matter how dangerous it might be for her companion. Charlotte had been grateful for her insistence, if she was honest with herself. That anyone was even potentially in danger now because of her injury felt unquestionably like a failing on her part.
And yet she was so, so very tired of being on her own.
She stopped so abruptly that she nearly lost her balance again as she reached the carriage and found Lord Ingram standing beside it instead. That was becoming a habit, apparently – both being shocked to find him anywhere in her vicinity and losing control of her person. That she had been dizzy to begin with had nothing to do with the phenomenon, she was certain.
He reached out to steady her as he had during the night, fixing her with a scowl that reminded her of the look his teenage self had given her after she had coerced him into their first kiss.
“I’m fine,” said Charlotte, pulling free of his grasp as soon as she could manage. It was not that she did not want him to touch her: She had spent countless desolate nights imagining it, in fact. But he had no wish for physical contact with her now. Practically radiated resentment for the fact that he had found himself within her vicinity at all. And she could not stand any shadow of a previously-affectionate gesture while it was tainted by such vitriol.
“You most certainly are not,” he returned, crossing his arms as though to guard against further contact between them. As though he had not been the one who had reached out in the first place. “You ought to be in bed. Certainly not going out of the house.”
“Mrs. Watson was to meet me here.” Charlotte mirrored his posture, though they were standing close enough that she had to tip her chin up to meet his gaze, silently cursing his height. “Did you find a way to indispose her and then come here to stand in my way?”
“That would have been the logical course of action,” he practically growled, then sighed. “No. Against my better judgment, I am here to accompany you. Mrs. Watson agreed that it would be unwise for all three of us to be seen out together.”
Charlotte considered for a moment, then nodded. “All right. Then let us be on our way.”
In the past he would have handed her into the carriage, she knew. He would have done it regardless of how bitterly they had just argued or how vehemently he disagreed with her chosen course of action. His sense of decorum would have required it of him, but he would have done it less out of his sense of propriety or responsibility than he did out of affection for her.
He would have done it now, too, she would have predicted if anyone had asked. But that would have been against his will, driven by the same impulse that caused him to reach out and steady her whenever her balance faltered. And it would be with the same resentment she had seen in all of those instances.
Brushing past him, she managed to lift herself into the carriage and sit heavily, her head pounding and the world swimming ever so slightly. She squeezed her eyes closed, and when she opened them again, Lord Ingram was occupying the backward-facing seat across from her.
“Was that bit of spectacular pettiness worth the cost?”
It had not been pettiness, of course. Or at least it had not been primarily pettiness. But admitting that would be defeating the entire purpose of avoiding his assistance in the first place. Admitting that would be admitting that she still wanted things – a great deal, in fact – from him when he wanted absolutely nothing to do with her.
She said nothing, simply fixed him with a steely gaze and then rapped on the roof of the carriage to indicate to the driver that they were ready to depart. The lurch into motion made her stomach roll, and she was ashamed to find herself gripping the seat to steady herself. She was not too distracted or embarrassed to notice that Lord Ingram had instinctively shifted in his seat again, as if he meant to reach out for her or move to her side. He caught himself in the same moment and settled back, his jaw tight.
“I see the logic behind your decision to accompany me on this errand.” She was having trouble keeping her voice steady, her tone devoid of anything aside from cool logic. But she knew that she must succeed, or she would not survive. “You are more closely acquainted with him than either Mrs. Watson or myself. And you also have a personal stake in finding our mysterious photographer.”
He regarded her coolly. “I cannot fault that logic.” There were multitudes in what he did not say. Once, perhaps, Charlotte would have been able to deduce at least some of those, though certainly not all. But now…
He – and especially his feelings for her – had always been one of the most complicated puzzles in her life, and had only grown more so during the two years of her absence. Her struggle to read him had very little to do with her injuries and a very great deal to do with the wounds she had dealt him.
“But you can fault something in my conclusions, I think.” She could feel it there, simmering under the surface between them. Was it something specific, though? Or was it just his newfound distaste for her company?
“I can fault plenty of things about you.” The latter, then.
“I am human,” she said with theatrical solicitousness, “and therefore infinitely fallible.”
He scoffed. “If only I believed you believed that of yourself.”
She did believe it of herself, unquestionably. At no point had she believed herself to be invincible, though perhaps her younger self acted more like it. Even if she had, however, there would have been no way she could have maintained such an illusion after the past two years. Those had encompassed enough mistakes and inadequacies for several lifetimes.
“With your current biases, I might well say that I believe myself to possess blonde hair and you would argue that I was being insincere,” she told him.
“The biases you gave me?” He arched a brow. “Are they incorrect?”
Yes, she thought emphatically. Yes, of course they are. I have never wanted to hurt you or lie to you. I would never do it without reason. But she had had good reason and she would not apologize for protecting him or anyone else she loved. She would do it again if circumstances dictated, and they very well might.
“I have never had reason to question your intelligence, Ash,” said Charlotte. “Don’t give me reason to begin now.”
“Only now?” he scoffed. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t believe you.”
“I will forgive you a great deal,” she said pointedly, her enunciation forming sharp edges around each syllable. “Despite the fact that I do not believe you will return the favor.”
Lord Ingram huffed a mirthless laugh and turned away from her to watch the streets slipping by in reverse outside, apparently having determined any further reply to be unnecessary. It was not simply a failure to argue. It was not even agreement with the rather nasty accusation she had hurled in his direction. It was an outright dismissal of her and everything she had to say, a retreat behind the brick wall he had constructed between them.
Charlotte found herself biting back a surprising wave of frustrated tears. She had never been an outwardly emotional person in her life. It was, in fact, one of the things that she had always struggled to express, had needed to teach herself to do for the sake of successful social interactions. Most likely it was one of the reasons she and Ash had struggled so bitterly to understand what they wanted from each other. But now – she could not place the timing any more specifically than that – she found herself constantly on the verge of being overwhelmed by emotion of one sort or another.
“Did you choose to come along simply because you enjoy making things more difficult for me?” It was not a logical question, and not one she would ever have thought to ask before.
His head came around sharply, his expression hurt. It was a momentary shock, and yet she sensed that it should not have been: Was that not exactly the way she was feeling as a result of their exchange?
Lord Ingram sighed, rearranging his features into a mask of impassivity. And yet at the same time, it felt as though the distance between them had lessened ever so slightly. “No. I came along because, as you said, I have a vested interest in learning who is blackmailing both of us. And because someone needs to protect you.”
“I do not require –” she began reflexively.
“I do believe that in your former life, you often encouraged me to accept help from my friends,” Lord Ingram interrupted. “Was that a lie?”
“No.” But it had certainly felt different, then. A former life, as he had said. “Are we, then? Friends?” He had promised her, once, that they would remain so no matter the fate of their romantic entanglement. She had allowed that thought to comfort her in some of her darkest hours. But now, face to face with him, she had to wonder whether even that promise had limits.
He was quiet for another long moment before he spoke again. “We should probably decide what we mean to say of your identity if we are seen together by those who know me.”
Charlotte swallowed hard, warding off another surprisingly strong stab of emotion. She had known there would be both consequences and sacrifices associated with her decisions. She would not regret the things she had done. She would not.
“I’m surprised you don’t already have something thoroughly unflattering in mind for my alias,” she told him. In truth she was surprised by the question - not because it was unreasonable, but because she had not remembered it as a consideration herself. True, she had known that she would need to keep her identity concealed, and she had expected to be with Mrs. Watson. But she had not thought to come up with any sort of pre-prepared story for this circumstance and she should have known that she could no longer count on her mind to allow that sort of thing as pure improvisation.
“Oh, I didn’t say that.” There was the barest hint of malice in his smile. “My plan was to tell anyone who asked that you were an old acquaintance posing as a widow with the express purpose of defrauding me.”
She opened her mouth and then closed it again, utterly at a loss for words. She felt as she had in childhood, when forced to participate in a social engagement she found utterly overwhelming, so distressing that it paralyzed her outright. She could not have spoken even if she had been able to summon coherent words to express any thoughts.
But then, as she sat frozen, something shifted. It was intangible and nearly impossible to articulate – an almost imperceptible thawing of the silence between them. No longer a glacier, but still a fathomless icy abyss.
“I apologize,” said Lord Ingram, clearing his throat. “That was uncalled for.” As if anything he had said thus far had been honorable or polite. “I recognize that, no matter how strongly I may loathe your decisions and actions, you did not act for your own profit. Therefore, it would be incorrect to describe your behavior as defrauding.”
“Say that I am an old friend,” said Charlotte, her voice rough despite the fact that she had broken free of her paralysis. “Back from – a long journey.”
He considered. “I will say that you are a childhood acquaintance. Whom I find myself scarcely able to recognize.”
He turned back toward the window, silence decisive this time.
The truth was not that Holmes had become unrecognizable. Quite the opposite, in fact.
True, she was thinner than he had ever seen her before, and it was all too obvious that she was still injured, still very far from healed. She remained alarmingly unsteady on her feet, accepting his help down from the carriage despite her stubborn refusal before, and keeping her grasp on his arm. Her silence, though not uncharacteristic in itself, was clearly masking pain.
And yet so much about her was achingly familiar. Her determination to fulfill this task, now that she had set her mind to it. Her fathomless gaze that saw and comprehended far too much. Her ability to upend his equilibrium even as she struggled to keep her own balance.
It would be so easy, he knew, to be comforted by her presence, by the fact that she was well enough to be on this outing, even if it concerned him. To trust that they were working together, that he did not have to face any continuing threats on his own. But that in itself was a danger, Lord Ingram reminded himself. It was the danger, for no matter what Holmes might say about her reasons for acting as she had, it did not change the fact that she had dealt him far deeper wounds than Moriarty could ever achieve.
“Miss Holmes,” said Treadles, as soon as they were safely ensconced within his office and she had lifted her veil for the sake of conversation.
He appeared stricken despite the fact that Lord Ingram had cabled ahead to tell him of their intentions to visit. And he had provided many updates prior, including the unlikely fact of discovering her alive aboard the train. And yet, how else could he be expected to react? Holmes made such a singular impression upon anyone who knew her in any real capacity, and consequently the fiction of her death had as well. It would never be a thing that could be neatly erased, as her existence never had been in the first place.
“I must admit,” said Treadles, after a long pause in which Holmes said nothing at all, “even having been told that your arrival was imminent, I cannot quite believe that you are here with us today.”
She dipped her head in deference that Lord Ingram could not ever recall her genuinely showing. “Nor can I, Inspector.” She paused for a moment, her expression not quite coy but certainly calculated to elicit the responses she sought. “I assume that title remains correct?”
“And I assume you know that it does,” Treadles returned. “You have always been impressively well-informed. And even if you were not able to access your usual sources, I cannot imagine you would be unable to deduce such information from the various items on my desk.”
She sighed. “I know that Lord Ingram told you I was injured in – the incident on the train. You may be surprised at how far my usual abilities have deteriorated.”
“I do not think she realizes how far her usual abilities have deteriorated,” Lord Ingram said to Treadles, aware that it was a mean-spirited comment and unable to help himself. It was simply too painful to bear witness otherwise.
Treadles cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable with the interaction. “Be that as it may, I am glad to see you, Miss Holmes. How may I be of service?”
“I know that I was injured on a train,” said Holmes, her voice far steadier than he would have expected, given the subject matter and the dig he’d just made at her. “I know that I killed Moriarty there.” She paused. “If you mean to arrest me for that confession, I suggest you save all of us the time and do it now.”
Lord Ingram nearly shot to his feet in alarm. He had not expected such forthrightness from her, though he knew at once that he should have. Holmes had never been one to beat around the bush, and it was not as though Treadles would not be able to discern that one or both of them was directly responsible.
I hoped it wasn’t you, she had said.
“Considering that I have no body or other official word of a death,” said Treadles, “and the woman who has just made her confession to me is not officially living, I cannot begin to see how I would explain such an action. Nor do I feel it would accomplish anything.”
Holmes nodded, still appearing perfectly calm. Lord Ingram let out a breath he had not realized he was holding and tried not to wince at the dull pain of exhaustion pounding behind his eyes. He could have returned to bed, he reminded himself. He could have allowed Mrs. Watson to follow through on her plan to act as support on this outing. Except he could not have, because Holmes was alive and here and he was utterly at her mercy.
“As I was saying,” she continued smoothly, “I know that I was injured on a train after killing Moriarty. But I do not recall those events, nor do I recall the preceding week, no matter how I attempt to search my memory. Lord Ingram has been unable to provide me with additional details. Am I correct in understanding that you have also been unable to learn anything significant?”
“Correct,” said Treadles, “though understated. Not only have I been unable to learn anything of use, I have found no trace of the incident whatsoever. Which, I must admit, has been something of a pleasant surprise. I had warned Lord Ingram, when he told me of his plan, that if it were to succeed, he would almost certainly have been arrested. Please don’t misunderstand me, Miss Holmes, I would not have been the one to make the arrest. But I would not have been able to prevent that outcome, either.”
“Which I never asked you to do,” said Lord Ingram, though he was not sure why he felt the need to provide that reminder.
Holmes turned to look at him, her gaze calm, though it struck him that her pupils appeared unusually dilated despite the brightly lit office, unsettling depths he could not parse. “You had no need of such intervention because you did not mean to survive.”
“Charlotte!” he said sharply, taken aback. He had forgotten, somehow, what it was like to be seen by her in this way, to have the things he most wanted to hide from the world verbalized so succinctly. She was not wrong, of course, and that was precisely the problem.
Treadles cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable with the display of emotion taking place in his office. “What I mean to say is, I cannot help wondering if we ought not to simply accept this as – perhaps an unsettling outcome, but not precisely a bad one either.”
“Ordinarily, I would be inclined to agree with you,” said Holmes, continuing as though she had not just made an intensely personal comment. As if she had not said anything out of the ordinary. “But unfortunately, it appears that someone else wishes us to do otherwise.” She produced the note and the photograph from her reticule, handing them to Treadles across his desk.
He looked back and forth between the photograph and the note for a long moment in silence, then nodded curtly. “Well. This certainly does complicate matters.”
“It suggests to me that even if we wanted to simply accept the circumstances for what they are,” said Holmes, “someone – or multiple someones – would make that very difficult, if not impossible.”
“And you do not actually want to accept the circumstances for what they are in any case,” said Lord Ingram.
“The circumstances in which I may very well have lost the only ability that made me somewhat useful?” she asked bluntly, pinning him with her gaze. “No, I am not particularly fond of those.”
He swallowed the reflexive swell of grief he could not help feeling, no matter how angry he might manage to be. He did not believe that her worth could be reduced to such a simple concept, but he had not forgotten the times when he had wondered whether Holmes would have chosen to live if it were at the expense of her mind. He ought to apologize, he thought, but found himself utterly unable to locate any appropriate words.
“I plan to investigate on my own, of course,” said Holmes, continuing on as if there had never been a digression. As if she and Treadles were the only two people in the room - And perhaps that might as well have been true, for all that she was concerned. “To the extent that I am able, of course, which may be quite a bit more limited than in the past.”
“And that is why you are here, I take it?” asked Treadles. “Because you expect that you will need my assistance?”
“I think it likely, yes,” said Holmes. “Even under the best of circumstances - which these certainly are not - I would require an extension of my resources. I believe, from my conversations with Lord Ingram, that you have been assisting him in his pursuit of Moriarty. I hope that you will be willing to extend the same assistance to me. Though even if you are not, I would remind you that he is being blackmailed as well.”
“You make a logical case,” said Treadles, “as always. You are correct about the assistance I have been providing to Lord Ingram, and feel obligated to continue doing so. I also have not forgotten that I am deeply indebted to you for your assistance when I was in danger.”
“But?” she arched a brow.
Treadles smiled faintly, mirthlessly. “But?”
“Thus far you have given me reasons why you should agree to assist me,” said Holmes. “You have not actually agreed. So I must conclude that there is a barrier to your doing so.”
His smile grew the slightest bit more genuine, though also regretful. “For someone who claims to be functioning with diminished skill, Miss Holmes, I must say that you remain remarkable.”
And she did, without question. The fact that she was alive at all – Not only that she had escaped the attempts on her life two years earlier, but also that she had survived her injuries now, despite all odds. That she was here, stubborn, brilliant, and lethal as ever. Lord Ingram shook himself, forced himself to remember that those circumstances were the result of her own choices. That he could not allow himself to admire her, could not allow himself to feel any sort of relief, because above all else, he could not trust her. Not ever again.
“And the problem is…” he prompted Treadles, requiring the sound of his own voice to bring him fully back to the present.
“The problem is, I am afraid I have limited resources to share,” said Treadles. “More limited than usual, in any event. There is a case that has been consuming a very unusual amount of personnel and time.”
Holmes leaned forward, her movements just the slightest bit unsteady. “Are you proposing an exchange of resources, then?”
Treadles looked taken aback, but only for a moment. Then he only looked pleased. “I must admit, Miss Holmes, that I had quite forgotten the extent of your prescience.”
“Tell me about the case,” she told him. Discreetly, she took her notebook from her reticule and opened it to a fresh page.
“The Society for Modern Spiritualism,” said Treadles, as though grappling for a place from which to begin. “Are you familiar with it?”
“It’s been in the papers for the past several weeks,” Lord Ingram supplied. He was beginning to have an idea of where this was going, and he did not care for it.
“I cannot say with what news I have been familiarized over the past several weeks,” said Holmes, as blandly as if she was commenting on the weather.
Treadles nodded. “Ostensibly it is a gentlemens’ club for the study and practice of spiritualism, including seances. Its patronage has been growing exponentially of late, which some of the neighboring establishments do not like, as you might imagine. There have been some cases of vandalism in the area, as well as a rather vicious gossip campaign. But that, of course, pales in comparison to the more recent developments: Over the past fortnight, three patrons have taken their own lives after attending the club and reportedly going mad.”
Holmes punctuated a sentence in her notebook and looked up. “I see why there would be pressure to solve such a case. What have your men found thus far?”
“Nothing,” said Treadles. “Which is a problem in itself. But the larger problem is that both of the men who have attempted to investigate the club are now…incapacitated.”
She arched a brow. “How so?”
Treadles cleared his throat uncomfortably. “They also appear to have…for lack of a better description, gone mad.”
She tapped her pen against her lower lip, her expression thoughtful but not in the least alarmed. “And you would like the assistance of Sherlock Holmes.”
“No,” said Treadles. “Sherlock Holmes is dead. The help I would like is yours.”
Lord Ingram knew that he ought to intervene. He ought to tell Treadles that Holmes was in no condition to do anyone any favors, much less in the form of engaging in what promised to be a dangerous investigation. He had told Mrs. Watson that he would keep her safe, after all. But –
“Prepare a dossier for me,” said Holmes. As if she would allow anyone else to tell her what to do. She had already proven that she would sooner die than listen to that brand of reason. “Have it sent to Mrs. Watson’s Baker Street residence. I make no promises, but I will review it and offer what I can.”
Treadles nodded. “I’ll do the same for your blackmailer.”
The meeting was quickly at an end after that, and Lord Ingram could not help noticing how utterly spent Holmes looked now that business had drawn to a close. She winced at the daylight when they emerged into it, and nearly missed a step. He caught her arm and kept hold of it as they crossed the short distance to the waiting carriage, though he did not allow himself to speak again until he had settled her in it and taken the seat opposite.
“You mean to take on the case.”
She looked at him sharply and then winced again, pressing two fingers to her temples before she responded. “Obviously.”
“You are in no condition –”
She waved away his response with that same hand, impatient now. “Of course I’m not. Do you think that I don’t know that better than anyone? Or did you think I had forgotten, since that is what I do now?”
The bitter frustration in her tone rocked him back in his seat. “You appear to think that you are both omniscient and immortal.”
“And you are far more intelligent than your anger is currently allowing you to be,” she retorted.
For a moment they stared at each other in simmering silence before she spoke again.
“What would you have me do instead?”
He blew out a breath. “I don’t know, not throw yourself directly into danger?”
She laughed bitterly. “The last time I checked, Ash, danger has just delivered itself to me in the post. Regardless of what you might think, I would much rather not be doing any of this at the moment. But what are the alternatives? Shall I wait, convalescing, until Mrs. Watson’s residence is attacked? Shall I allow her to be compromised too? Or, am I to sit back and allow you to handle this on your own? Because I do not have much confidence in your ability to do so when you are already behaving half mad.”
Lord Ingram did not speak for a long moment, trying to maneuver himself out of the trap she had built. Except that she had not been the one to build it, only the one to speak its reality. He knew that she was right, and hated it all the same. This catastrophe remained larger than the two of them, which meant that it still threatened everyone he loved. He might no longer care what happened to him, but he would not sacrifice his children. Would not sacrifice Mrs. Watson or Penelope. And he would be a fool to try and delude himself into believing that Holmes wasn’t still the best chance any of them had.
“No,” he said reluctantly. “We’ll take the case. Both of us, Charlotte. I will not have you going rogue again. You’ve made enough decisions without the knowledge of everyone else they affect.”
She ducked her head in a nod of acknowledgement, then raised her chin again, all imperious defiance. “I will allow you to be included if and only if you can put your emotions back in check. As you have said, the stakes are too high to do otherwise.” She offered her hand as though this were a business transaction. As if she was not ordering him to forget all of the ways she’d ruined him.
“All right,” he said tersely, took her hand in his own and shook it once, briskly, before pulling away.
He could do it. He couldwork with her and be civil. He had years of practice being perfectly cordial to the woman who’d torn out his heart and ground it under the heel of her boot. He was an expert at living all bottled up, as Holmes had once said. And at pretending that everything was all right. There was absolutely no reason he could not do it again.
Except.
Except, from this vantage point, the scars from his marriage were mere scratches in comparison to the damage Holmes had wrought.