Fanfic--The Almost Case of Revenge at the Royale--Chapter 1

This is Chapter 1 (following the Prologue)

Had fun with Holmes' and Watson's character voices here.  It's stodgy, please forgive.  The Story will be tagged from now on with ACRR (For: the Almost Case of Revenge at the Royale)

Oh!  And much love to my BETA, 0corona0 !!!!!



 

Title:  The almost Case of Revenge at the Royale
Author: Pennies_4_eyes
Pairing: Holmes/Watson  
Rating: PGso far  
Summary:  This is filling a prompt from the SherlockKink com.  THe prompt is here.  It read: I want Holmes and Watson to get caught in some kind of crisis-- like, they're dining in a restaurant and all of a sudden it gets held up by thieves, or a bomb threat, or Holmes and Watson on a suddenly out-of-control train. Also, lots of protectiveness and fear for each other's safety.
No warnings:  
DIsclaimer: I don't own squat 
 
 
 Previous parts:  
 Prologue
 
 
 
The Almost Case of Revenge at the Royal
 
 
Chapter 1: The Misorder of an Entirely Correct Mind 
 
 
   It was late evening following the previous night's labors where we had spent the entire time from dusk 'til the wee hours reconnoitering, spying and eventually leading LeStrade and his men to the nestled den containing cached proofs of illegality, missing opium shipments, and cutthroat blackguards aplenty.  The case was closed neatly and those few of the Black Scorpion crime syndicate that had escaped apprehending that night were scattered and rudderless with Scotland Yard hard on their heels.   
   
 
  By the time the reports were filed and details satisfied, I was lagging sorely, long in need of the rest due any man who'd been hard at it for nigh on 22 hours and Holmes was even more in need still.  Manifold days of his most importunate behaviors had left him--in my most humble of medical opinions--a dangerously exhausted shell.  Only, as Holmes too often did, he had other ideas than rest.  Indeed, that was the problem....his Ideas.  He was altogether wracked with nerves--too many pipes of shag in place of proper meals, too many wildly winding mental cogs.  The excitement of knowing he'd yet again stopped an infant titan from birthing in the streets of Whitechapel district...it all had hold of him and my dearest friend Homes had no reserves left to master his agile mind.  And quite like a hyperactive, errant child, it ran in a thousand directions robbing him of recuperation in the aftermath of our toils. 
 
  
I had spent the entire day doing everything but drugging him senseless to encourage him to succumb to the needs of his body and indeed, in doing so allow me my own much needed rest.  All to no avail.  In these most private of writings I will admit that I nearly wanted to strangle him at one point.
 
   
  Far stronger than the momentary urge to do him harm though, was the altogether alarming impulse to take him in hand in a more intimate way.   I struggled that long day against the intense desire to remove Holmes off to the couch or one of either of our beds--whichever gave him best peace--and hold him until his mind quieted at last and we could both find our ease.  He often chides me as romantic and I dare say he has no idea of the truth of it, for it was not precisely a new affliction of thought.  Indeed, recently I had more and more found myself burying what may be described as...tender thoughts of Holmes.    
   
    
To make matters worse, Mrs. Hudson was away.  Holmes had not trusted to keep her there until the matter was surely settled--which should have told me more than I permitted it to about the danger we had been in.  So there was no tea nor dinner or supper, for I was poor in the ways of a kitchen and Holmes was downright diabolically hazardous, even when he wasn't at the end of his rope.  When frustrations finally mounted and my stomach was nearly as loud as Holmes' dizzying third recount of the highlights of the adventure (as though I had not been present for the affair or the first two accounts), I decided dinner out might be the best remedy.  I knew from long experience that a civil audience and calming public atmosphere might (sometimes) distract Holmes enough that he might eat an adequate meal, and once he'd eaten, it was my hope that his mind might quiet itself and let sleep make its demands heard.
  
  
      It was an unplanned affaire though, as no reservations had been arranged at a respectable eatery.  Even so, I balked at the thought of the tight, dark accommodations of the common taverns that would have been easily available to sup that evening on short notice.  Then a fateful idea struck.  I also knew that the owner of the Royale was partial to Holmes enough to make a rare exception in the form of sudden seating from time to time.  
  
   
  I sent a note ahead, and so it was that at the hour of 8:40 pm--a staggering 14 hours after we'd finished at Scotland Yard--we entered the Royale, groomed to barest satisfaction and veritably vibrating with exhaustion.   That evening I leaned a little heavily upon my cane and my off hand was at Holmes' elbow to steady him in his excitations as we entered.  All the while he gestured robustly and grinned a bit too brightly and made much of both his own brilliance and what he deemed my not inconsiderable assistance.  I smiled obligingly at the right moments, all too familiar by now with his minds circuitous account of the previous night and more concerned with his marked pallor, the tremor in his hands, his ever so slightly unsteady gait.
  
 
Mr. Cecil Desmarais, owner and proprietor of that most notable of cultured establishments was ready to seat us, eliciting a knowing smile from his cousin, the Maitre D' of the evening.   It was well known that this place was a favorite of Holmes', a fact that was far more than a point of pride to Desmarais' way of thinking.  Shortly we were being seated in a prominent location, several eyes of interest already upon us, when I quietly asked for a discreet table near the entrance to the kitchen.  A moment later it was done and we were seated, the aromas from the kitchen wafting by enticingly  and the softer lights adding a peaceful ambiance.  Holmes quieted long enough to look over a wine list, his fingers tapping nervously on the menu in his grasp and I let loose a relieved sigh, ruminating that sometimes there were profound benefits to being Dr. Johnathan Watson Esq., biographer to the greatest mind in London.  Though I held no illusions as to whether I would have been granted such courtesy without a reservation had I not had said 'mind' himself in tow that evening.
  
 
It should have been nothing more from then on than a well deserved supper to rejuvenate us.  A pleasant precursor to several days relaxation.  And yet that is where things began to go awry.  Our fortune seemed impeccable enough at first, though.  We were attended upon that night by a Mr. Michael Paginoa, the waiter we most favored on our visits.  An naturalized immigrant and a fine young fellow with sharp wits and a high brow that softened what otherwise might have been rather common features.   Even Holmes in his most misanthropic throes found reason to pass along an occasional compliment, such was the pleasantly easy, competent air of the young man.   So it was that we both relaxed and found the beginnings of our much needed equilibrium in both the quietude of our setting and our luck in attendants.  But as I sat and spoke with Holmes of trivial things, hoping to distract his mind to a more restful place, I noted his roaming eye, scraping quicksilver across the room.
  
 
I knew the look.
  
 
My dear friend was recording, assessing, drawing conclusions...deducing from every tiniest morsel yielded by observance.  Like lightening arcing from one roof to the next, Holmes' intent gaze struck upon every person, every surface in the room feeding his run amuck intellect.  It was often that way when his thoughts were flying creatures with their own will.   It didn't bode well for my attempts to settle him and indeed I began to wonder if I had been correct in my fears that this might be one of those rare and terrible occasions when the only event capable of thwarting his overactive mind was the ending of his endurance.
  
 
  Then Holmes' dark eyes stopped so sharply, so suddenly that I could not help but wonder what had arrested his perusal.  "What is it, Holmes?"  I turned to the room behind me to follow the trajectory of his iron gaze.  "What is it that you see?"
  
 
 "It is nothing, Watson,"  Holmes ran a trembling hand over his brow, as if to shield his eyes now that their work was done.  "I am beginning to see rogues where none exist." He grinned a tired smile meant to reassure me.  I had seen its like before, an oddly grim expression in that it spoke nothing of actual pleasure.   It filled me with notable concern, for I had the distinction of knowing Holmes as I suspected no one else save perhaps his brother did, and even so, at times I missed things.  He hid them too well--sometimes by purposeful art, sometimes by virtue of long instinct.  But I had long experience with being unable to see easily beneath the chilly reserve that so dominated his presence.  Therefore it was startling to note--as I watched him for a long moment--that I was observing him without any mask--truly seeing him.   It cemented within me that it had been an error in judgment to bring him abroad.  I took in his lean, elegant features, distinct with the shadow of fatigue and cast in a faint sheen of perspiration.  He was struggling--with too much stimuli, too much adventuring...just simply too much.  And I feared suddenly that if I did not take him home soon, I would be carrying him home.  In my own weariness, I had chosen poorly for us.
  
   
He flopped a hand upon the table, exasperated no doubt with the frailty of his own human limitations and before I could stop myself I reached out and carefully placed my hand over his.  Sometimes that which gained his attention best was that which was too personal and his eyes sparked wide in a momentary quest for motive.  "Holmes," I said earnestly, "We should go back to Baker Street.  You're unwell."
  
 
"Pish tosh, Nanny Watson," He quirked.  "I am well enough and you need a solid meal before you bite someone."
  
 
It will always be a mystery to me exactly how Sherlock Holmes can be at once a singular source of utmost exasperation and my deepest affection simultaneously.  Yet manage he does. "I dare say you need it more, old cock.  But all the same it won't kill us to sleep and then seek a hearty breakfast tomorrow.  After that, perhaps a holiday to..." I stopped for his gaze was again on that which lay behind me, and this time his damp brow furrowed and his eagle-eyed glance narrowed dangerously.  "Holmes, what is it?  And this time I'll have none of your sidestepping."
  
 
Holmes shook himself then, and answered me for a moment with nothing but a wryly tired smirk of apology.  "Did you realize, Watson, that sometimes I suffer from a deformed variety of insight?"
  
 
For a moment I had no idea at all how to respond.
  
 
I metered my voice to cover my worry, speaking softly to him.  "My dearest Holmes, I have found nearly all of your insights over the years to be unfathomably correct once explained by the light of reason.  Trust me enough to speak plainly to me."
  
 
"Nearly, Watson?"  Holmes chuckled thinly, taking out a kerchief from his breast pocket and dabbed his brow for a moment--clearly gathering his thoughts.  It was unsettling in the extreme to watch him struggle and I was about to make our excuses to the proprietor when Holmes suddenly pierced me with a keen glance full of some indescribable emotion.  "I speak of perceiving and knowing and understanding in the wrong order, my dear Watson."  Then Holmes dropped his glance askance, as though he could not bear to see my response to his strange statement.
  
 
"How so?" I asked, desperate to gauge if his inexplicable words were some exhausted dementia setting in or if his overactive mind was again making impossible leaps even by his remarkable standards.
  
 
Holmes slumped back in his chair, a shockingly open look of despondency taking his features.  "At times when I find myself...a bit weary... I am apt to fail in the order of natural deduction.  That is to say, I still observe first, before all else, for that is the nature of being man and not God.  But from there, I fear, the order and manner can become altogether alien to a rational mind."
  
 
"Holmes, you are not 'a bit weary'.  You have driven yourself to the very brink.  So I say this with all kindness and as your physician of many years--your thoughts are merely compromised from exhaustion.  A few days rest and your reasonings will again have harmony with your methods, which have never ceased to be rational under the right conditions."
  
 
He smiled briefly at that before shaking his head. "You don't understand, dear Watson.  But then I am not surprised.  I hardly understand myself, and that is truly a statement to be marked."  I was about to protest when he waved aside my objection again.  "Those men over there," Holmes leaned across the table and whispered fiercely.  "I know them to be villains, to be most probably here upon some heinous task.  But I cannot in this moment say HOW I know this.  And without the 'how" I cannot hope to realize the "what" or "who" of the matter.  I have observed them, and I have assessed them, I have noted no behavior or outward sign that I might say with honesty would tangibly inspire my knowledge that they mean foul business."  He sighed tiredly.  "And yet I know it in my bones that they do."  Holmes leaned back once again, though his voice remained low.  "I cannot reckon what signs I have read that have led me to this conclusion.  I know not what it is that I have observed about them that has spoken to a deep part of my reasoning without communicating first with my conscious mind.  In this instance the order of reasoning has been outpaced by conclusion.  Yet only fools make decisions based upon thin air and whim."
  
 
I was truly not easy in my mind now, a deep apprehension stealing my calm.  "Holmes, I am taking you home.  Now and with no contest!"  I reached for my cane, about to stand.
  
 
"No, I..."  Before my dear friend could voice full objection our waiter rushed up to the table, clearly in a state of agitation.
  
 
"Mister Holmes!" Paginoa hissed excitably.  "Mister Holmes, you must help us!"
  
 
"Here now, Paginoa," I said.  "Mr Holmes isn't feeling well.  He and I are about to go home.  Give our apologies to Mr Desmarais, won't you." 
  
 
But Holmes had completely left off his own strange worries and apparently waved for our waiter's attention behind me.  He was at once as he ever was with any prospective client--the very example of masterful attentiveness.  "Never mind my governess over there--What is going on that has you in such a state?  Speak up."
  
 
The young man fidgeted for a moment, collecting himself before proceeding.  "I was about to take the order of those men over there, the ones at the central table watching the front window.  But firstly, I leaned to turn up the flame upon the table lamp that had begun to smoke.  That is when I saw the coat of one man and noticed that he carried a pistol hidden therein!" The expression on Holmes' face told me immediately that the men our waiter referred to were the very ones we had only just been discussing.  I should not have been surprised to find that Holmes' instincts where as incomparably sharp as his sense of reasoning when the latter was worn too thin.  But even so, I hoped he was wrong.  This night neither of us was fit for more adventure.
  
 
"What shall we do, Mr. Holmes?   Mr. Watson?  We are surely about to be robbed!" cried the young server.
  
 
Holmes spared a predatory glance at the men in question and then gestured at Paginoa in irritation. "Firstly we shall be calm.  Cease your womanly agitations for a moment, they gain far too much attention and do you no service.  While not common to be sure, on another night it might have been of no moment that a man carried a hidden gun.  They might have been anything from plain clothes inspectors to agents of security for a person of import.  You do get them here in the restaurant, do you not?"
  
 
The young waiter had the decency to blush and nod, trying to cover his smirk.  "Yourself included, sir," he mumbled.
  
 
"Very good," Holmes continued.  "As I said, nothing might have been amiss.  That being so, this night is one of odd fortune, for I too have noted those men as peculiar.  As I was just telling the good doctor here."  Holmes leaned forward, tenting his fingers thoughtfully.  "However, we must not act without understanding that which we attempt to act against.  Mr. Paginoa, I charge you to carry on in your duties to those men as normally as you can.  Do not show a moment of misgiving to tip our hand and mark closely anything more of the unusual about them that may be reported back to me."
  
 
It was then that the young man's yielded before an all out excited grin.  "You mean like the tattoo of a Scorpion ready to strike?"
  
 
Holmes' face opened up with a strange awe even as my stomach filled with lead ballast.  "I saw it upon the wrist of one of them, as he reached for his glass," the young man offered smartly.  
  
 
Holmes laughed a sharp short burst.  "Mr. Paginoa, how incandescent of you!  That is the exact sort of thing I wished you to note.  And it's far more informative than you can know.  Now I implore you yet again, be very convincing in your treatment of these men.  They must not know you suspect them of anything for they are very dangerous sorts.  Carry on precisely as usual.  And be so good as to take an order for my and the good doctor's usual fares.   And bring a bottle of port while I work up a plan."  And like any good soldier given a duty upon which to focus his anxieties, young Paginoa rushed off to do as he was bid.
  
 
I, on the other hand, was having none of it.  "A plan for what, Holmes?" I insisted hotly.  "These men are the worst of the worst, and wanted by the law, thanks to you!  They must be here to..."
  
 
Holmes waved dismissively.  "No, no, mother hen.  If I was their target you and I would already be in a fix.  These men have nothing to lose, my friend.  Revenge is their only gain against us and if that were their intention we would surely know of it by now.  No, there is something else afoot here," he tapped a finger to his chin thoughtfully.  "And I mean to know precisely what."