A CASE OF BAD DICTION -- Chapter Seven

One Story Hides Another

By the time Dr. John Watson arrived at Baker Street, Mycroft had been lifted from the now tepid water of the bathing tub and was fully dried with help from Lestrade, his hair fluffed with a thick cloth and his skin now soft from aromatic salves. He'd been redressed into his night clothes by Lestrade, who balked at Mycroft's insistence he wear his brocade housecoat as well. "He's a doctor who treats the mad, I'm sure seeing someone as pristine clean as yourself and not a person covered in excrement is a novelty. It's warm in this room, Mycroft, the heavy curtains don't dare allow in a breeze, and there's no point suffocating you further with layers of unnecessary cloth." A selection of pillows were propped behind him and Mycroft laid back on them in relative ease. Lestrade was satisfied with his handiwork, though he continued to fuss with the cotton blanket he tucked around him. "There. A bloody sultan couldn't look more comfortable. Mrs. Hudson is making up some peppermint tea, though I'm not so sure it will do much for you. That bath did a good job as did your coughing up. I can tell that phlegm plug is coming back, however, and I hope Dr. Watson will have on hand something to stave off a renewed attack. Stop trying to talk, Mycroft, save your breaths and just concentrate on taking deep ones. I know how much of a relief it is."

Though it was late afternoon, the sun still threatened to seep through the slit in the heavy curtains, a promise of cheer that Mycroft could not participate in. He did not want to be spending any length of time as an invalid, especially with the threats looming over all of them and with their Jack in the guest room, twiddling his energetic thumbs and having ample time to devise all manner of mischief as boys his age are wont to do. For himself, he had plenty of work, but the thought of not being able to attend his quarter sessions filled him with a sense of anticipatory dread. He was careful with his cases, and that one in particular which involved the devious monster Professor Pottsdam, a murder of which he was certain the cretin was guilty!

Mycroft leaned back on his pillows, his throat exposed as he kept his head propped at an awkward angle ensuring the passageway to his lungs was kept clear. He dreaded the visit Dr. Watson would pay him, for he knew it meant the man would be pushing stramonium on him yet again, heedless of the torment the dreaded weed played upon his mind and senses. Other patients took it with no ill effect, but Mycroft experienced horrific stomach pains and rambling, nightmarish thoughts that wouldn't abate for hours. Worst of all, the dosage would leave him blind for several days, every small shard of light piercing his retinas as though the very thought of daylight was made of daggers. For obvious reasons, he avoided the treatment as often as he could, but there was little hope that he could do so now, especially after such a weakening attack.

"I know you have concerns, Mycroft, and I've heard you talking about how bad you react to the dosages of stramonium, I've witnessed its effects myself and I hate what it does to you as much as you do. Lie back. What did I tell you about trying to talk?" He pushed Mycroft's anxious shoulders back onto the wall of pillows behind him, and bid him to relax. "But you don't need to worry this time, I've informed Dr. Watson of newer remedies that are destined to be far superior to any he has procured for you in the past and like any scientist he is eager to try it."

Mycroft frowned, not at all as sure as his Gregory over how well these 'cures' would work, especially considering the last one was a tincture administered by eye drop and contained small traces of cocaine. He was reminded of Pottsdam's assessment of Dr. Watson, and his strange, twitchy aura on his rotund form, and he had to wonder if perhaps the man was in the throes of some as yet undiscovered addiction. It would explain the plethora of prose he was chucking into the Strand as of late, the public clamouring for copies every time there was a cry in the streets of 'Get the latest! Sherlock Holmes Consulting Detective!'

But much to Mycroft's great relief, Dr. Watson arrived without fanfare, and was significantly more subdued than usual, in part due to his quick visit with their small lodger, Jack, whom he had brought a treat of cake. Both bedroom doors were open and Lestrade was so engrossed in his case notes beside the bed and tending to Mycroft that he didn't hear the small exchange that drifted in hushed tones across the scattered beakers on the table by the window and the gaudy lamp that comprised their sitting room.

"I've heard you've had quite the adventure." Dr. Watson sat beside the boy, the chair scraping the wooden slat floors with his bulk still in it. He was attempting to be quiet, but the man was made of booming vowels and overwrought consonants, his wide chest barrelling out the words as though they were held back only slightly from a bull horn. "Mrs. Hudson has told me all about it, as well as your reasons for it. I admit, I am a harsh man at unexpected intervals and if I am to truly be a person who can study the minds of others, I must be able to place myself within their predicaments. And what a sight that must be, eh? This rolling bulk being stuffed down a chimney like a pillow smothering bricks?"

He must have performed a pantomime of this, for Young Jack suddenly giggled, his mirth a balm of delight for Mycroft's worry and he pushed himself up so he could better listen, his finger to his lips as he bid a questioning Lestrade to remain silent.

"It weren't half as much fun as that, Dr. Watson, in fact I don't remember a thing of that part, which Mrs. Hudson tells me is just as well. I'm lucky that Miss Turner is something fearless when it comes to a crisis, going up on a roof in heavy skirts and all. Mr. Holmes and Inspector Lestrade, they say I ought to get her something nice out of my ill earned wages as recompense, and I gather that's the correct thing to do. What does a pretty but plain lady like that want out of life, do you think? She only seems interested in her piano and the few books scattered about her little house. She don't go for vanity, so a scarf or cameo broach is right out. I'm thinking a music box would be nice, but when her fingers dance on the ivory keys she can rival anything a plonk-plonking bit of metal can do."

"This is a dilemma," Dr. Watson sagely agreed. The chair creaked in protest as he sat back in it. "As a man who has been all around the world and has had his share of the varieties of women within it, I venture to say that if a handsome young lad like yourself were to give any kind of offering it would be appreciated. But I agree, this is a very special sort of woman, and one who shall require the utmost care in bestowing a precious gift." He grumbled and huffed in thought, only to snap his thick fingers and jovially chuckle through the smoke of his pipe. "That's it, dear boy! The lady is a composer! Ink, and music sheets! There, you have it!"

"That's bloody brilliant!" Jack exclaimed, only to correct himself too late. "Sorry about that, need to mind me tongue sometimes Mrs. Hudson says. But it's a cracking good idea, Dr. Watson! Thank you from the bottom of my heart!"

"Ah, you are a bright boy! You remind me of myself at your age, full of energy and ideas bursting at the seams. Well, I do still burst at the seams these days, but not necessarily due to wit. No need to apologize to me when that trouble is mine. I harshly criticized you when we first met, and dismissed you outright without fully understanding the importance your living here has established beneath this roof."

"Ain't nothing important about me, I'm a bother, really."

"Nonsense, boy! Some families are formed out of the clay that society has moulded them from and they thrive heartily from it, while others crack and crumble. I shall not judge the clay that makes a unique image for this one, for it's clear you are very much loved, and that is the most that anyone can hope for from those people whom we call home. It has been my experience, Young Jack, that there is great unkindness in this world and it attacks our children worst of all. I am glad to say, that the one who tried to rip apart your unusual little family has failed utterly in his attempt." Dr. Watson was suddenly thoughtful. "I do hope to meet him, for he would be an interesting study."

Jack sniffled. "Are you going to figure out why he'd do such a thing as harm a person for no good reason?"

"No, I'm afraid that is the job of an alienist and that is one profession I am loathe to wallow in. The abyss is an unpleasant place to look into too closely. No, I would prefer to have his brain after his hanging so I could weigh it against other criminal minds that Dr. Ziegler has currently placed in jars for the future purpose. A lack of compassion denotes a certain lack of development, and there should be corresponding similarities within the construction of the brain."

"That don't sound like science to me," a skeptical Jack said, and Mycroft bit down on his tongue lest he let out a choked chortle. "Inspector Lestrade would say you need only measure the man's skull to get the proper circumference. And even then, there are smart and stupid men who commit crimes, so you can't blame it on brains and missing bits. I think you should weigh their hearts. Mr. Holmes said that's how the Egyptians used to record a soul's guilt and I say those ancient wonders were onto something."

"Perhaps you are right, lad!" Dr. Watson cheerfully chuckled as he patted Jack's arm and left his seat with pendulum effort. "I can see why Mr. Holmes and Inspector Lestrade are so captivated by your company! You have a cunning mind, Jack. If you stay out of chimneys you will have considerable time to use it!"

Having finished with one patient, Dr. Watson now made his rounds across the sitting room towards the shared room of Lestrade and Mycroft, an abode which, if he noticed two men were cohabiting in it, he never spoke of it. Instead, Dr. Watson marched to Mycroft's bedside and took up his wrist in his thick hand, his thumb and forefinger pressing hard on the pounding pulse. He nodded over its erratic strength and then pressed his fingertips on either side of Mycroft's jaw, working down to investigate the tense muscles that were like taut ropes at his throat.

"Your heart rate is high, your skin clammy and your lungs are still rattling. This was a particularly bad spell. Even now you are struggling, and I'm reminded of that text by Dr. Salter, of the debilitating paroxysms that render the sufferer into a gasping near corpse, each breath an agony that those looking on cannot help but feel pain in empathy. It is a pitiable thing to be at the mercy of a disease that can attack at any moment, sometimes with warning and many times without, each day spent in anticipation of its arrival." He sighed and stood back, surveying the damage this particular attack had caused, and shook his head. "You will not take any of the belladonna extracts that have been recommended, and I don't fault you for it. The blindness it renders is quite extraordinary." He turned towards Lestrade, who was now standing beside him, his arms crossed and an expectant expression on his face. "Yes, my good fellow, I was able to procure it, but it was not an easy prescription! A man of my stature is not well received in the Asian sections of London, and I had to journey to a very strange apothecary in that crowded sliver of a place. He had a large, pickled rattlesnake in a jar proudly displayed in his front window."

"It will be worth it, you'll see," Lestrade said, and he held out his hand eager to receive what Dr. Watson had been sent to hunt for him. Mycroft was confused by this, and he looked to Dr. Watson for a further explanation.

"Ma Huang," Lestrade said, grinning over the bulging cotton bag Dr. Watson handed to him. "Enough to get you through for a while, especially if it's the real thing. I've been hunting for this since we first met and it's a difficult herb to come by on English shores. This cost me a dear amount, and I won't alarm you by telling you how much, but let's just say we'll make it last."

Mycroft's throat was sore and breath was still precious, but he risked using some of them up. "What is Ma Huang?"

"A tea," Lestrade answered. "Originally from China, its medicinal properties in regards to your ailment have been known for over five thousand years. I've recently been in contact with a brilliant organic chemist by the name of Nagai Nagayoshi, who has pinpointed the exact chemical that is responsible for the bronchodilating properties of the plant. He's calling it ephedrine. A very pleasant fellow, there's no plant in the world he hasn't investigated and broken down into its chemical components, we spent many an hour discussing medicinal herbs. We should visit the Tokyo Imperial University if we ever decide to go abroad, it's a simple box of a building lacking any outside adornment, built solely with function in mind. The outside does not reflect the vast complex of ideas lurking within it. This ordered simplicity in architecture is a hint to the organized, uncluttered thinking that pervades that culture, a clear virtue as they are ahead of us medicinally by supernatural leaps. It's a gap that is thankfully closing due to our more open trade, and an opening of the mind to foreign influence. Is there any ready, Dr. Watson?"

"I shall call up Mrs. Hudson. Do not look so alarmed, Mr. Holmes, I'm very interested in how this shall affect you, for it could be revolutionary in regards to how I treat respiratory distress in my patients at Holloway. As you well know yourself, stress is often a contributing factor to an attack."

Curious as Mycroft was, the effects of stramonium, the main ingredient in the dreaded Cigares Du Joy, had left him wary of new medicines. He swallowed with effort and took in a strained breath in hopes of giving a speech against the whole experiment, which could leave him delirious and wandering up and down Baker Street in nothing else but his housecoat. Stramonium often gave him blackouts.

He braced himself to argue against it, but the treatment would have to wait, for there were other pressing issues invading their little home. He could hear the thump and rumble of the man's arrival before he saw him, and all hope for gaining any rest and recuperation was dashed as an unwelcome guest bullied his way into the downstairs entrance of 221B.

"Really, woman, I am only here to see his Honour, Judge Mycroft Holmes. I wish to inquire after his health!"

"I know what you are up to, Judge Quibly, and it's a sad state of affairs when a man of the law such as yourself has so much at stake at gambling on another man’s life that he would come to see his bets make fruition! Who sent you? Was it Lestrade's Chief? The nerve of that man! I'll be talking to both of your wives about this!"

"Well you will have to shout very loud for them to hear you all the way in France! They are there for the season."

"How lucky for them both!"

A renewed sense of panic overtook Mycroft as he looked upon their room, and the open doors, their life on full, careless display. He was grateful that nothing needed to be said to Dr. Watson, who quickly marched down the stairs to hold off Judge Quibly, his loud voice booming over Quibly's equally aggressive tones in a competition that left the very foundations of the apartment block trembling. Dr. Watson was in agreement with Mrs. Hudson that their patient was not to be disturbed, but Quibly was a man well versed in argument and he was not about to be daunted in checking up on his prized investment.

"He must have a hefty sum on your head," Lestrade angrily stated.

"I have heard when he is drunk, Judge Quibly is especially reckless in his gambling habits."

"You just wasted a lot of breath talking about that slug. Come on, I'll help you up and lock the door behind us. We'll get you in that chair by the fire, the giant fool will be upon us at any moment."

He leaned heavily on Lestrade, still too weakened and dizzy to properly walk. The journey to the sitting room felt as long as a walk across the wall of China itself, and he collapsed into the winged chair with a sigh of uneasy relief. The bedroom door was shut and locked, a knit blanket tucked around Mycroft's legs. Lestrade stepped into the small corridor outside of the sitting room and discreetly shut Jack's door, minding the boy to remain quiet.

When it came to Quibly it was best to keep as much of their little family secreted as possible.

His body still reeling from the effort and the mucus plug threatening to grow and overtake him again, Mycroft reached for his copy of The Moonstone that he had left on the fireplace mantel and quickly propped it open in his lap just as Judge Quibly stormed into the sitting room.

He must have looked close to death indeed considering the happy way Judge Quibly greeted him. "Well, well, Mycroft! An eventful day all around for you, I'd say! Courting devils and death at every turn! Ah, but I see you are placed in good hands here, and have been made comfortable, though perhaps you should have been propped up in bed instead of before a fire. Some light reading, I see. Just as well you aren't concentrating on cases at present, considering how ill you are. I've come for your case notes. I'm taking over your quarter sessions while you recuperate."

Mycroft gently closed his copy of The Moonstone, noting that Quibly had not noticed it was upside down. "That will not be necessary."

"I'm afraid it is, you are in no condition to spend hours in the Old Bailey and as you are well aware, justice must prevail and as we are justice, we may be blind but we need to breathe. Besides, I think this protracted illness of yours has caused no end of problems in regards to your judgment, seeing as how you insisted on this bizarre arrest of an Oxford English professor." He turned his bloated form on Lestrade next, Quibly's purple face and shining, round nose wrinkling as though he'd caught a bad smell. "Your Chief is furious at your lack of investigative foresight and I'm warning you as an associate of his Honour, Mr. Holmes that you are at risk of tarnishing his already feeble reputation further. Professor Pottsdam is not a suspect in any case, but a witness in two, an unfortunate coincidence, but one that makes sense considering the man's profession. He tutors as a form of charity, you see." He paused, confused by the dumbfounded silence surrounding him. "Have none of you heard the news? We have an arrest, for the murder of that mad little trollop at Holloway, of course! Dr. Watson, is this not your understanding?"

"I'm pleading ignorance here," Dr. Watson said, "If the 'trollop' you are referring to is Miss Collie, she was a suicide."

"I'm afraid you have been misled yet again, and I'm starting to wonder if you should be taking on the ramblings of our Inspector Lestrade as fact seeing as how the evidence has stacked in favour of murder."

"What evidence would that be?" Lestrade tersely replied.

"That the person responsible for her death is the man she was having an affair with! We have the fellow in custody in Newgate Prison now, and we are very happy to report that there is now a full connection between him and the death of the poet Mr. McGonogall as well. Two murders solved!"

"I should think not," Lestrade replied. "How did you determine that Pottsdam is innocent and this man is guilty in his place?"

Quibly glanced to the open door of their sitting room, as though willing a tea set to be brought through it. It never arrived. Mrs. Hudson was busy banging large pots in her kitchen and grumbling over them, assuring all guests that she was far too busy to attend to them. Stoking coal fires was far more important than offering any hospitality to Judge Quibly. Mycroft was happy to have her loyalty.

"He was a witness. The unfortunate Miss Collie was embroiled in a torrid affair with a married man, as was revealed in her writings. She fancied herself a bit of a letter writer, you see, and as these writings were part of her therapy at Holloway, she noticed they could have some mass appeal and was hoping to publish them. The was no hope, of course, the girl's visions are mad, but a nurse who took pity on her has a cousin teaching anatomy at Oxford and word was sent to Professor Pottsdam about the girl needing some grammatical tutoring. An unusual arrangement, but Professor Pottsdam assured the Chief and I both that he is merely a man who is so fond of the English language he aids in its continued perfection among those who share in its passion."

"How very saintly of him," Lestrade snapped, "and yet you still have avoided telling me how this is evidence of his innocence."

"On the contrary, his kindness to Miss Collie has revealed much. He witnessed her lover, Mr. Green, leaving her room the day of her suicide. He had dropped by to deliver her an edited copy of a short story she had written, and it was there in the top drawer of her desk as he had said it would be. When he arrived she was weeping at her desk, and he noted there was a small knife on its surface and it was not one he had ever seen before. He asked after it, and she told him that it had been a gift from Mr. Green. The whole sordid story of their affair spilled from her, then, and in his wisdom Pottsdam encouraged her to write to the man's wife a formal apology and to assure her the affair was quite over."

"Foolish advice," Dr. Watson interjected. "That is a sure way to incite negative feeling, and I daresay it put the poor girl in immediate danger of retaliation, not to mention a permanent smearing of her reputation. She made a mistake, as girls do, and his moral posturing was set to destroy her further. There was nothing good in that suggestion, Judge Quibly. I should have been informed of Professor Pottsdam's visits, and there is nothing in the register. The man snuck into Holloway to take advantage of a very sick young woman."

“A Mr. Green. I half wonder if he is any relation to Constance Green, the unfortunate murder victim with aluminum dripping out her ear.”

“This Mr. Green is that sad woman's brother-in-law. It seems murder runs in that side of the family.”

Dr. Watson tutted at this. “Murder does not have a genetic disposition. It is opportunity and nothing more.”

Quibly dismissed Dr. Watson's diagnosis with a wave of his fat, purple hand. "Whatever you believe, Dr. Watson, it's of no consequence now, the girl is dead and she didn't have opportunity to reveal the affair. But she has given us plenty of motive for Mr. Green, his hiding of the affair a rather pedestrian aim. As for the connection to the poet, she had a bill for Mr. McGonogall's performance and informed Professor Pottsdam that a select few from the Sanatorium were going to attend. She had developed an unhealthy fixation on Mr. McGonogall and the upcoming performance, and her writings are indicative of a series of delusional thoughts on him as her new main romantic subject. The descriptions are graphic and I won't repeat them here. Needless to say, they are clear indicators of why she was a patient at Holloway." Quibly checked the open door again and frowned.

"I'm afraid Mrs. Hudson was not expecting to make us dinner, as Mr. Holmes is ill and I have a poor appetite at present. Tea is out of the question, for it will only make Mr. Holmes's condition worse." Lestrade clasped his hands behind his back and rolled back and forth on his heels. "You have currently told me this young woman has a connection to the poet McGonogall due to her maniacal writing about him. The written word can be interpreted in many ways, but I'm going to risk assuming that you believed the connection was obvious enough. I will still need to see the writings, of course. But you have not given me any true physical evidence of a connection between the two murders and Pottsdam's innocence in the matter, and that, I'm afraid to say, is trying my patience. Especially now that we can connect Pottsdam to three murders in which he was involved."

"You are a harsh man, Inspector Lestrade, I can see why some of the younger constables believe you a bit of a bully. Pushing me around, however, is not so easy. You and your deductive methods should have figured it out by now. Care to take a guess?"

"I will do more than that," Lestrade confidently replied. "I will tell you what the evidence you found was."

Quibly laughed at this. "You can try."

"I will not try, I know. The small knife that was found by Pottsdam. It was used to murder Mr. McGonogall."

Quibly's bloodshot eyes widened at this. "How did you make such a leap?"

"Is it the murder weapon?"

"Yes. Yes it is."

"And Professor Pottsdam directed you to it. Don't bother telling me, I can already state that said knife was found in Miss Collie's room, and that his blood looks to be embedded in its handle. You have other witnesses who state that the small knife was indeed in the possession of Mr. McGonogall, as a protection against thieves. You have established that there was clear evidence of an affair with Mr. Green and that she was, under the influence of Professor Pottsdam, preparing to reveal it to his wife. You have also stated that there is evidence she had transferred her amorous aspirations onto Mr. McGonogall, suggesting that Mr. Green was both incensed by her dramatic plans to end their affair and that her affections were now transferred to this poet. Thus, Mr. Green now has plenty of motive to kill both her and Mr. McGonogall. The first to preserve the secret of their affair and the second out of pure jealousy."

"You have connected the puzzle pieces quite well, Inspector Lestrade." Quibly puffed with pride at Lestrade's seeming failure.

"And you have, of course, missed the entire point."

Quibly's face turned a ghastly shade of purple at this, and Mycroft wondered if the man was going to explode in a bloody mess right there in his sitting room. "Now look here, Lestrade..."

"You and the Chief are being taken in, and far too willingly. Professor Pottsdam knows damned well that neither of you want to deal with the political hot poker that charging an Oxford Professor of one of the most prestigious universities in all of England would entail. Have you not thought at all that this 'witness' is in fact the murderer himself? That he could have placed the evidence where you could so conveniently find it, and thus render false blame?"

"He was most convincing..."

"You did not think! As usual, your thoughts are lazy and unformed, and you dare to come in here and suggest my methods are not sound when they have always been before! This is a clever murderer, he is organized, a fervent planner. He has made you forget that he is now involved in three murders, citing his profession and seeming charity to blame for these gruesome coincidences. The fourth murder we're aware of him committing was of a man who had no earthly connection save the charity of tired dockworkers. There is no such thing as coincidence, Mr. Quibly, only lines of proof that have not yet been connected." Lestrade turned to Dr. Watson. "I will need all of Miss Collie's writings. A sample from before she went into Holloway and one after."

"Before and after?" Dr. Watson frowned in question.

"Yes. Because Professor Pottsdam is lying. She never wrote a word about that bastard lover of hers, nor did she have need of an editor. Elizabeth Collie was fond of ink but only used it to draw human figures, namely herself in the arms of her lover. That affair and its impossibility was her true illness. If there are foul paragraphs on paper, I can assure you—Professor Pottsdam was the one who wrote them!"

Quibly sighed at this, and gave Mycroft's grey pallor a good once over, as though taking some hidden pleasure out of it. The sum he'd bet was certainly considerable from the hungry way he looked at Mycroft's struggle, and Mycroft felt the phlegm tighten within his chest, his breathing resuming its usual wheeze.

"I will return at another time for the case files. In fact, hold onto them as long as you like, I have enough knowledge of them already to understand that the lot of them are guilty, especially that baby killer. The gaol is set to be busy."

"You shouldn't sound proud of that," Lestrade quipped.

"I'm a government man who understands frugality. We'll be re-using the rope."

Judge Quibly left the room in a huff, and did not offer a goodbye to Mrs. Hudson nor anyone else, his purple bulk rolling out onto Baker St. with his usual pomp. Lestrade watched him from the window as he hailed himself a carriage and took up the entire front seat. Dr. Watson was not a small man, but Quibly was something else entirely, a man made of nothing but his own pleasures and little else. It was a wonder he'd fit through the narrow front door.

"I never want to see that man here again," Lestrade said. "He's foul and selfish and thinks only on his gain. The carriage is heading towards Chapel St. and I know where he goes from there. The Alma Pub will be entertaining him for the rest of the evening. To think that ignorant man is the final say in whether one is guilty or innocent and thus lives or dies!"

Their discussion on the matter was cut short by Mrs. Hudson, who stepped into the sitting room bearing a large teapot and cup on a woven wicker tray. "I've brewed it as per your instructions, Mr. Lestrade. It's got a strange aroma, kind of musty, like it's got mould. Are you sure this will help?"

Lestrade sank into the chair opposite Mycroft and miserably contemplated his lover's frail countenance. He sighed, and gave his companion a wan, smile that did little to hide the torment hiding within him. Lestrade impatiently bid her to pour it up. "At this point it's the only hope we have."

"That man is a judge?" Mrs. Hudson tutted as she poured the orange brew and then offered it to Mycroft who took it from her. He sniffed the contents and winced over the odd scents, like oranges and bitter leaves. "I've never met a body so rude, and Dr. Watson comes here regularly."

Dr. Watson raised a brow at this, but she continued on, ignoring him. "I was in the room with Young Jack for some of that stripping down that purple menace gave you, Mr. Lestrade, and it made the poor lad upset to hear you being treated that way. He's got some kind of nerve discounting your methods when you've been nothing but right in the past."

Lestrade merely nodded, but he was lost in his own thoughts, carefully going over what Quibly had told him. As he remained in tense silence, brooding in the chair across from him, Mycroft sipped at the severe, bitter tea. It was difficult to manage at first, but he forced himself to drink it, the strange concoction adding a layer of warmth to his chest that was unexpected. He felt his heart rate increase, but after a few moments he was shocked to discover his throat did not feel so constricted, and the mucus plug was no longer a threat to every breath.

"Gregory," he said, his eyes wide as he took in the returning calm, relieved look of his partner, "I am feeling marvellous. The effect is near instantaneous, how is this even possible?"

Lestrade sat back with ease, his hands slapping on the armrests of his matching winged chair. "Ma Huang has been used in the Orient to treat lung ailments for five thousand years. I witnessed firsthand its effectiveness during my time in Japan, where a young child with a condition similar to yours was given Ma Huang to treat him. He went from gasping for breath to running around playing and getting under my feet within minutes."

Mycroft's pleasure at feeling better was tempered by this mention of Japan, a place of mystery that was further embedded in shadow by Lestrade's odd history with its shore. There was a definitive glint in Lestrade's eye as he watched Mycroft's breaths even out. Heightened arousal. A promise, perhaps, of red silk...

Dr. Watson did not recognize this, of course, and was as surprised as Mycroft at the effectiveness of the cure. "I shall be sure to contact this Dr. Nagayoshi myself. His research into ephedrine must continue! I have many patients who I treat for similar maladies, for as I have mentioned Mr. Holmes, mental stress can also bring on such attacks." He lifted the lid from the teapot and gave the contents a good sniff. "My word, though, it is pungent. I can taste the bitterness just from the smell of it. But be warned, this is still a medicine and not the proper cure for you. Best of all would be to leave London and get some proper air! Nothing cleanses the lungs better, you are healed the entire time you are in Bath!" Dr. Watson shook his head, "Do not bother to tell me, I know you cannot leave your quarter sessions behind to that hanging judge any more than I can leave my patients."

"He's a mangler of facts," Lestrade agreed.

"Perhaps a few days in Hampstead? It is close enough and the air there is clear."

Mycroft sighed, and how wondrous it felt to be able to do so! "I have no intention of spending days counting sheep."

"In that case you'd best get used to this bitter brew," Mrs. Hudson interjected. She poured him another cup. "Double dose it to make sure you stay strong. I've consulted with Dr. Watson and we both agree that a daily drab of this along with emergency cupfuls should you feel an attack coming on will help keep your airways cleared, at least for the time being. He is right, Mr. Holmes, the air in London in summer is a poisonous fog for men such as yourself. Not to mention I'm a right bundle of nerves thinking that madman is out to get you, and has already nearly done in our Jack! I won't feel right until you're well out of London, you and Jack and Mr. Lestrade, tucked somewhere safe where that bloody monster can't reach you."

Though she was correct, Lestrade remained pensive. He frowned as he brought Dr. Watson into his confidence, his mood suddenly dark. "I have to wonder, Dr. Watson, what kind of man would go to these lengths to commit such crimes and how it is best to approach him. He has blatantly threatened you, as well, and his obsession with the English language as it presented in print is one that I'm having trouble understanding. If we take the words of Darwin's academic publication about evolution and dare to apply his methods to such things as language, we can see similar constructs within them, words borrowed and morphed at will, even invented in the case of the great Bard. One need only look at Shakespeare's inventiveness to see how our language has mutated over time. Professor Pottsdam has made the study of English his narrow focus, and surely he has a clear understanding of this." He frowned. "You have no recollection he visited Holloway?"

"I'm afraid not, though the nurses are sometimes too sympathetic and will allow people in without my knowledge. They don't always make guests sign the visitor's log, a problem that shall be immediately rectified. The younger ones are especially vulnerable to being pressed upon, they don't understand that it's best for patients to be kept from their families for a protracted period of time to best assess them outside of those often fracturing environments. What is claimed and what is true is often very different in reality. Yes, these hidden visitations must be addressed, especially after what happened to Miss Collie. Still, that seemed to be a clear case of suicide to me, I don't understand how murder is playing into it."

"I'm quite confident she was murdered," Lestrade said, almost as a flippant aside. "Though Pottsdam's true motives are escaping me. He's rather disorganized in my view and I sense his motives are haphazard."

"He follows his own prescription of murder to the letter," Dr. Watson agreed.

"No, that is not entirely true. He has had ample chance to kill you, that is a given," Lestrade bluntly stated to Dr. Watson. "He made a point to tell Mycroft how he detests your prose, and the threat was made, and if he wanted to he could have dispatched of you in the morning and then Young Jack in the afternoon. And yet, his concentration was on a mad girl who apparently rambles in her writing instead. Writing that he himself fabricated. Then, he goes on to frame her lover for both her and the poet McGonogall's murder, all while he is still a witness for a third murder, which Mycroft suspects him guilty of. The Green brothers are now both in custody but the connection Pottsdam has to them is still murky. His motives...If only they would become clear!"

"No madman's are. They have certain obsessive, singular visions but they approach them from uneven directions. I am reminded, sadly, that your brother has been asking after you Mycroft and it would do well to visit him. He's been very anxious, especially when the police showed up and tossed their way through Miss Collie's room and Inspector Lestrade wasn't present. He is going on about the dogs again, and he said that you, Mr. Lestrade, would understand what he was talking about."

Lestrade frowned. "What exactly did Sherlock say?"

"Nonsense, mostly. His exact words, as best I can remember them, were: 'The bloodhound traces the least obvious scent.' Then he started rambling about the phosphorous dogs again, and strange breeds of hounds. Interesting, however, he is right about the largeness of some of the German mastiff breeds, they easily outweigh a man."

An hour passed, and after some amicable discussion on the matter of German ingenuity in regards to canine breeding and Darwin's evidence plain in the face of every variety of dog, Dr. Watson cordially made his leave. "Much as it is part of your brother's current delusions, I find myself rather transfixed by the idea. But it is a tale that will have to wait, The Strand tells me that they prefer my shorter prose works at present. They earn a far better commission on sales without the overhead of paper and ink."

Another hour passed in quiet, with Lestrade remaining in his chair in brooding introspection, barely moving as his mind regurgitated the problem over and over until it was an unintelligible mass. Mycroft contented himself with his copy of The Moonstone and he enjoyed the rare sense of calm that had overtaken their usually frantic little home. No longer struggling to breathe gave Mycroft a renewed sense of health, and he looked out the open door of their sitting room to the corridor, longing to go and visit Jack. He'd heard the child whimper earlier, and he was sure Jack's shattered leg was paining him terribly. He was a tough patient, however, and Mrs. Hudson indulged him for his lack of tears with promises of cocoa and a dinner of cake.

Mycroft, however, was not immune to the problem of a monster being allowed his freedom while an innocent man took his stead. Though the intrigue of Wilkie Collins's work held its usual fascination (the amusing relationship between Penelope and her father Gabriel was always a delight), there was the constant thread of Pottsdam's actions weighing heavily in the background, his motives as muddy as the water of the Thames. Artifice had been threaded throughout the entire case, as though Pottsdam had orchestrated every curve long in advance, a feat that the devil himself would find hard to enact. So many open variables could destroy Pottsdam's claims, and yet his reputation prevented them from being fully explored. He was sure Lestrade would eventually snap all these strings present in Pottsdam's web, but in the mean time they were forced to acquiesce defeat. The knots and strings could not be broken.

Or could they?

Lestrade suddenly jumped from his chair and Mycroft, alarmed, dropped his copy of The Moonstone to the floor where it landed with a loud clatter. Mrs. Hudson shouted upstairs, begging to know if everyone was all right. Lestrade's wide, winning grin lit up the small sitting room and he poked his head around the corner of the door leading in, his voice echoing down the stairwell: "Everything is more than all right, Mrs. Hudson! In fact, we are set to be right where we were at the beginning!"

He ducked back into the sitting room and paced in front of Mycroft, eagerly rubbing his hands together. "We've been fools, Mycroft! For at the heart of it, a story is still a story after all! And oh, how badly our Professor Pottsdam has told it! The Bard would chastise him!"

Confused, Mycroft raised a brow at Lestrade's happy agitation. "I don't understand. Why are we fools?"

"Because all along Professor Pottsdam's actions have been telling a story. A story of a madman who kills people due to their ineffective use of the English language, a monster of such incredible apathy that authors live in fear of being punished. The printed word is on trial, his judgment shall come swiftly upon those who dare to believe themselves literate!"

Lestrade howled in laughter and Mycroft wondered if his dear Gregory had gone mad. "Yes, that seems to be the case."

"How right you are! It 'seems to be'! But this is a story, a fairy tale told to us to ensure we don't look too closely behind it for the real meaning!" Lestrade crouched by Mycroft's arm, his touch bold on Mycroft's thigh as his warm brown eyes caught Mycroft's and made his hammering heart beat all the quicker. "Professor Pottsdam has no interest whatsoever in killing off those who torture the English language. His interest is far more mundane, his solution a convoluted one befitting a medieval bard's poetry. This whole thing is a ruse, Mycroft, set to put me off the scent of his real target."

His hand squeezed Mycroft's knee sending a paroxysm of feeling through Mycroft's groin. Damn, didn't the man know limits? They weren't beneath the sheets, in the privacy of a locked room, Mrs. Hudson could step through the door at any moment and discern the scandalous caress!

"You, Mycroft. You are the real target."

Mycroft blinked. Lestrade's dazzling grin didn't waver once.

"What?" Mycroft sat up, alarmed. "He means to murder me?"

"No, he means to distract you and he's done a wonderful job of it so far, ensuring you are too busy and upset to properly do your job, knowing well that your health is poor and the judge in line to take over your cases for your quarter session is a short sighted hanger who will barely look at the facts." Lestrade's hand massaged Mycroft's thigh.

"Gregory, mind yourself!" He glanced at the open door and tried to swat his hand away, only for Lestrade's grip to travel higher and tighter.

"You are a diligent judge who actually believes in the virtues your position is expected to hold. You wish to see justice done. You have already aimed to have the trial of a woman murdered by her husband postponed while a further investigation is enacted. But you were distracted, first by the murder of the poet McGonogall and then the escalating crimes since, culminating in the near murder of our Jack. Your health is in question. The Mortality Race is in full display and your name is at the top of the list, a practical advertisement as to your fragility. Pottsdam saw it and recognized his problem, for he is aware that though you are ill you are a very careful judge and do not approach your cases without fairness and thorough investigation."

Mycroft shook his head. "Why would he create this 'story'? Why wouldn't he just kill me outright?"

"You are a judge of the assize, and there is no way he could easily kill you without arousing my suspicions. I have a dogged reputation myself, as your brother reminded me. Either way, our involvement in his trial was too big a risk, we would catch him. Better to create a bigger problem, one that would keep us distracted with false leads for an imaginary monster of his own creation."

His hand slid to the underbelly of Mycroft's thigh, and he gasped at the suggested eroticism of the touch. "Gregory..."

"You must understand it by now. This is no mastermind, this is an amateur! He is rambling towards a complex conclusion, forgetting that a bloodhound is made for such puzzles. He is over thinking!"

Mycroft shifted in his seat, Lestrade's amorous advances not abating in the least. His thumb was dangerously close to Mycroft's sex, and he could feel that treacherous muscle twinge in interest, a fact that made Lestrade grin all the more. "My health seems to no longer be of a concern, and I will be presiding over his trial after all. This doesn't alleviate the fact Pottsdam has already convinced the Chief and Judge Quibly of his innocence and has currently placed a proxy in his place."

"A poorly executed series of lies that I will disprove one by one and he is aware of it. He was merely buying himself time, ensuring the trial you were meant to preside over was in the gullible Quibly's hands. He's a colony man, and I do believe he's planning a firm exit after this, but for an as yet unknown reason he has to remain in England, at least until the first trial is over. It's a game of careful notches of minutes for him, and as things currently are the clock ticks in favour of his freedom."

Lestrade's hand moved again, and oh, he was a terrible creature! The pressure of his palm, that knowing grin, the sparkle in his gaze that spoke of victory and Mycroft's body was to be its spoils...

"There is no need to correct him of this assumption. Neither he, nor anyone else, knows that your condition has much improved. We will bring Dr. Watson into our confidence. We continue to let Pottsdam believe you are holding the hand of the Reaper while we dismantle the lies he has fed both the Chief and Quibly."

"What will this achieve?"

"He will be forced to act and when he does the evidence will be too obvious to ignore. He has created a narrative that he has to follow, one that will involve our efforts to link him to the various murders and he will make us look as fools for trying while he escapes through a back door."

Mycroft thought on this. As best he could considering the distraction that Lestrade's palm was building within him. Fingers traced his tenting length through his cotton pyjamas and Mycroft closed his eyes, gasping at Lestrade's audacity. "We would be putting Dr. Watson in danger."

"Dr. Watson's prose, while annoying to us, is sadly sound. He has an excellent command of grammar, and is thus not the usual target for our monster. No, we need a new author, one that is both terrible and titillating, full of spelling errors and poorly constructed sentences, problems that the reading public is willing to overlook in order to enjoy the bulk of the story. It needs to be sensational. Prose of highly improper incendiary fuel."

Mycroft allowed himself to sink into Lestrade's touch, his sighs descending into an erotic pace that amused his tormentor a great deal. "Improper prose..." he murmured.

"Yes." Lestrade leaned up from his crouched position on the floor, his body draped over Mycroft's as he sat in the winged chair. He found his mouth and kissed him, his tongue stealing the judge’s newfound breath. The perversity of the act sent a blush of heated red throughout Mycroft's being, and he kept his eyes averted from Lestrade's hungry glare, both afraid and fascinated by what was about to come next.

"Wh-What kind of story would that be?" Mycroft asked.

Lestrade stole his mouth again, tongue lavishing attention with passionate abandon. Mycroft groaned into Lestrade's mouth, the twitch in his sex now a needful agony.

"A salacious one," Lestrade whispered into his ear, kisses lining Mycroft's reddened cheeks. "And you're going to write it.”