You Buy Bones (6 page)

Constable Lions was a big man - should he survive to become a plainclothes Inspector he'd make a formidable figure. Even in a room surrounded by the bed-ridden, he stood out with his bushy black mane and beard. Most nocturnal Constables grew beards to keep warm and prevent ‘colds in the throat' as per the wishes of the Department, but Lions' was a proud mane of curly India ink that was only defeated by the crowning glory of an equally lavish collection of locks (Gregson swore he had William Teach in the family). The loss of blood made his skin very white as he sat propped up with a newspaper, and he looked up with pleasure at his visitor.

“Well, good-morning, sir. I hope you aren't here to convalesce too.”

“Not at all.” Lestrade shook his head at the lump under the blanket. There were obviously a great many bandages underneath the left leg. “But I'm surprised they put you in a room all to yourself.” He nodded to the ‘walls' of the room, which was nothing more than four hanging white sheets that reeked of one of those hospital ward chemicals - the sort of stuff that would trim out your nostrils. “Have you been promoted?”

Lions blushed at the mild frivolity. “Not at all, sir. It's just that several of the doctors, well... there was a bit of a fuss over me when I came in, and I suppose you could say there was a fight.”

“A fight?” Lestrade pulled his coat off and sank into the one chair - obviously brought in for the consulters. “What kind of fight?”

“I'm not really sure, sir. Except I don't mind telling you I'm never playing a game of tug o' war at the family reunions ever again. I know what the rope feels like now.” Lions blushed even further. “There was this new doctor, fresh out of surgery from somewhere, trying to say my leg would have to come off. Then this second doctor, he comes in and he's younger than the first one, and he says - pardon me, sir - bloody hell no one's getting amputated on my watch, and they started shouting in the hallways - oh, thank you, sir.” Lions took Lestrade's sausage roll.

“Go on, lad, you seem to have had the livelier night.” Lestrade leaned forward on his knees. “I take it the argument was resolved for the best?”

Lions chewed and swallowed. “Not in so many words, sir. A new'un came in off the street, still in his walking-clothes and his stick, and took a look at the two fighting, and the mess I was making on the floor, and sent me to the back surgery.” Lions suddenly guffawed. “Wish I knew what they looked like when they saw their prize plum had left!”

Lestrade breathed out. “But your leg will be fine?”

“Oh, yes sir. Right as rain, ‘e said. First he dug out all the bits of rusted-up metal - that took a while! But first he had to re-open me up as the wound had already started to close... after he finished digging it out he flushed it out with carbolic acid, and then a bottle of silver...” Lions started to lift the sheet to show Lestrade, but the smaller man hurriedly declined the invitation. “And did you know, he even let me watch as he sewed me up. That was right decent of him, I have to allow!” The bushy Constable beamed with pride. “I can now say exactly what it is they did to me - because I saw every bit of it!”

Lestrade did
not
share that kind of sentiment. “I'm pleased for your peace of mind, Lions. I didn't think surgeons would release their jealousy long enough to let us laymen in on their trade secrets.”

“Oh, this un, he's a real bene, sir. Soldier, like. Didn't believe in treatin' a grown man like a kitten, but he warned me that if I had to stay on the silver treatment, my skin'd soon go with my uniform!”
[18]
Lions had half finished his meal. “Said he had a lot of practice back in the war.”

“Did he now?” Lestrade felt his brow go up. “By any chance, would you recall his name?”

Lions shook his head. “Never gave it, sir. He was mostly asking me the questions.” Another chew and swallow whilst Lestrade idly calculated probabilities. “Nothin out of the ordinary about him, though. No distinguishin' characteristics.”

Lestrade felt his other eyebrow slide up. “Now, come on, Lions. Everyone has a distinguishing characteristic or three.”

Lions looked doubtful. “Well, nothing that couldn't be proven, sir.” He gave the bewildering information. “I mean, he was limping pretty hard on his right side, and his left shoulder was stiff, but you know, that doesn't prove he's injured there.”

“Ah, well... you're right about that. But surely you've some way of describing him.”

Lions shrugged. “‘E could have been any man off the street. Awful thin. Didn't look natcheral.”

Lestrade bade Lions goodbye, rubbing his chin as he did so. A nurse was flagged down, and a few polite questions under false pretence sent him outside to the small trod permitted to sight-seers and the convalescing public

He found his quarry down on one knee lifting a small object off the ground for the benefit of a knot of boys that had the hardened look of the Cock Lane gang. The nearest boy took whatever it was he was passing on, and the ragtag children fled like chickens at the sight of the grain pail. Then he rose to his feet, and his lack of balance momentarily surprised the Inspector. Watson needed every inch of his walking stick.

The notebook
came to his mind: Watson had admitted he could only travel outside in the best of weather. That weather was passing. Clouds were pulling over what little could be seen of the sky. It was a long walk to Baker Street.

The man had gone from being all shades of brown to brown and white; his face matched his shirt collar and made his dark eyes even starker. With excruciating slowness he sank down into the nearest bench with his bad leg stiff and straight. For a moment he leaned on the end of his cane, head hanging down.

Lestrade frowned to himself, uneasy about walking in on such a moment and also because something niggled at his brain, something he was watching that didn't quite fit. He stayed where he was for the nonce, waiting for the incongruity to reveal itself. Watson would not thank him for trying to help him. Soldiers had their pride.

Watson's tired reverie was interrupted by more company; four dirty ragamuffins dressed in three or four layers of clothing - all they owned, no doubt. They clustered up to the doctor, pelting him with questions in piping voices that Lestrade couldn't make heads or tails of - although he was fairly certain not all the words were in English. They were calling him ‘Crow' which was the low word for a doctor, but Watson seemed unable or unaware he could take offence at the word.

Watson lifted his head slowly and smiled with the patience of a man who has had to endure younger, messier, and noisier humans all his life. To their questions he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small brown paper sack, folded neatly and tied off with string.

“All right, no glocky fanning, now.” Watson said patiently and the smallest boy jerked his hand back from his discreet search for valuables on the doctor's clothing. “Which of you is good with numbers?” He demanded. Clearly, everyone felt they were. “Well, then, you need four drops per pound of water. Who knows how much that is?” He shook his head at their sudden hush. “A pint of pure water is a pound and a quarter, lads. Say it for me.”

“A pint of pure water is a pound and a quarter!”

“Very good. Now you know what happens if you take more than a pint a day?”

“It undoos all the good.”

“It will
undo
all the good.” Watson corrected without rancor.

Definitely not brought up in Catholic
, Lestrade thought.

“Is this enough for Mum?” The oldest asked him in a tone of voice that sounded a bit belligerent.

“It's enough for
all
your family, and I suggest you run it home and start mixing it.” Watson leveled his finger at the boy's face. “Send for me if there's no improvement by tomorrow morning.”

There was no thank you, no comment to say they'd heard; the doctor was suddenly alone at his bench and rubbing his leg with an impatient scowl whilst two men with a too-familiar stamp on their features swaggered up to him. Lestrade felt his inner voice groan as he calculated just how close they were to the outer district of the opium dens.

“Spare a bit of soft, gov'nor?”

Watson lifted his head slowly, as if the notice of his incoming roll was just beyond his abilities. “I
beg
your pardon?” He asked politely.

Oh, now,
that
was enough. Lestrade couldn't be an accessory to murder - or even a toff-rolling. He began looking for a way he could discreetly sneak up without being seen until it was too late. There was always the chance Watson could handle this by himself. He was not surprised by his new guests...

“Saw you dispensin' charity among the poor there.” The larger of the men - wasn't it usually that way - was smirking. The smaller man looked lighter and quicker - he might even be the leader, using his friend as a diversion. “And we were next in line, as it were.”

“I assure you, you'll get no more than a few shillings.” That eyebrow went up again as that voice dropped to the dry note Lestrade remembered. “And I'm afraid it won't look too well for you the next time you go to the clinic, Mr. Woods.”

“We'll just have to live with that, won't we?”

Lestrade was stamping out just as Watson's cane touched the first man's sternum. He barely seemed to tap, but the bruiser stopped dead in his tracks just as he was closing his hand over the doctor's shoulder.

As soon as his fingers touched him there, something flitted across Watson's face like black lightning. He rose up, weight favouring his better leg, and his opposing arm lifted. Lestrade saw the flash of gnashed white teeth in a white face with dark eyes and a terrific impact sent the would-be assailant on a short journey through the air. The standing man backed away, kneeling down to his comrade's side in a show of loyalty - his only admirable action.

“I'm not sure you need me, doctor.”

Watson whirled, his face open to Lestrade's and for a moment it was a terrible thing, like a violent wave cresting. Just before it could crash, the look was smoothed over and replaced by tired regret.

“I know them.” He said softly. “When the hunger for their drug comes, they'd commit whatever crime is required.”

“Yes, I recognise the breed.” Lestrade agreed. A single glare was enough to freeze the would-be thieves. “You aren't going to go anywhere, are you? Thought not.” He pulled out his police whistle and blew; Watson flinched at each blast but held himself in check very well. “You might as well sit down, doctor. It can wait for the Bobbies. This is Holder's beat; he won't be long.”

“Holder,” Watson breathed out slowly, collecting his nerve. “Didn't he play cricket at one time?”

“W-well, why, the very same.” Lestrade blinked. “Do you play cricket?”

“At one time I did.” Watson passed a gallows-grin to the smaller man. “But I gave it all up for rugby.”

Lestrade forced his embarrassment down his throat. If Watson was looking for pity he would have done so in better ways. As it was, Lestrade sensed the doctor was just stating a fact because he was trying to face a bitter truth about himself.

And at that moment, the puzzle pieces that were Watson jigsawed together with a sharp
click
in Lestrade's mind.

Watson wrote about himself in a distant voice in the details of his past. He ironically seemed
more
alive pre-London than he did
in
it. In the present he was showing himself as struggling and failing to understand the genius of his fellow lodger. He concentrated on his failure to comprehend that mind - a struggle everyone at the Yard could sympathize with. Watson might describe others in unflatteringly honest lights, but those were outside observations, notes on how people were behaving, talking, and how they projected themselves. When it came to the
inward
rationale, he kept the frustrations, the inadequacies, and the incomprehension in his own viewpoint... and thus, was hardest on himself.

‘
The campaign brought honours and promotion to many, but for me it had nothing but misfortune and disaster.'

Watson was in transit between the young man who had been in the prime of his life and fortune, and the shattered, useless soldier who somehow survived Maiwand. Instead of serving the Crown he was now dependent on Her benefice. The two ill-matched facets had not yet melded. It all fit on him like a shoe that hadn't been broken in. He was a stranger to himself.

‘I had neither kith nor kin in England...' ‘
...
be it remembered how objectless was my life...' ‘...My health forbade me from venturing out unless the weather was exceptionally genial, and I had no friends who would call upon me and break the monotony of my daily existence
.'

The man was trapped inside his lodgings more days than not with no one to see day in and out but that half-mad detective.

Oh, dear Lord. He is a ghost. He doesn't see himself as real yet. That's why he writes the way he does. That's why Holmes' attitude doesn't really bother him. It's the admitting that he exists at all that's important!

Lestrade kept his composure cool on the outside of this face for the longest three seconds of his life as he and Watson regarded each other with polite masks of civility.

And he is right. We don't give Holmes full credit. It's our habit. We've convinced ourselves it's our right because he only offers advice... it's our careers, and we put our lives on the line every day, and that gives us our sense of entitlement. We want our merits to prove our worth, but how does a private consulting detective prove his worth?

That was a question Lestrade was could not answer.
Holmes puts himself at risk too... just not as often. But either way, dead is dead
.