Chapter Text
It began, as many of our adventures do, in the sitting room at Baker Street. Holmes was curled up in his chair with his knees to his chin, smoking his black clay pipe, and I was seated at my desk by the window, ostensibly working on the narrative of a case we had worked on in August, but primarily staring out the window at the snow that was beginning to fall. The year was 1895: only some eighteen months had passed since Holmes's miraculous return from the dead, and our domestic routine had almost achieved normalcy. There were still some nights that I awoke from nightmares of that waterfall in Switzerland, but they had decreased in frequency until it was only once a month or so that I had such dreams. Holmes was back, and we were both determined to let that be the end of it.
The snow had been threatening all day, the skies grown heavy and somber, and the cold in the air deepening until I felt it in my old wound and Razia wouldn't move more than a few feet from the fire, which meant I was confined to the house as well. She had finally settled down inside the feline comma of Hengest's body, her head under her wing, and I had been gazing out the window ever since. A hush had settled over the city, every sound muffled by the new snow.
Our quiet peace was interrupted by the sound of a carriage in the street, which stopped its rattling directly in front of our door. Holmes lifted his chin from his chest, head cocked in anticipation, and he unfolded himself gracefully when the ring sounded upon our bell.
"We have a visitor, friend Watson," he said.
"So we do," I agreed, peering out the window in an attempt to get a better look at the carriage itself. Being Holmes's companion for so many years had not left me entirely unaffected, and I observed that our visitor was wealthy, traveling alone, and had come in a hurry on a cold night.
There was a rap upon our sitting room door a minute or so later, and Holmes called, "Enter!"
Mrs Hudson led our guest into the room, handed Holmes a card as he rose, and said, "Mr William Ainsley, gentlemen."
"Good evening, Mr Holmes," Mr Ainsley said, reaching for Holmes's outstretched hand. "I hope I'm not intruding, I know it's late."
"Not at all, Mr Ainsley," Holmes said, offering the young man a seat on the settee. "This is my friend and associate, Doctor Watson."
"Doctor, a pleasure," Ainsley said, giving a weak smile in my direction. I didn't take it personally; I could tell he was under a great deal of stress, and was trying to remain calm. He took off his hat and sank down on the front edge of the settee, holding the hat under his arm. His knee began immediately to jiggle up and down in nervous anticipation. He was well-dressed, as I had expected, but he was also younger than I had anticipated. He might have been twenty-four or twenty-five, with bright green eyes and lush coppery hair that almost reached his collar. His daemon, which I did not see at first, was an ermine, curled around his slender neck, apparently asleep. His face was finely boned, his features delicate, and he wore a thin gold wedding band on his hand.
"Now, Mr Ainsley, do tell us what's brought you here on a night like this. Your wife?"
Mr Ainsley jumped as if he'd been struck and stared at Holmes, his eyes wide. "How could you know, Mr Holmes?"
"It is my business, of course." Holmes leaned back contentedly in his chair, crossing his legs and steepling his fingers. At the fireplace, Hengest rose, arched his back in a luxurious stretch, and wandered across the carpet to curl around Holmes's feet. Without taking his eyes off our client, Holmes lifted his toe for Hengest to rub his cheek against.
"Yes," Ainsley said, "well, Mr Holmes, my wife is very ill. I have been away on business, you see, in Liverpool."
"For how long?"
"Only two days, since Friday. I came back this evening, Mr Holmes, and found Melissa on the floor of the sitting room."
Holmes tilted his head. "There is more to this than an illness, I presume; else you would have come to consult the good Doctor, and not me. Please get to the point."
"Her daemon is nowhere to be found, Mr Holmes." Ainsley's brow creased with the effort of maintaining his demeanour. "I didn't think anything of it, at first; Hector is a mouse, you see, and often hard to see. I was able to move Melissa to the couch and I called the doctor, and it wasn't until he arrived that I noticed Hector was missing."
Holmes had sat up very straight in his seat. "Mr Ainsley," he said, "it is very important that you describe to me exactly, exactly what happened when you arrived home. What time was it? Was the door open?"
"It was a little after six," Ainsley said. His ermine had opened its eyes, and was staring at Holmes with rapt attention. "I got into Paddington station at a quarter till, and it usually takes me twenty minutes to walk. I walked a bit faster, today, since it was so cold."
"And the door?"
Ainsley frowned briefly.
"Was it forced?" Holmes prompted. "Unlocked?"
"Unlocked," Ainsley said, nodding. "Not forced, certainly; I would have noticed that."
"How many people knew you were away from home?"
"My employers, Messrs Cartwright and Stern," Ainsley said, pursing his lips in thought. "The house staff, of course. A few of my colleagues: Simmons, MacGregor, and Turner for certain."
"Anyone else?"
Ainsley began to wring his hands. "Well, I go out of town somewhat regularly; not always at the same time or for the same number of days, but our neighbours are used to my absence. Melissa's good friend, Jane, often makes sure to stop in if Melissa is alone for more than a day or two, just to keep her company." He smiled, almost sadly. "I do believe they play whist and gossip until the sun comes up."
"Just so." Holmes sat back slowly, staring past Ainsley. "Describe to me how you found your wife."
"On the floor, Mr Holmes."
Holmes narrowed his eyes in irritation, and I saw Hengest's ears go back. "Yes, you said that," he said, "but how? On her face? On her back? As if she had been reaching for a chair? How!"
Ainsley winced at Holmes's near-shout, and stammered, "Her front, she was on her front. She had fallen where she stood. She was unconscious when I moved her to the sofa, but she roused enough for the doctor to examine her. I believe she struck her head when she fell, and she was incoherent, crying out for help. Oh, Mr Holmes, please, you must do something!"
Holmes nodded once. "I will. You suspect, of course, that she has been forcibly Separated."
The colour drained from Ainsley's face, but he nodded. "I do."
"Why did you not go to the police?"
"Melissa is a follower of yours," Ainsley said, and included me in the indication. "She says you are a very clever man, and a very kind man, and you can do things the police cannot."
Holmes scoffed. "I am not a wizard, if that's what she believes," he said, "but you did the right thing in coming to me. Watson, get your coat. Mr Ainsley, we will meet you downstairs in a moment."
Ainsley nodded again and stood on shaky legs. He squared his shoulders in the manner I had seen of many a soldier, and left the sitting room, leaving the door open behind him. I turned to Holmes.
"We're going now?" I asked, lowering my voice. "It's nearly nine o'clock, and snowing."
Holmes was already halfway into his long woollen overcoat, and Hengest was twining around his ankles, anxious to be off. Razia was glaring at me from her new post on the back of the settee, obviously displeased. She didn't want to be out in the snow any more than I did. She had settled into her falcon shape when I was a young man in Australia before the war, and she, like I, preferred the summer to the New Year.
"Watson," Holmes said, settling his hat onto his head with an air of finality, "this is not the first suspected Separation that has occurred this month. It is the tenth."
"The tenth?" I exclaimed. "Good God, why haven't we heard anything about it?"
"Because before this moment, the unfortunate souls to be discovered much in the same position as Mrs Ainsley have not been of the notable class. They have been two ladies' maids, one prostitute, two carpenters, one blacksmith, one brakeman, and two street urchins. You ask why we haven't heard anything about it, and I will tell you. The darker corners of London are all abuzz with the stories and the rumours, but this end of town hasn't been touched. It's not as though the paper reports every rape and theft and bar fight, Watson; why would they report every Separation of every poor bastard in Whitechapel? Until now, when someone who cares has enough power and money to make their way to the sitting room of another fellow who cares. Two, I hope."
I nodded, and reached for my coat. "One of the urchins was yours, I presume?"
Holmes started. He hadn't expected me to notice that detail.
"Yes," he said. "I'm not a family man, Watson, but I get by. I don't take kindly to those who tamper with my Irregulars."
Razia lifted herself from the settee and flapped across the room to us, settling on my shoulder. Her powerful talons gripped my overcoat, putting pressure on my other souvenir of Afghanistan. We both winced; it hurt more in the cold than it usually did. I followed Holmes and Hengest down the stairs to join Mr Ainsley and his ermine at the door, and the six of us emerged from 221 into a slow haze of snow. The driver was in his seat atop the carriage, though I knew Mrs Hudson had fed him a cup of tea and at least two biscuits in the time Ainsley had been upstairs, and the horse was snorting impatiently. We alighted, settled ourselves in the dark, warm carriage, and were off, bumping down Baker Street in eerie silence. Hengest insinuated himself into Holmes's lap and under Holmes's hand, and I saw Holmes begin to stroke him from nape to tail as we rattled along.
—
"Melissa was here," Ainsley said, indicating a bloodstained patch of carpet. "Her head, as I said."
"Yes," Holmes agreed, stooping to look more closely. Hengest sniffed at the bloodstain, and then at the place where Melissa had lain. "The staff," Holmes said, "were they not here? Why was it you who found her, if, as you said, you have staff."
Ainsley looked uncomfortable. "We only have three," he said. "Beth, the cook, Gladys, Melissa's maid, and Douglas, my valet, who is also our driver."
"And where were they?"
"They were out of the house. Beth said she got to talking at the market and came home later than usual, and Douglas was in the carriage house."
"And Gladys?"
"Nowhere to be found," Ainsley said.
"Was she meant to be here?" Holmes pressed. "Don't make this difficult, Mr Ainsley. Tell me where she was, and where she is now."
"She's gone," Ainsley said, his face crumpling in misery. "She was gone when I came home, and I don't know where she is now."
"I presume it isn't her day off. No, well. We shall have to take that into consideration, of course. Mr Ainsley, do not look so despondent. A missing maid is a very good place to start on an investigation such as this."
Ainsley nodded. His ermine had curled even more tightly around his neck, tucking its face into its tail. He took a deep breath, composing himself, and said, "Will you follow me upstairs, gentlemen?"
Mrs Ainsley lay in her bed, pale and fragile-looking against the blankets that were piled around her. She opened heavy eyes when we entered, and a look of recognition crossed her face. Her lips parted, but no sound came out.
"Darling," Ainsley said, crossing to her and taking her hand in his. "I've brought Mr Holmes and Doctor Watson."
She gazed at him blankly. Her hand was trembling. "Will, it hurts," she whispered.
"Watson," Holmes said softly, "do me a favour and examine the lady. I must know if she is suffering from true Separation, or simply the symptoms of an exaggerated Pull. I need to know if I still have time."
Razia preceded me across the room, and landed nimbly on the headboard above the woman's head. She peered down at her, turning her head first one way and then the other to see her with both bright gold eyes. Razia looked back up at me as I approached, and I perceived a minute shake of her head. Still, I was resolved to proceed with my own examination.
It is a strange and horrible thing to see an individual without their daemon present. It was like looking at a woman without a face: half her identity was gone. The daemon is a manifestation of the soul, and it is exceedingly unusual to be without one. There are legends of people who can separate themselves from their daemon willingly, though the process is said to involve a great deal of emotional and physical discomfort. The Witches of the North were a strange and magnificent people, but never in my travels have I encountered one. Most people cannot be more than a few yards from their daemon at any time, and why would they? The dividing of a whole like that is unnatural. To force the separation on another individual is the very height of cruelty, beyond murder in its impact. The death is not done cleanly, and the victim can suffer for months before finally succumbing to the inevitable. Their last days are spent not as a human being but as a shell, drying unto brittleness and dissolving in the wind.
Mrs Ainsley's pulse was faint and rapid, and her skin was hot under my fingers. When I touched her she groaned but made no move to pull away from me. Her eyelids fluttered, and behind them I could see her eyes moving back and forth, seeing something that wasn't there. The place on her forehead that she had struck as she fell was swollen and bruised but no longer bleeding. When I palpated the edges of the bruising, it elicited no response from the patient. With Ainsley's permission, I turned down the bedclothes and made a thorough examination of Mrs Ainsley's limbs and torso, flexing her joints and palpating her abdomen. There was nothing wrong with her, physically. For a young bride, she was in the bloom of health. It was her mind, her very soul, that suffered.
"She won't last," Razia told me. "I can smell the daemon on her, but he's very weak. They both are."
"The Pull is a very great distance," I said. "Do you think she'd be able to locate him?"
"Not in this state," Razia said. "Not anymore."
Mrs Ainsley gave a cry suddenly, arching her back so hard she fairly lifted off the bed. I stepped back in surprise, and Mr Ainsley fell down beside her, taking her in his arms. The ermine that had been around his neck uncoiled and scampered up the woman's breast, tucking itself under her chin now. I almost looked away: it was so intense a show of devotion it made me blush. Holmes did not flinch, however, and watched them intently. Hengest jumped up onto the foot of the bed, so close to the poor woman that he was almost touching her. I opened my mouth to protest and Holmes shot me a look that made the words die on my tongue. Razia leapt from the bed to my shoulder in one strong wingbeat and tucked herself as tightly as she could into my neck.
"Melissa," Ainsley was saying, whispering in her ear and then crying it, trying to call to her. "Melissa!"
Mrs Ainsley shrieked, writhing and striking at the air. Her eyes were wide open now, full of terror and tears. Ainsley struggled to restrain her, pressing his forehead to her pale shoulder, but all at once she went limp and silent, and it was over.
Ainsley began to weep, repeating, "No, no," over and over, until Holmes took him by the shoulder and drew him away. I closed Mrs Ainsley's eyes with gentle fingers and pulled the sheet over her once more.
"She is lucky," Holmes said to Ainsley. It was more comfort than I had seen him offer any other client of ours. He beckoned to me and I walked slowly around the bed again, my heart heavy in my chest. "Call a constable," Holmes said, "and see that Mr Ainsley is removed to his bedroom and that the valet is alerted. I will speak to the constable when he arrives, and then we will be on our way. There's nothing can be done for Mrs Ainsley now, but we will certainly see this to its conclusion."
The constable came after a considerable delay and blamed the snow when he arrived. It was still falling thickly, blanketing the streets. The constable talked with Holmes for a few minutes while the valet and I administered a large dose of brandy to Ainsley, and eventually thanked him for his presence.
"I know it's late, gentlemen," he said, as Holmes and I saw ourselves out the front door, "but I will make sure we keep you informed. Mr Holmes, look for a telegram in the morning."
—
We were not the only passengers on the train. Two young men got on at Edgeware Road and we all pretended not to see one another. As we departed at Baker Street, an older man and his wife replaced us. It was good to see the Metropolitan Line getting some use. The Underground had been under construction for several years, its stations gradually increasing in number, but it had only been recently that the newer, more powerful steam trains had become truly useful. Still, we did not make a habit of it.
Holmes was unwrapping his scarf from around his neck as I closed the sitting room door behind us. He moved slowly, obviously still thinking. Hengest had slipped from his arms the moment we entered the house, and was licking himself thoroughly by the banked fireplace. Razia flew to join him, and Holmes turned to me.
"It is appropriate that we took the Underground tonight, Watson," he said.
"Is it?" I shrugged out of my coat and hung it up alongside his. The combination of the winter's chill and the terrible sight we had just seen made me long for my pipe and my bed, as if sleep could make me forget it for a while. But Holmes was full of nervous energy and I knew he, at least, would not be turning in for quite some time.
He hesitated a moment, regarding me carefully, and then went to the mantle. He offered me a cigarette from the case, which would substitute passably well for a pipe, and we lit them together. I sat down in my armchair and waited.
"Are you familiar with the concept of Dust, Watson?"
I shrugged, dragging on my cigarette. "It is postulated on and hypothesized about unto the point of myth," I said. "I've read quite a bit about it. There are some medicos who wish very much that it were a tangible element, so that it might be applied to the physical sciences."
"Well, they may soon get their wish, then," Holmes said. "It has become an area of study of mine, recently, and I am of the newly formed opinion that it does, in fact, exist."
I knew better than to look surprised. I had seen some pamphlets and papers about it lying about in the past few weeks, and one doesn't need to be a consulting detective to read into that. I said, "It's real, then?"
"I think so." Holmes sat down, finally. On the rug in front of us, the two daemons settled into their familiar intertwined position, warming themselves by each other. Sometimes the closeness of the two of them made me wonder, but it also made me glad. They expressed a level of affection I knew Holmes and I might never reach, and through them we both could feel a subtle sort of contact. I felt Hengest's warmth against Razia's feathered body, and I knew Holmes experienced something similar. For a moment he smiled at me, perhaps reading my thoughts upon my face, but his expression turned serious again quickly.
"Explain," I said. "Let us presume that it does exist, as you say. I only mean, you need not use the hypothetical; I am prepared to believe anything you say."
"A dangerous preparation," Holmes said, but he nodded, drew on his cigarette once more, and began. "Dust, the scholars believe, is the essence of the soul. It is what makes the physical manifestation of the daemon possible. Without Dust, they would not exist. No, Watson, I do not mean that we would all go about as half-formed beings, incapable of thought and insensate to the world; instead, our souls would live inside our bodies. We wouldn't need such companions, for we would be... well, singular. Each of us."
I frowned. It sounded dreadful. Though I knew a daemon was a natural being, it felt as though Razia and I had seen things that other people had not, and had bonded in ways others couldn't comprehend. She had been with me through every stage of my life, and she knew me more deeply than I perhaps knew myself. But, of course, she was part of myself, and therefore privy to my subconscious in some ways that I did not entirely understand or care to question. The logic was circular, however, and I understood what Holmes was trying to say. "Go on."
"Some people speculate that Dust is a form of energy, like electricity, or heat, that is continually conducted between a person and their daemon. That is how a connection is formed and fortified, and why breaking the bond can be so harmful to both parties."
I pictured Mrs Ainsley, twisted in agony as she was Separated from half her soul. I nodded.
Holmes's cigarette hung neglected from his fingers, the paper burning away and leaving a column of ash. He was staring into the fire, unseeing. "Steam," he said, "is king these days. Soon we will have pneumatic carriages and indoor lighting powered by coal. But it's expensive, Watson, and it cannot be sustained."
"You think Dust is the replacement," I said.
He shrugged and remembered his cigarette. "I think there are people who believe it is."
"How would anyone harness it, though?" I asked. "If it only exists between— oh, how very stupid of me."
"Quite," Holmes said, and ignored my scowl of indignation. "The only way to capture it, some might say, would be to capture the essence of it."
Both Hengest and Razia were watching us intently, their matching golden eyes unblinking.
"The daemon," I said.
"The daemon."
"You think that's what's happening here? A woman is Separated deliberately, in an attempt to bottle the power of her soul?"
"Yes, but why her?" Holmes flicked his neglected cigarette into the grate and pressed his fingertips to his mouth. "Watson, I worry that this is only the beginning. The incidents that have not been reported, the ones that I have been investigating without much success these past few weeks, suggest to me a testing phase. Now we have entered the implementation phase, which means that the citizens of London, and perhaps the world, are in grave danger."
He was not one for conspiracy theory, and I was shocked. "We have to do something," I said.
Holmes glared at me indulgently. "Yes," he said, "I plan to involve us deeply in this affair. It will almost certainly be exceedingly dangerous."
"Well," I said, "that's why I'm here."
"Ah, and I thought it was for these splendid rooms we share." He stood up. "We have not heard the last of the poor Ainsleys, I'm afraid. Sleep well, my dear boy, for tomorrow we embark on a strange journey."
It was theatrics, it had to be, but it sent a chill down my spine. "Good night," I said weakly as Hengest rose from the fire and followed him into his bedroom. Razia flapped from the rug and perched on the arm of my chair, and I stroked the top of her head with one finger.
"Are you prepared to defend yourself?" I asked.
"Please, John," she said. "We have a distinct taste for danger, I'm afraid, and wouldn't have it any other way."
"I know." I pondered the service revolver locked in my desk. Razia nipped my finger, just firmly enough to pinch and make me start. "What was that for?"
"Doubting me," she said. "Doubting yourself. I am your voice of reason, John. Let's go to bed."