Just Johnlock- The Big Book of One Shots

The Basics of Humanity

           

I first took note of my friend's particular carefulness as we stumbled over the cold body of Charles Augustus Milverton, a man who once held several particularly important lives in his own hands, and now was without his own. The safe which held such important documents, those which would be responsible for the downfalls of many important ladies and gentleman, should of course they ever see the light of the public eye, was open and filled to the brim with such condemning papers and notes. It was Mr. Sherlock Holmes's mission now to destroy the documents, for the house was already stirring with the sound of a gunshot, and we hadn't much time to spare the lives and reputations of our client, as well as the other unfortunate souls who had let their secrets spill much too easily. Talkative housemaids, butlers, and grooms were responsible for the letters and papers which contained their masters' or mistresses' most dear secrets, and it was all I could do now but stand back and watch as Holmes threw great handfuls into the blazing fire. I didn't bother checking to see if Mr. Milverton was still alive, for such a villain was not worthy of my care, yet it was with some anxiousness that I stood and watched my friend at work. The house had been alerted, the police would surely be called, and here we were, dressed in black with masks around our eyes, standing at the scene of the crime. Of course we would be the suspected murderers, should our presence be discovered, and it was the fear of the gallows which made me hurry him along with quick cues of eagerness. Yet something seemed to have caught his eye, a particular note or letter that was tied up in a great bundle near the back of the safe, with the older, less useful items of the container. Surely it had some great value, for his stern face paled as he examined the thing with long, trembling fingers.
"Holmes." I hissed in my rush, hearing now the sound of approaching footsteps.
"Coming." Holmes said simply, tossing all but the peculiar bundle into the fire. With such delicacy he handled the one in question, tucking it into his pocket and starting the way we came through the garden. It was by a stroke of luck that we made it over the garden wall without a trouble, even shaking off a pursuer who had managed to catch my by the ankle in my flight. Yet it was with speed and dexterity that we made it back to Baker Street that night, unscathed yet shaken all the same. It was with pounding hearts and tired feet which he climbed the stairs to our rooms, keeping our steps quiet so as not to wake poor Mrs. Hudson. Yet she would be used to it these days, for Homes and I have a very particular talent of arriving and departing at all odd hours of the night while following down our little adventures.
"Well that was quite the mystery. I feel almost as if we had resolved our problem, yet opened a completely new issue all the same. Who was that woman, I wonder?" I asked as I made my way to the brandy, pouring myself a hearty glass and holding the decanter so as to offer some to my friend.
"Yes...yes I do wonder." Was his only response, and with that he sunk into his faithful chair and went straight for his pipe. I sighed heavily, for with such an attitude I knew it best not to bother my friend, yet still I was much too excited to allow myself any attempt at sleep. Surely I could sit up another hour or two, until finally I grew weary enough to retire. The fire was lit and burning brightly, and the never ending sounds of London life were only too obvious throughout our small rooms. It did not matter the hour, there always seemed to be at least one carriage passing by within all minutes, and always someone who felt the need to shout over what little crowd might be gathered in the streets below. Quietly I sat and appreciated the warmth, unable to concentrate on anything but the growing heaviness of my eyes, and the constant begging question of what we had witnessed there in Milverton's office. Such a curious night it had been! Suddenly my friend and I had turned to a single episode of crime, and been witness to such an occurrence that could march us on to the same fate that some of the villains in London suffered under the wrath and dedication of Holmes. Yet Milverton had gotten what he had deserved, and if his death should allow us to rest assured that his life of blackmail was over...well then it was a death that was quite well deserved. I could not well think of another solution which would spare those unfortunate lives and secrets which were stored away in that safe, most of my alternatives would undoubtedly have landed us in prison! And so I am indebted to a murderer, which is very shallow yet of course true all the same. It was close to one o'clock in the morning when I finally decided I might go off to bed, however it was with some surprise that I looked up to find Holmes sitting with the most peculiar expression I had ever caught him with. It was something that might be mistaken as emotion, which of course I did not believe when taken into consideration the usual mannerism of my friend and companion. His usual cold eyes were instead replaced with life, and they slowly scanned the documents clenched in his hands, those that could only be the very same he saved from a fiery fate in that horrible place. So human did he look now that it was almost cause for concern, for never in my time spent with Holmes had I seen him look close to shedding a tear. Tonight he looked remorseful, as if he was mourning the loss of something that meant to him a great deal.
"Holmes, are you going to go off to bed?" I asked carefully, knowing it best not to disturb him, yet wanting to make aware my presence all the same. Surely it would not be too much to make sure he still did remember my being here, for it might be embarrassing to him to realize that his emotional spectacle was being observed. And, just as predicted, the man perked up with the sound of my voice. He blinked quickly, flattening the papers against his chest and forcing one of those sarcastic smiles which he so often wore insincerely.
"Good night Watson." He said with a nod, obviously having heard nothing of what I had said and instead trying to dismiss me. Yet curiosity was a dangerous thing, and even though my friend and a meddler were about the same as a landmine and a wandering boot, well still I had to ask!
"Holmes, what have you got there? What did you save from that wretched place?" I asked. Holmes bit deeper into his pipe, shaking his head and looking towards me very quickly before blinking and looking down towards the carpet once more. He was troubled, which would be a more plausible thing had it not been Sherlock Holmes in question. Tonight I had genuine worry for him.
"It's nothing, very much nothing." Holmes assured quickly, yet his voice was quiet, as if he was still trying to summon words beyond what might be a threatening choke of a sob.
"Forgive me then, if I do not believe you." I shot back rather hotly, to which the detective's eyebrows rose sharply. Surely he did not appreciate such a tone, especially this late at night. I realized my mistake; however I could hardly do him the honor of apologizing. It would seem as though we were both in the wrong that night, and so ever so quietly I bowed my head in farewell, and took my leave. Yet sleep did not come easy, for whenever my eyes would dare close suddenly I was roused with the images of the occurrences that had taken place that peculiar night. I saw Milverton in his study, along with the mysterious woman who brought it upon herself to rid the world of his terrible being. And most importantly, I saw Holmes bent over that document, with such fire in his eyes that I might have mistaken him for the hearth which burned by our feet! Surely those papers must mean much to him, otherwise he would not be so reactant, nor would he be so secretive. Yet what was it that Milverton might have had? Was it a little trouble from the man's past, or was it blackmail instead on someone close to him? His brother Mycroft, perhaps might be the one in question, a man which would certainly be important enough to want on a very short leash? Or was it a client of the past, which might have meant a great deal to my friend before I had come into his company? The question troubled me immensely, and I found with great despair that it was my curiosity that would end up being the death  of me, for I knew I would not fall to sleep tonight or any other night should I not know the contents of those papers. And so like the criminal I had already become, I instead sat up with my lamp, waiting for the telltale signs that Holmes had departed to bed before I crept lightly to my feet. It was only a quick glance that would satisfy my need for knowledge, for surely the contents of such a document would be betrayed in the first couple of lines...all I would need was a peek. And so quietly I crept, noticing thankfully that the door to my friend's room was shut tight and the sitting room which we had once presided was now empty. I looked around for one quick survey of the darkened room, lit only by whatever flames the crumbling logs could provide me with, and noticing thankfully that under Holmes's pipe and tobacco was that familiar roll of papers which were of such importance to him. Surely if they were very private he would not let them lying around so carelessly, would he?  Or at least that was my single minded rationalization, for with a task at hand I always so unperceptive. Such ignorance would certainly have disappointed Sherlock Holmes, if of course the deed itself did not over shadow such witlessness. Nonetheless I snatched at the roll of papers, coming across my prize most eagerly as I unrolled the small bundle. Not to my surprise, I found two envelopes, one which was labeled in unrecognizable handwriting to my companion Holmes, and the other written in his hand yet to a name which was only just recognizable by the tales he told me of his days in university, and of course of the Gloria Scott. Victor Trevor, if I do remember correctly the lad was Holmes's only companion throughout his older years, and he had spent some time with Trevor and his father up at their house in Norfolk. Yet other than his father's unfortunate ties with prisoners and pirates, the name was about all I knew of this mysterious man. Holmes never talked much about his past, and it was with great difficulty that I had learned he had ever gone through childhood at all. In my mind, the man had erupted into this world a well-traveled and well educated sleuth, sent only to incriminate those who deserved it and spare those who did not. Yet these letters, which were not so easily in my hands, would surely open some long closed doors as to his upbringing and his background. I began with the one which was labeled to Holmes, checking now to see how the conversation went and was carried on, and saw that this one must have been the preliminary address. It started as casually as all letters must, written still in that handwriting that must have been characteristic of Victor Trevor...
Mr. Sherlock Holmes,
As you might have expected these past couple of months have been quite difficult for me, for work is not too easily come by in England as it had been before. My father's inheritance has left me plentiful, yet I suspect there must be brighter horizons for me out there, and more prosperous futures. It is with great regret that I write to you so delayed, for it must have been a year since my problem here, yet still you have played across my mind many times. It has been many a time when I thought to write, yet something else always comes up which might prevent me from ever getting around to it. Yet I write you now, regretfully in a selfish sense, for it is a request which I ask of you. I have made the decision to move to India, to try my luck at tea planting. I feel it quite beyond my right to ask this of you, dear friend, yet it comes to mind my particular loneliness. I thought of no one better who to accompany me than you, for our past together does bring back particularly fond memories. Perhaps our future too, could be just as pleasant. I know that you must have a life there in London, yet still I do beseech you to consider joining me. We could be quite wealthy, Sherlock, and quite happy as well. I know it was poor of me not to say it since we last parted, but do remember Sherlock that I love you very much. After this year of painful separation, my heart still does remember.
Yours truly,
Victor Trevor