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charleygirlTitle: The Hand of Seth 13/15
Author: charleygirl
Rating: PG
Type: Gen, mystery, angst
Characters Involved: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson, Ibrahim Namin
Summary: Confrontation at the British Museum...
Disclaimer: These characters are out of copyright but still don't belong to me. Doctor Who elements are the property of the BBC
Author's Note: Holmes and Watson as they appear in this story are based on the performances by Jeremy Brett and Edward Hardwicke in the Granada TV series. This fic is ostensibly set between The Sign of Four and The Devil's Foot in the Granada run.
Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve
THE HAND OF SETH
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Beside me, Holmes tensed.
My hand immediately went to the revolver in my pocket, an instinct born of long experience. The door opened, and a figure stepped out under the lamp – I recognised Namin, dapper in pinstripes and spats as he had been when first I saw him in Baker Street. It had only been three days, and yet it felt so much longer. He looked around, frowning, and said something I could not make out to someone hidden behind him in the shadow of the doorway.
I felt rather than saw Holmes getting to his feet, but before any of us could move far there were hurried footsteps upon the pavement and a small man in a top hat approached, hastening towards the door. Namin smiled in satisfaction, and I realised the newcomer’s identity.
“How delightful to see you again, my lord,” said the Egyptian, leaving the doorway and strolling across to meet Lord Harcourt. “I take it that you have brought the sacred relic as instructed?”
Holmes was quivering with anger. “What the devil is that man doing?” he hissed. “He will ruin everything!”
“I wish to see my son,” the earl said, the arrogance I recalled from our first encounter back in his voice. “You will show me that he is unharmed.”
“All in good time, my lord.” Namin smiled. “You must show us the relic before we do any kind of business.”
“Business?” I could not see Harcourt’s face from my position, but the naked fury that now overtook arrogance in the peer’s voice was plain to all. “You break into my house; steal my property; kill my son, and you expect negotiate terms with me?” he exclaimed. “How dare you, sir!”
This speech had little effect upon Namin. He threw back his head and laughed, the sound ringing from the nearby buildings. “You are an insect, my lord, of no account whatsoever in the new order we will create. The Dark Lord has no use for a creature such as you.”
“You are completely insane,” breathed Harcourt, a sentiment with which I wholeheartedly agreed.
“And you have broken the law,” said Holmes. He had risen without my noticing, so intent had I been upon the exchange between Namin and the earl, and was already crossing the street. “You have a catalogue of crimes to your name, Mr Namin, no doubt all performed in the name of your Dark Lord, but we sadly cannot call him to account for them.”
Namin cocked his head to one side, observing my friend with interest as I hurried to catch him up, hearing Bretherton following. “And you are a policeman? I confess my surprise – you do not look like one.”
“My name is Sherlock Holmes – it may or may not mean something to you. I am here to tell you that the game is up. I know your intentions and it will not work.”
“You claim knowledge of the future, then, Mr Holmes?” the Egyptian enquired in evident amusement.
“I can see your immediate future,” Holmes replied.
“As can I. And it does not involve a trip to the police station. The All Powerful has reserved me for greater things.” Namin’s voice hardened. “Give me the relic, Lord Harcourt.”
“Show me my son,” said the earl defiantly.
“As I said before – the relic first. Do not try to trick us, my lord. It will do neither you nor your son any good.”
“Mr William Ravensley is no use to you dead,” Holmes said. “What harm is there in showing us that he is alive and well?”
“I will show nothing to you, Mr Holmes,” Namin snapped. “This is not your affair. If you leave now there will be no consequences foe either you or your friends. But if you try to stop us - ”
Holmes barked a laugh, much to my astonishment. “Do you honestly expect me to believe that?”
The Egyptian glared at him. “You may believe whatever you choose. But we are wasting time – the hour of the Dark Lord’s resurrection approaches.” He glanced at the sky, and as I followed his gaze I realised that the clouds had parted, revealing the moon and the shadow that was beginning to pass over its surface, staining it a deep, blood red. The colour of Seth. Namin held out a hand, his expression now set. In his other, which he removed from the pocket of his jacket, he held a revolver. “The sacred relic, Lord Harcourt. I will not ask you again.”
I held my breath, knowing that the earl did not have the hand and so had no chance of surrendering it. Holmes had not shared his plans with me, and the very fact of Harcourt’s presence when he had been specifically told to stay at home complicated matters.
There was a long pause. Namin looked from the earl to Holmes and back again. Harcourt looked at Holmes, but my friend remained impassive. At length a voice issued from behind the half-open door, speaking in a language I could not understand. Whatever the words, the tone was urgent. Namin barked something in reply.
“Do not play games with me,” he said, training the gun on Holmes. “Where is the hand of Sutek?”
To my amazement, Holmes’s own revolver was nowhere to be seen. I brought mine up, fixing my sights on Namin. “It is in my pocket,” Holmes said calmly. The Egyptian stared at him. “Bring William Ravensley here now, or I promise you that I will destroy your sacred relic. Where will your resurrection be then?”
The words momentarily stopped Namin in his tracks, but he recovered swiftly. With a wordless cry he flew at Holmes – I reacted first, pushing my friend aside and letting off a shot that went wild, hitting the stone cornice above Namin’s head.
“You will not stop the descent of the All Powerful Sutek!” he cried, turning his gun upon me. In his haste and excitement, his fingers fumbled on the trigger and he misfired even as I moved quickly out of range, the powder scorching his hand. The revolver fell to the floor and I shouted at Bretherton to retrieve it – the curator hesitated, and before anyone could stop him Namin had vanished and the door slammed shut behind him.
I picked up the fallen gun and handed it to Bretherton. The curator took it reluctantly, and I went to help Holmes to his feet. He was winded from the impact with the pavement, trying to get his breath back. I did not like the sound of his wheezing at all, but could do nothing about it as the moment he was upright he turned furiously upon Lord Harcourt, demanding to know what he thought he was doing.
“Did I, or did I not, my lord, give you strict instructions to remain at home this evening?”
“I had to try and save my son,” the earl said simply, apparently unmoved by Holmes’s anger – a remarkable achievement.
“That was exactly what I was trying to accomplish! Now you may have signed his death warrant.” Holmes looked around him. “Where in God’s name is Lestrade?”
“Shall I fetch him?” I suggested, even though I knew that the journey to Scotland Yard and back would waste time we did not have.
He shook his head sharply. “No, it would take too long. Bretherton, we need to get inside.”
The curator nodded, withdrawing a bunch of keys from his pocket. He approached the door a little nervously – I stood at his shoulder with my revolver, and gave him an encouraging glance. If there was someone waiting behind the door we would be ready for them.
Bretherton inserted a key into the lock, but it would not turn. He tried a different key, but the same thing happened. He shook his head and tried to insert the first key again, but it would not fit the lock. “This is extremely odd. I know that this is the correct key!”
“They have locked it from the inside and left the key in the lock.” Holmes knelt to examine the keyhole, but could see little in the moonlight. “No gap under the door big enough to remove it that way…could the door be broken down?”
“Not without some kind of battering ram,” I said, trying my weight against it. The wood was solid, and could withstand a considerable siege. No doubt the main doors were twice as strong.
“Is there another way in?” Holmes asked.
Bretherton considered. “There is the door used by the watchmen, but I do not have the key.”
I saw my friend’s eyes glitter in anticipation. He smiled grimly. “That may not be necessary. Lead on.”
“What should I do?” asked Harcourt.
Holmes did not even look at him, incredible rudeness even by his standards. I could understand the earl’s actions, even if I could not excuse them. He had been trying to save his son – what father would not have made the attempt? “Wait here for the police,” Holmes snapped, “and please do not attempt to do anything else. It will be neither wise nor useful.”
He left the poor man on the pavement, open-mouthed with either indignation or astonishment. Bretherton led us around the back of the building, down a deserted alley, and to a partially-concealed door. I was unsurprised to find that Holmes had pocketed his lock picks before we left Baker Street, and it did not take him long to obtain entrance via the watchmen’s door. Once we were inside I was not sure whether to be relieved – I had been concerned that the shots fired would bring a constable down on us – or anxious. I kept my hand on my gun.
Bretherton had been correct when he said that we would become lost in the building without him. We followed him with the aid of Holmes’s dark lantern through a maze of winding passages, past offices and store rooms, before we reached the public areas and the galleries.
“Where will they be?” Bretherton asked nervously.
“The Egyptian sculpture gallery is a distinct possibility,” Holmes replied, taking the lead now that he recognised his surroundings. “There are plenty of altars for them to utilise.”
Sure enough, as we neared the gallery (which was on the ground floor due to the combined weight of its contents), I could hear the sound of chanting. The words were in a foreign tongue, but the rhythm of the voices was enough to send a chill down my spine.
“How many of them are there?” Bretherton wondered.
Holmes was listening intently. “At least six. Certainly no more than ten. More than I expected.”
“Whichever way, we are hopelessly outnumbered,” I said, dread stirring in the pit of my stomach. “We must leave.”
“We will do nothing of the sort, Watson.”
“Holmes, to stay is madness! We should go back outside and wait for Lestrade. There is no sense in getting ourselves killed!” I exclaimed, and he immediately hissed for silence.
“I have no intention of letting those men do whatever it is they intend to do,” he snapped. “Lestrade or no, I will see them brought to justice.”
I stared at him in amazement. Never before had he made such a complete and utter error of judgement. In that moment, seeing his glittering eyes fixed on me in the dim light, I knew that he had taken the drug that afternoon, perhaps even as late as a little before Bretherton’s arrival. It was the cocaine talking, telling him he could do things that were patently impossible, even for him.
“At what time did you tell Lestrade to meet us here?” I demanded in a low voice, recalling how he had ignored the question earlier. “Tell me, Holmes!”
His eyes widened in surprise, and then he scowled at me. “I told him to be here in good time,” he said evasively.
“You cannot remember, can you? That wretched drug had addled your brain!” I was aware of Bretherton watching us in astonishment, but I was not about to let this pass. “You have led us all into danger! And after the conversation we had last night…all because you would not drop this damned case!”
“This case is all that has kept me going over the last few days,” Holmes countered furiously. “Without it I would have - ”
“I don’t want to hear it,” I said. “To have brought me into this is bad enough, but to have involved Bretherton is unforgivable! We are leaving. Now.” I turned, and immediately felt Holmes’s hand on my shoulder, spinning me round to face him.
“We cannot walk away from this!” he hissed. “To have come this far - ”
I shook my head. “No, Holmes. You cannot see the folly of this, but I can. Leave it to the police.”
“The police are not here!”
And whose fault is that? I wanted to cry, but did not, mainly because I would have been repeating myself, but also because I had at that moment noticed, ominously, that the chanting had stopped.
Bretherton looked anxiously towards the doorway that led to the sculpture gallery. Holmes, ignoring me now, hurried over. I followed, wondering exactly when the voices had ceased, and whether their owners had heard our discussion.
TBC
Author: charleygirl
Rating: PG
Type: Gen, mystery, angst
Characters Involved: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson, Ibrahim Namin
Summary: Confrontation at the British Museum...
Disclaimer: These characters are out of copyright but still don't belong to me. Doctor Who elements are the property of the BBC
Author's Note: Holmes and Watson as they appear in this story are based on the performances by Jeremy Brett and Edward Hardwicke in the Granada TV series. This fic is ostensibly set between The Sign of Four and The Devil's Foot in the Granada run.
Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve
THE HAND OF SETH
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Beside me, Holmes tensed.
My hand immediately went to the revolver in my pocket, an instinct born of long experience. The door opened, and a figure stepped out under the lamp – I recognised Namin, dapper in pinstripes and spats as he had been when first I saw him in Baker Street. It had only been three days, and yet it felt so much longer. He looked around, frowning, and said something I could not make out to someone hidden behind him in the shadow of the doorway.
I felt rather than saw Holmes getting to his feet, but before any of us could move far there were hurried footsteps upon the pavement and a small man in a top hat approached, hastening towards the door. Namin smiled in satisfaction, and I realised the newcomer’s identity.
“How delightful to see you again, my lord,” said the Egyptian, leaving the doorway and strolling across to meet Lord Harcourt. “I take it that you have brought the sacred relic as instructed?”
Holmes was quivering with anger. “What the devil is that man doing?” he hissed. “He will ruin everything!”
“I wish to see my son,” the earl said, the arrogance I recalled from our first encounter back in his voice. “You will show me that he is unharmed.”
“All in good time, my lord.” Namin smiled. “You must show us the relic before we do any kind of business.”
“Business?” I could not see Harcourt’s face from my position, but the naked fury that now overtook arrogance in the peer’s voice was plain to all. “You break into my house; steal my property; kill my son, and you expect negotiate terms with me?” he exclaimed. “How dare you, sir!”
This speech had little effect upon Namin. He threw back his head and laughed, the sound ringing from the nearby buildings. “You are an insect, my lord, of no account whatsoever in the new order we will create. The Dark Lord has no use for a creature such as you.”
“You are completely insane,” breathed Harcourt, a sentiment with which I wholeheartedly agreed.
“And you have broken the law,” said Holmes. He had risen without my noticing, so intent had I been upon the exchange between Namin and the earl, and was already crossing the street. “You have a catalogue of crimes to your name, Mr Namin, no doubt all performed in the name of your Dark Lord, but we sadly cannot call him to account for them.”
Namin cocked his head to one side, observing my friend with interest as I hurried to catch him up, hearing Bretherton following. “And you are a policeman? I confess my surprise – you do not look like one.”
“My name is Sherlock Holmes – it may or may not mean something to you. I am here to tell you that the game is up. I know your intentions and it will not work.”
“You claim knowledge of the future, then, Mr Holmes?” the Egyptian enquired in evident amusement.
“I can see your immediate future,” Holmes replied.
“As can I. And it does not involve a trip to the police station. The All Powerful has reserved me for greater things.” Namin’s voice hardened. “Give me the relic, Lord Harcourt.”
“Show me my son,” said the earl defiantly.
“As I said before – the relic first. Do not try to trick us, my lord. It will do neither you nor your son any good.”
“Mr William Ravensley is no use to you dead,” Holmes said. “What harm is there in showing us that he is alive and well?”
“I will show nothing to you, Mr Holmes,” Namin snapped. “This is not your affair. If you leave now there will be no consequences foe either you or your friends. But if you try to stop us - ”
Holmes barked a laugh, much to my astonishment. “Do you honestly expect me to believe that?”
The Egyptian glared at him. “You may believe whatever you choose. But we are wasting time – the hour of the Dark Lord’s resurrection approaches.” He glanced at the sky, and as I followed his gaze I realised that the clouds had parted, revealing the moon and the shadow that was beginning to pass over its surface, staining it a deep, blood red. The colour of Seth. Namin held out a hand, his expression now set. In his other, which he removed from the pocket of his jacket, he held a revolver. “The sacred relic, Lord Harcourt. I will not ask you again.”
I held my breath, knowing that the earl did not have the hand and so had no chance of surrendering it. Holmes had not shared his plans with me, and the very fact of Harcourt’s presence when he had been specifically told to stay at home complicated matters.
There was a long pause. Namin looked from the earl to Holmes and back again. Harcourt looked at Holmes, but my friend remained impassive. At length a voice issued from behind the half-open door, speaking in a language I could not understand. Whatever the words, the tone was urgent. Namin barked something in reply.
“Do not play games with me,” he said, training the gun on Holmes. “Where is the hand of Sutek?”
To my amazement, Holmes’s own revolver was nowhere to be seen. I brought mine up, fixing my sights on Namin. “It is in my pocket,” Holmes said calmly. The Egyptian stared at him. “Bring William Ravensley here now, or I promise you that I will destroy your sacred relic. Where will your resurrection be then?”
The words momentarily stopped Namin in his tracks, but he recovered swiftly. With a wordless cry he flew at Holmes – I reacted first, pushing my friend aside and letting off a shot that went wild, hitting the stone cornice above Namin’s head.
“You will not stop the descent of the All Powerful Sutek!” he cried, turning his gun upon me. In his haste and excitement, his fingers fumbled on the trigger and he misfired even as I moved quickly out of range, the powder scorching his hand. The revolver fell to the floor and I shouted at Bretherton to retrieve it – the curator hesitated, and before anyone could stop him Namin had vanished and the door slammed shut behind him.
I picked up the fallen gun and handed it to Bretherton. The curator took it reluctantly, and I went to help Holmes to his feet. He was winded from the impact with the pavement, trying to get his breath back. I did not like the sound of his wheezing at all, but could do nothing about it as the moment he was upright he turned furiously upon Lord Harcourt, demanding to know what he thought he was doing.
“Did I, or did I not, my lord, give you strict instructions to remain at home this evening?”
“I had to try and save my son,” the earl said simply, apparently unmoved by Holmes’s anger – a remarkable achievement.
“That was exactly what I was trying to accomplish! Now you may have signed his death warrant.” Holmes looked around him. “Where in God’s name is Lestrade?”
“Shall I fetch him?” I suggested, even though I knew that the journey to Scotland Yard and back would waste time we did not have.
He shook his head sharply. “No, it would take too long. Bretherton, we need to get inside.”
The curator nodded, withdrawing a bunch of keys from his pocket. He approached the door a little nervously – I stood at his shoulder with my revolver, and gave him an encouraging glance. If there was someone waiting behind the door we would be ready for them.
Bretherton inserted a key into the lock, but it would not turn. He tried a different key, but the same thing happened. He shook his head and tried to insert the first key again, but it would not fit the lock. “This is extremely odd. I know that this is the correct key!”
“They have locked it from the inside and left the key in the lock.” Holmes knelt to examine the keyhole, but could see little in the moonlight. “No gap under the door big enough to remove it that way…could the door be broken down?”
“Not without some kind of battering ram,” I said, trying my weight against it. The wood was solid, and could withstand a considerable siege. No doubt the main doors were twice as strong.
“Is there another way in?” Holmes asked.
Bretherton considered. “There is the door used by the watchmen, but I do not have the key.”
I saw my friend’s eyes glitter in anticipation. He smiled grimly. “That may not be necessary. Lead on.”
“What should I do?” asked Harcourt.
Holmes did not even look at him, incredible rudeness even by his standards. I could understand the earl’s actions, even if I could not excuse them. He had been trying to save his son – what father would not have made the attempt? “Wait here for the police,” Holmes snapped, “and please do not attempt to do anything else. It will be neither wise nor useful.”
He left the poor man on the pavement, open-mouthed with either indignation or astonishment. Bretherton led us around the back of the building, down a deserted alley, and to a partially-concealed door. I was unsurprised to find that Holmes had pocketed his lock picks before we left Baker Street, and it did not take him long to obtain entrance via the watchmen’s door. Once we were inside I was not sure whether to be relieved – I had been concerned that the shots fired would bring a constable down on us – or anxious. I kept my hand on my gun.
Bretherton had been correct when he said that we would become lost in the building without him. We followed him with the aid of Holmes’s dark lantern through a maze of winding passages, past offices and store rooms, before we reached the public areas and the galleries.
“Where will they be?” Bretherton asked nervously.
“The Egyptian sculpture gallery is a distinct possibility,” Holmes replied, taking the lead now that he recognised his surroundings. “There are plenty of altars for them to utilise.”
Sure enough, as we neared the gallery (which was on the ground floor due to the combined weight of its contents), I could hear the sound of chanting. The words were in a foreign tongue, but the rhythm of the voices was enough to send a chill down my spine.
“How many of them are there?” Bretherton wondered.
Holmes was listening intently. “At least six. Certainly no more than ten. More than I expected.”
“Whichever way, we are hopelessly outnumbered,” I said, dread stirring in the pit of my stomach. “We must leave.”
“We will do nothing of the sort, Watson.”
“Holmes, to stay is madness! We should go back outside and wait for Lestrade. There is no sense in getting ourselves killed!” I exclaimed, and he immediately hissed for silence.
“I have no intention of letting those men do whatever it is they intend to do,” he snapped. “Lestrade or no, I will see them brought to justice.”
I stared at him in amazement. Never before had he made such a complete and utter error of judgement. In that moment, seeing his glittering eyes fixed on me in the dim light, I knew that he had taken the drug that afternoon, perhaps even as late as a little before Bretherton’s arrival. It was the cocaine talking, telling him he could do things that were patently impossible, even for him.
“At what time did you tell Lestrade to meet us here?” I demanded in a low voice, recalling how he had ignored the question earlier. “Tell me, Holmes!”
His eyes widened in surprise, and then he scowled at me. “I told him to be here in good time,” he said evasively.
“You cannot remember, can you? That wretched drug had addled your brain!” I was aware of Bretherton watching us in astonishment, but I was not about to let this pass. “You have led us all into danger! And after the conversation we had last night…all because you would not drop this damned case!”
“This case is all that has kept me going over the last few days,” Holmes countered furiously. “Without it I would have - ”
“I don’t want to hear it,” I said. “To have brought me into this is bad enough, but to have involved Bretherton is unforgivable! We are leaving. Now.” I turned, and immediately felt Holmes’s hand on my shoulder, spinning me round to face him.
“We cannot walk away from this!” he hissed. “To have come this far - ”
I shook my head. “No, Holmes. You cannot see the folly of this, but I can. Leave it to the police.”
“The police are not here!”
And whose fault is that? I wanted to cry, but did not, mainly because I would have been repeating myself, but also because I had at that moment noticed, ominously, that the chanting had stopped.
Bretherton looked anxiously towards the doorway that led to the sculpture gallery. Holmes, ignoring me now, hurried over. I followed, wondering exactly when the voices had ceased, and whether their owners had heard our discussion.
TBC
