Work Text:
In an overly crowded inn nestled within the maze of streets that was Limehouse, a slightly balding muscular man cradled his tankard of stale beer in his hands and did his best to block out the noise of the crowded pub. Rather, he tried to block out the near constant stream of endless prattle that came from the old man that was sharing his table.
"So I walks up to the cabby and tells him that half his luggage is now all over the road and guess what he said to me, eh?"
The day had not started well and it was promising to end badly. Reginald Blood ached everywhere, and the throbbing headache that had plagued him all day was slowly being made worse by the constant stream of noise directed at him.
A familiar yet almost forgotten uneasiness stirred within him.
He just felt so ill and yet he was never known for getting sick, apart from when his malaria flared up. But it couldn’t be that, surely, not after all this time. He took another gulp of his foul tasting beer and silently prayed to ancient foreign gods that it wasn’t the case.
Feeling too sick, drunk and bored to care what the old man was talking about, Reg just shrugged his shoulders and took another mouthful of the beer, hoping that the old man would either pass out or lose interest in him before the urge to throttle him got too strong to ignore.
"Well he only goes and tells me that there is a sovereign in it for me if I can fetch it all."
"Did you?" Reg asked, and instantly regretted showing any interest in what the bothersome old codger was saying.
The old man said nothing, just tapped the side of his nose and leant forward, half pulling out a bottle of fairly decent whisky from within the folds of his coat.
"Want a top up, my mate?"
The Sergeant-Major remained silent and quite still. The thought of robbing the old man crossed his mind for a brief moment and was instantly dismissed, for despite his outward appearance Reg Blood made more money in a week than every man, woman and child in the entire pub would do in a year.
The old man leant even closer as he whispered in Reg’s ear “It’s good stuff and it would make this gnats’ piss drinkable, wouldn’t it, eh?”
Looking at the label Reg gave a slight grin then emptied the remains of his own drink onto the floor before offering up his now empty vessel. “No use sullying a fine bit o’ scotch with that maiden water.” The aches he felt eased as he savoured the prospect of a decent drink in what was one of the worst watering holes in Limehouse.
"Good point, lad," the old man nodded, and then proceeded to pour the remains of his own pint into some unsuspecting patron’s glass.
"Here, what you called, then?" the old man asked, as much to Reg’s surprise he half filled his tankard with the whisky, giving a wink as he did so.
"Oi, easy with that, are you trying to get me drunk or something?" Reg chuckled. "And it’s Reg or Reggie to my friends "
"Pleased to meet you, Reggie, my name is Toby." Toby gave a dry chuckle that broke into a violent coughing fit.
"As for getting you drunk, no mate, just wanting to share my good fortune with a kind soul," Toby finally answered once the coughing had eased.
Reg Blood gave a nod then smirked, “I’ve been called many a thing over the years but never a kind soul.”
"What they call you in the army, then?" Toby asked him as the old man took a lingering sip from his glass.
"You bastard, usually." Reg laughed as the warmth from his own mouthful of whisky filled his chest. "How you know I’d served?" Reg asked Toby, one eyebrow raised rather quizzically.
Toby looked at Reg and grinned wide, revealing a mouth that lacked most of its teeth. “You have that look about you.”
Reg went to speak but found he had drifted back to days that were long behind him even if they were never to be forgotten. His gaze grew vacant and his cheek twitched as memories of his younger days were replayed over in his mind.
Toby sat in silence supping his whisky, while he kept a keen eye on Reg, who suddenly seemed to be far older, paler and drunker than he had been moments ago.
After sitting there silently for several minutes, Toby placed a nervous hand on Reg’s arm and was surprised to find that not only was the rolled up shirt sleeve soaked with sweat but the bare arm beneath seemed to be far too cold considering how warm the crowded pub was.
More worrying were the beads of sweat that now covered Reg Blood’s brow, while his lips quivered.
"Reg, mate?" Toby whispered, concerned for his new drinking buddy.
Again several minutes passed before Reg Blood moved rather awkwardly and looked at Toby like he had just seen a ghost.
"I needs to go, think the beer finally got to me"
Grabbing for his hat, Reg Blood went to stand but his legs buckled beneath him and he fell back down onto the seat.
"You ain’t fit to go anywhere on your own, son," Toby stated.
Downing the rest of his glass in one gulp, the old man donned his flat cap and then put an arm around Reg’s waist.
"Come on, let me help you home. You can’t live that far considering you ain’t wearing a coat."
Reg Blood just nodded and with a great deal of help from Toby, he finally managed to stand then together they staggered out the pub. They had barely walked 60 yards when Reg dropped to his knees and proceeded to empty his stomach over the cobbles, much to the disgust of those that were unfortunate enough to be passing by.
Toby stood by him, a worried look now etched on his face as he tried to work out the best course of action.
"Blast it!" he cursed quietly in an accent that was far more polished than the rough and world weary one that Toby used.
Suddenly Reg gave a guttural cry and tried his best to stand. His body was shaking so much he was forced to use Toby as a prop to pull himself up.
"Not the drink," Reg gasped. "Tis an old problem back t’ haunt me," Reg mumbled in between groans of agony..
"Do you need medical assistance?" Toby asked, all traces of his fake accent now abandoned.
"Nah, just let me get t’ my bed, pal…" Reg muttered as he did his best to stagger down the street slowly, forced to pause every few steps as he gathered up his strength before continuing on his journey home, oblivious to everyone and everything around him.
Slowly he was swallowed up by the milling crowd who had lost interest in the two drunk looking old men.
Lost deep in his thoughts, Sherlock Holmes shook his head in disbelief and scratched at the stubble that covered his face. It had taken him months to track the old warhorse down and now it felt like all his hard work was to be for nothing, if only he’d asked Dr. John Watson to accompany him but then this wasn’t really a case, just a hunch that he felt compelled to follow.
Goodness knows how long it would take to cleanse the clothes he wore of the smell from the various doss houses, hostels and public houses he had had to frequent in order to find his quarry and now that very same elusive quarry was wandering blindly through the crowded streets of Limehouse and heading goodness knows where.
Holmes was so sure that Sergeant-Major Reginald Blood was the missing link in a puzzle that just refused to be solved, a puzzle that felt familiar and yet so different.
Now there was nothing for it, he would have to follow the man so he could at least find out where he lived, that is if he didn’t lose him in the crowded streets. Sherlock Holmes gave a slight chuckle as he realised he was just about to do that; the Sergeant-Major had an uncanny knack of simply disappearing despite his size.
It took him a full three minutes to locate Reginald Blood, who had slumped up against the wall of a shop that belonged to some fruit merchant while he once again vomited.
The unfortunate merchant was none too happy about him doing just that and came out to admonish him. The old soldier wasn’t in the mood for idle chatter, let alone having some short bearded gentleman with a thick foreign accent tell him off.
His reply to the furious merchant was to rather awkwardly pick the man up and send him flying through the window of his own premises.
Inwardly Sherlock Holmes cursed worse than a navvy and rushed to the stricken merchant’s aid as the Sergeant-Major wandered off through the throng of people that had gathered to see what had just happened.
None of them fancied stopping the drunken and obvious volatile man from going on his way.
Having made sure that the merchant was merely hurt and not in any immediate danger, well apart from a few opportunistic thieves who were helping themselves to some stock, Holmes hurried back out onto the street to discover there was no sign of Sergeant-Major Reginald Blood anywhere.
"It’s not possible," Holmes complained to himself as he looked every which way for the imposing ex soldier. "A giant of a man like that cannot simply disappear."
Grabbing a nearby passing dock worker as he tried desperately to locate Reg Blood, Holmes slipped back into the character of Toby and asked, “Oi, you seen my mate, big fella in shirt sleeves and wearing a derby, looks like hell?”
"Nah, I just got off shift, mate," the docker answered then hurried on his way, keen to put some distance between himself and the old man that reeked of stale beer and worse.
"Damn him!" Holmes cursed out loud as he stood there looking rather forlorn. "How on earth can I find a man that simply vanishes into thin air like he is a ghost, I think it is about time I had Reginald Sinclair Blood exorcised but how?"
The walk home from the “Piano and Flute” would under normal circumstances have taken Reginald Blood some 20 minutes at the most. In his current condition however it was the early hours of the next day before he finally stumbled into the place he called home, a modest even humble looking house set back slightly from the main road. It nestled between far grander houses in the terrace that ran opposite one of the few flashes of greenery in this part of London. Some folk might have been put off by living opposite the local cemetery but as Reg often joked, “At least the neighbours are quiet.”
His living neighbours were a mix of lower middle class merchants, junior guildsmen and clerks that worked tirelessly in the banks and government offices. Little did these neighbours know that one of the most wanted men in London shared their touch of serenity in an otherwise crowded metropolis.
Reg crawled up the stairs to his bedroom, removing his vomit covered waistcoat and shirt as he did so. Upon reaching the room he kicked off his boots, collapsed on his eiderdown covered bed and fell into an uneasy sleep.
It was almost midday before he awoke, Reg tried his best to ignore the pain in his body and fought back the growing knot of nausea. His fingers grasped the already sweat drenched bed-linen as yet another wave of rigour took hold of him.
"Not again!" he cried out. "Please dear God, not after all this time…"
Sergeant-Major Reginald Blood looked around his bedroom like it was unknown to him, his eyes slightly unfocused and vacant. Then he remembered his salvation; somewhere in this room was a vial of quinine salts hidden away, an almost forgotten memento of his time in India.
"Reggie old son, you needs to move it; it ain’t that far.to crawl, man. You is on your own, no one will come look for you, no one to help, no one to care," he thought to himself as he did his best to stir himself into action.
He dropped onto the floor of his modestly furnished bedroom, and started to drag himself to the one place he kept all his memories of his time on the sub-continent. At the bottom of his wardrobe beneath his clothes lay his battered army kit box and within it, he prayed, was the medicine he now so desperately needed.
Fixing his gaze upon the solid piece of oak he dragged himself over the simple rug that covered part of the wooden floor. He paused only to succumb to the nausea that momentarily overwhelmed him, then without a care he proceeded to crawl through his own vomit and excrement.
Finally he summoned all the determination he was famed for and pulled himself up the wardrobe, thankful that it was capable of supporting his weight. Reg barely managed to throw open the door before another wave of rigour and nausea hit him, causing him to double up.
"Dear god," he mumbled, as his body retched violently.
Shaking hands fumbled for the large metal box. Ignoring what lay spewed across the floor he sat with his back against the door and hoisted the heavy box onto his lap.
A cry of despair left his lips as he saw the padlock. Belatedly he wondered if the powder would still be of use to him. How long ago was it since the last relapse? Reg struggled to recall.
"It’s been like three or four bloody years." Reg said out loud as he struggled to clear his head enough so he could work out what to do next.
He looked around to the dresser where he usually placed his keys, grateful that despite his current condition he had still managed that part of his nightly routine. "I’m getting another key cut and keeping it in my old boots, bugger going through all this palaver again."
Putting the box down he crawled on his hands and knees over to the dresser. With some struggle he finally managed to reach his keys just as a wave of dizziness hit him sending him crashing to the floor, out cold.
Blood awoke to the taste and smell of yet more bile and groaned as he knew that was the least of his problems.
"Good job the lads or the old Colonel can’t see me, I’d never hear the end of it." He managed to chuckle despite how wretched he felt.
This time the distance between himself and the locked box seemed insurmountable; his strength along with his clarity was rapidly leaving him and Reg realised that unless he could reach that box there was every chance that he would die in a pool of his own filth.
Shaking, he reached out slowly, hoping even praying that the box was within his grasp. One finger then another touched the cold metal and, groaning from exertion and relief, he pulled his prize towards himself and finally removed the padlock.
Reg knew he must have passed out yet again, only this time when he awoke he found the box on its side and the contents thrown about the floor. He figured he must have blacked out while searching through it.
"Damn-it, where is that fucking vial?"
Sergeant-Major Blood tried his best to focus and search slowly and methodically. It was no use him rushing and either missing the container or worse still spilling its precious contents. Under a collapsed pile of old newspapers his searching fingers came across a small drawstring bag and he smiled.
"Got you!"
Holding onto the bag and its contents like they were the most precious things ever, the Sergeant-Major summoned the last of his strength and once again crawled to the dresser where a half filled water carafe awaited him.
Knowing full well just how vile all this was going to be Reginald Blood managed to sit on the end of his bed and pour himself a glass of water. Calming himself and fighting yet more chills he managed to measure out a dose of the powder and added it carefully to the water.
He felt way too feverish and it took both hands for him to bring the glass to his lips. Closing his eyes he drank back the medicine in one gulp and instantly gagged at the sheer bitterness and foul taste.
Nothing happened and he allowed himself a sigh of relief, one that unfortunately proved to be premature as once again he was violently sick. This time though it was the quinine as much as the malaria that caused him to retch.
It was all he could to just allow himself to fall back onto his bed and wait, hoping that he would survive to take his next dose.
—————-
Sherlock Holmes was not used to being thwarted, his plans were usually foolproof and yet he had failed in the mission he had given himself.
Sergeant-Major Reginald Blood was beginning to get under his skin, much like Professor Moriarty or his chief of staff Colonel Moran had previously. They had in various ways been dealt with. Yet as Holmes looked over the day’s newspapers he couldn’t help but get the feeling that even from beyond the grave Professor Moriarty was manipulating the underworld.
Colonel Moran was currently safely behind bars, serving a nominal sentence rather than facing the hangman’s noose for the death of Ronald Adair, plus he was being watched carefully so it couldn’t be his influence on the undercity.
No, there had to be another explanation; another criminal mastermind had risen to fill the void left by Moriarty but as yet he was unknown to Holmes and that troubled the detective greatly.
As for Sergeant-Major Reginald Blood, He had gone from being an exceptional soldier who had been decorated for bravery to one who was placed on permanent medical leave. Hints of violent psychotic episodes, as well as veiled murmurs about his lack of moral fibre, were whispered about but nothing was proved.
Upon returning to England the man had struggled to keep down a job and in the end he had turned to bare knuckle boxing in order to make ends meet. After that any information on Reginald Blood was virtually nonexistent; there was the odd arrest when drunk but nothing serious until he was arrested and jailed for assaulting a young police constable back in ‘85. After his release it was if the man had vanished off the face of the earth
Holmes flicked through the currently scant file that he had started to collect on the Sergeant-Major looking for some clue as to where he currently might be living, but just like the man in question most of the pages were blank. Especially worrying for Holmes was the fact that any physical description on Reginald Blood was limited to: Very tall, well built and blonde haired, balding,.amber eyes with no visible scars.
Sherlock had exhausted all his avenues; having previously turned to both his brother Mycroft and even Langdale Pike once his own network of informants and snitches came up with nothing on Reginald Blood, it was starting to seem like the man was indeed a living ghost, a faceless man.
But just as he was about to put down the dossier he spotted a torn page from the ledger of a merchant steamer. There amongst the crew was the following entry:
Reg S. Blood – stoker
Could this be him, could this be the very clue that Sherlock had been looking for?
Giving a cry of triumph, Sherlock Holmes quickly dressed and headed for the river. Time to visit the harbour masters; one of them had to know of the steamer that this Reg S. Blood had sailed on.
Any joy at finding the scrap of paper, however, was short lived as the news from the third harbour master left a rather nasty taste in Sherlock Holmes’s mouth.
"Aye, I remember The Griffin." The man paused to fill his pipe. "Old vessel but still hardy, ‘twas a surprise to hear of her going down."
Holmes rolled his eyes in despair. “You mean she sank?”
"That she did, sir, all hands lost. Lloyds paid out a pretty penny to Rains and Price, the shipping company."
Slipping the man a few coins, Sherlock Holmes started to leave the office but then stopped and asked, “And this R Blood was onboard when she sank?”
"Believe so sir, I’d look it up only we had a fire about a month back and lost a fair old chunk of our records.”
"Ah, that is a shame. Well, cheerio, my good chap, and my thanks."
Closing the door behind him Sherlock Holmes smiled and then burst out laughing.
"Oh, Sergeant-Major, you are a very interesting enigma and I will find you, mark my words I will. And then I will find out what it is you are trying to hide."