The Flower Seller ( WAYHAUGHT)

Chapter 32

Lestrade offered Sherlock a blanket. "Where to?" he said, sucking hard on his cigarette.

"I'll need a place to lie low for a few hours. And, the use of this boat later this evening."

"Right. I'd suggest mooring up at Rotherhithe till dark. You can have the Lucy till morning. And, her captain. Don't let him near the rum if you want to make it to Blackwood's factory."

"Can you get a message to Lady Haught?"

Lestrade nodded. "Why her? I don't get how you two. Unless. She's a looker alright."

"Our relationship is purely platonic. I did her a disservice once. She navigates the world differently, like your wife."

"Fuck a duck. Deaf too. Never would have guessed. Hides it well, mind."

Sherlock shook his head. "Her hearing is impeccable. As is her sense of taste, and smell. A credit to her tenacity."

The inspector's face creased. "Blind? You sure."

"Not quite. An accident for which I had the good fortune to be present, but the misfortune at having caused indirectly. Nevertheless, it has haunted me ever since."

"My wife's done alright for herself. Ain't hindered her with her lack of hearing. Says it's a blessing not to have to listen to my voice. Or, the kids fighting."

"How are your dear little offspring? Two isn't it."

"Three. Fourth on the way. Will need a bigger house soon. You never thought of settling down?"

"I have all I need in this life. Two delightful nieces under my protection."

"You ain't mentioned them before."

Sherlock merely smiled.

Lestrade disembarked at Blackfriars, allowing Sherlock to continue on his way. The captain of the Lucy moored close to The Angel, ignoring Sherlock's request to stay out of the bar. A seasoned drinker, Captain Todd knew how much he could consume during the day and still retain the ability to navigate the River Thames at night. It left Sherlock with little option but to join him in the ale house, renting one of the upstairs rooms for a few hours, requesting the landlady purchase a number of items. She asked no questions as she handed over what Sherlock listed for her to acquire from local street vendors.

The few extra shillings he handed over would keep her tongue from wagging in the bar downstairs. He laid the items out on the floor, calming his mind for what he was about to undertake. A ritual of sorts, he being too scientific to indulge such fantasies beyond necessary. Rather, an experiment, a journey if you like into the realms of the unconscious, allowing him to piece together snippets of information gleaned from keen observation, the whole picture not yet complete.

A wood burning stove in the corner of the room provided enough heat to melt the scraggy ends of cheap candles, a faded rug on the floor pulled back to expose bare floorboards, a large chalk circle marked out to create a boundary, three more circles added within that boundary, each decreasing in size. Pouring the melted wax to make a cross which pierced the four chalk rings, he set the kettle down. From a small cloth bag he took a handful of salt, placing it in the very centre of his design. On top he added a single animal bone, a large goose feather, and a lion's tooth he found in Reordan's laboratory. Taking out his knife he cut a lock of his own hair. That too was placed on top of the salt. His next act was to slice open his palm, allowing the blood to drip onto the collected items, watching as it seeped into the salt, changing its colour before his very eyes.

The knife back in his pocket, he opened the first bottle of Laudanum, taking a sip, wishing he had mixed it with rum. By his calculations one bottle would get him to the edge of where he wanted to go, a second would take him far beyond. Like Captain Todd, Sherlock was an expert at navigating his own addiction, knowing how much to take, how long the effects would last, how deep he needed to go. On this occasion he needed to go deeper than he had ever been. Beyond his own subconscious, out into the uncharted realms of universal consciousness.