Chapter Four: Sebastian Moran
His door was grey. Smoke trailed up above the house into the looming twilight. I stood waiting, my chin sunk down into my muffler—the night was cold, and getting colder—my bloodied knuckles stinging inside my gloves. The rough who had attacked me on my way had come off far worse than I, but I knew the blood would worry John. I would keep my gloves on until I had seen how he was.
All at once the door was opened by a sturdy, keen-eyed woman, about thirty, with paint-spattered hands. A streak of blue paint adorned her hair—she had put her hand up to tidy it out of habit when I had rung the bell.
“Sir?” she said.
I tried to smile winningly, through the trembling of my heart. “I’m here for Doctor Watson.”
She shook her head. My soul sank, but she was saying, “It’s past hours. Come tomorrow—”
“I’m not a patient,” I interrupted, and then, hoping on my notoriety, “I’m Sherlock Holmes.”
I had gambled correctly: she raised her brows. “Oh,” she said, with a good deal of meaning in her tone, “you ought to go up at once, then.”
“Thank you,” I said, not knowing what else to say, and stepped into the warmth of the front hall as she drew back.
“I’m Doctor Liddell,” she said, and I nodded; I was all at once past speech. To be so near—
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