| Title- Further Adventures of the Young Sherlock Holmes Author- Noisseau--imhis1in5billion@hotmail.com Rating- PG Category- Mystery / Romance Spoilers- Young Sherlock Holmes Summary- As the events of the movie come to a close, Holmes is bereft and Watson is left behind. However, it soon becomes clear that the adventure is far from over.... Disclaimer: The events and characters recognizable from YSH belong to Paramount, though I have reason to believe that Holmes belongs solely to himself.... A/N: Well, after much searching, I've been unable to find any fanfic based on "Young Sherlock Holmes," one of the better Holmes films, in my humble opinion. Thus, as I've often found, when you want to read something, you usually end up having to write it yourself. So, I've begun this fic with the final events of the movie....it shall evolve into who-knows-what from there. Enjoy! ********** Further Adventures of the Young Sherlock Holmes ********** Chapter 1 ********** London Winter, 1871 "I never want to be alone." So went Holmes's quiet answer that evening at the supper table. Our companions, each of whom had expounded effusively on their prospective careers, exchanged silent glances and raised eyebrows. To their minds, this was simply Holmes being his odd and inscrutable self, determined to answer even the simplest of questions in a cryptic manner. But even after such a short time, I knew him more deeply than that. It was a rare insight into his emotions, to be sure, a part of himself that he normally kept tightly under wraps. I was actually rather astonished that he revealed such a personal thing at all, to say nothing of divulging it in front of his supposed archrival. "I never want to be alone," he'd intoned in a far-away voice, almost as if he'd forgotten about his audience altogether. His attention seemed entirely transfixed by the pale, willowy form visible through the frosted window--Elizabeth. For all of his focus, determination, and voracity when it came to deduction and detection, Sherlock Holmes wanted nothing so much as the companionship of that one remarkable girl. "I never want to be alone," said he. And yet, that is exactly how the close of our first adventure together found him. Sweet Elizabeth had died protecting him, and Holmes was left utterly alone, and resigned to remaining so. Or so he thought. J. H. Watson ******************************************************************* Chapter 2 ********** Near the Thames, London Winter, 1871 It was the last time I ever saw Holmes cry willingly, sitting there in the new snow and clutching Elizabeth to his breast. I felt helpless. How could I console the boy--the man, really--who had, to that point, seemed emotionally impermiable. It was then that I realized that there could be no real comfort for Sherlock Holmes, not now, maybe not ever. So I resolved to do what I could for him. With what I hoped was a reasuring squeeze on his trembling shoulder, I ran off to find a constable. Having located one walking his beat only a block away, we were back within minutes, police whistle screeching, to find Holmes still holding Elizabeth. She seemed somehow only to be sleeping as he craddled her against his chest. For a moment, I even imagined that I saw her eyelids flicker briefly, but dismissed it in the next instant as wishful thinking. I wasn't a doctor yet, but I knew very well that Elizabeth was dead. I glanced at Holmes as the sound of many heavy footsteps and carraige wheels began to converge on our location. His face was burried in her hair, probably to hide his weeping. I was absurdly glad he hadn't seen the minute movement on Elizabeth's face, if indeed it had been more than my traumatized imagination. Almost before I knew what was happening, a horse-drawn ambulence had arrived and its attendants were gently prying Elizabeth's body--I shuddered to think of her in such a manner!--away from Holmes. For a moment, it looked like he might fight them, but then he visibly reined himself in and loosed his hold on her still form. I watched helpelessly as he slowly stood, and almost absentmindedly wiped the remaining tears from his long face. I took a step toward him, not at all sure how to comfort him, wanting to comfort myself, but hesitated as his eyes became dull and shuttered. Apparently noticing my uncertainty, he went so far as to lay one long, elegant hand heavily on my shoulder, letting it rest there for a brief moment. After that small gesture, Holmes was all business. He calmly related our adventure to Inspector Lestrade, systematically explaining the criminal movements of Ehtar and his strangely coiffed followers. He hesitated only briefly when it came time to tell of Elizabeth's final heroic act. I watched with some trepidation as his eyes lost their focus for a moment, only to snap back with an almost-audible click as he resolutely shoved his grief aside and pressed on. I have never admired Holmes so much as I did in that moment, standing in a sodden, dingy back-alley near the Thames. In all of our adventures before and since, he was ever a figure greatly to be admired, with a boundless intellect, a rapier-quick wit, a natural grace of movement, and a surprising though ready kindness of heart. But in those next days, when he was laid so low by the abrupt loss of the person dearest to his heart, I became the fortunate witness to the deep-seated and unflagging courage of Sherlock Holmes. J. H. Watson ******************************************************************* Chapter 3 ********** London Winter, 1871 At the close of the affair with Ehtar and his Egyptian cult, the turmoil that had marked the preceding week simply refused to cease. Though Holmes and I were no longer chasing all over London like men possessed, there remained many questions that needed answering, and thus many interminable sessions with Inspector Lestrade. At the time, they felt uncomfortably like interrogations. Through the next several tedious and tiring days, Holmes remained stonily silent whenever possible. He would answer the Inspector's queries in a clipped and hurried fashion, saying only as much as was necessary. It was as if he could hardly be bothered to pause his own furious contemplations in order to fully address Lestrade's inevitably ponderous lines of inquiry. I well recognized the signs by then: dull eyes, perpetually furrowed brow, lanky form slouched uncomfortably in a chair, vacant gaze directed for hours at some uninteresting inanimate object. To my momentary amusement, I noticed that he'd even taken to contemplatively sucking on that silly pipe I'd been forced to buy, though he did not try to smoke it just then. Clearly, Holmes was systematically going over and over the events, clues, and nuances of the case, silently frantic in his quest for any error, any decision he might have made differently. I came upon him once, two days after the close of the investigation. He was slouched in a winged-back armchair in Elizabeth's old sitting room, having fallen into an exhausted and restless slumber. I stood watching him for a moment, wondering what I could possibly do to help this, my closest friend, when I noticed his eyelids beginning to twitch rapidly. Before my eyes, his breath started to hitch painfully in his chest, and strangled moans to pour from his mouth. I took a startled step toward him, at first worried that he might be ill. I reached Holmes' side as he clutched at his middle and was about to inquire after his health, when his moans suddenly became coherent. "No...Elizabeth!" he whimpered in obvious distress, tears squeezing from the corners of his tightly closed eyes. <<A dream...>> I realized belatedly, painfully torn between waking him from this new horror and saving him the embarrassment of knowing I'd been witness to it. The former quickly won out as Holmes began to sob in earnest, though quietly. I reached out to grasp one quivering shoulder and shook him as gently as I could. "Holmes," I called out in a normal tone of voice, hoping to startle him awake. "Holmes, come on then, wake up." Abruptly, Holmes started violently away from me, wrenching himself from my grasp. For the briefest of moments, he stared at me, eyes wide with disorientation and, I thought, a touch of fear. Then I watched as he visibly pulled himself together. He produced his handkerchief, quite nonchalantly, and cleaned the tear tracks from his thin cheeks. When he pulled the cloth away, I could no longer see any difference in his visage from his normally cool and collected demeanor. He leaned forward, placing elbows on knees, and drew in several deep, calming breaths before commenting, "So sorry, Watson." His voice was tightly controlled, straining well beyond his usual dulcet tones. More measured breathing, then, "I've been...dreaming often since... since Elizabeth...." he trailed off, knowing that I well understood his meaning. I once again wondered how I could possibly comfort my friend Holmes, who normally seemed so completely self-sufficient, fully capable of handling any situation. Ruthlessly pushing aside my own discomfort, I reached out once again and placed a tentative hand on his wiry shoulder. I felt him tense momentarily, so unused was he to such contact from me--or anyone save Elizabeth, I was certain. Soon, however, he allowed himself to relax fractionally when he saw that I would not unhand him unless he expressly wished it. He sighed quietly, and then murmured, "This is intolerable, Watson!" I was surprised, to say the least. He hadn't so much as spoken Elizabeth's name to me since her untimely death. This blunt and unexpected confession revealed more to me about his tortured state of mind than he'd meant it to, I'm sure. We'd managed to solve the case through Holmes' leaps of deduction and a bit of quick thinking at the end, but the cost to both Holmes and myself was tremendous. For his part, no matter how agilely his mind had worked, he'd been unable to foresee or prevent the tragic loss of the person dearest to him. That she had perished from a bullet that was meant for Holmes could only have been like rubbing all of the salt in the Dead Sea into an already festering wound. This bereavement had, of course, effected me deeply as well, as I'd come to view Elizabeth as quite a formidable ally, friend, and addition to our impromptu detection team. On top of it all, the perpetrator of these countless heinous crimes had slipped through our desperate fingers into the icy depths of the Thames, thus avoiding any earthly punishment. His dastardly survival would remain unknown to us for many years until he resurfaced, so to speak, to menace Holmes and myself once again. But that story has been told elsewhere. "I can think of nothing," Holmes continued, "nothing that could have prevented...it." I could determine no way to respond that would not be scoffed at nor belittle what he was feeling, so I simply stood, allowing him to voice his dispirited ruminations. "If only she hadn't...." Holmes fell silent, grimacing horribly, and with a start I remembered my original reason for searching him out. "Holmes," I began slowly, steeling myself for his myriad possible reactions to my news. He cocked his bent head slightly to the side to show his attention. "Holmes, a messenger just came from Inspector Lestrade. The note was addressed to the both of us, so I've opened it...." I trailed off, loath to even voice its contents. Holmes pulled away from my hand, sitting up quickly. "Do get on with it, Watson," he exclaimed impatiently. I began to fidget with the top button on my vest, unable to meet his piercing gaze. "He said...he said that the morgue cannot find Elizabeth's body," I blurted out, my eyes flying up to his face. I was not surprised to see the series of emotions which played across it as he processed this new information. There first came shock, followed quickly by a profound sorrow, his features finally settling into no small amount of indignant anger. "But, Watson," he began, leaping out of his chair to pace a tight circuit around the room. "How can that be? Lestrade expressly promised me that only the best people would handle her--" Holmes stopped short of actually referring to Elizabeth as a mere body. "Incompetent fools," he muttered, still pacing furiously. "It's certainly happened many times before, losing a body. But why would Elizabeth go missing? Could Ehtar have.... No, that makes no sense." He came to rest abruptly in front of me and took hold of my shoulders. "Watson, did the message give any more information?" he asked urgently, looming over me. Knowing that Holmes would never be satisfied by my own recitation, I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out the hastily written message. It read: Masters Holmes & Watson: City Morgue reports body of Miss Elizabeth Hardy has gone missing. Last seen by ambulance attendants and night nurse. Please come by Yard to consult. Inspector Lestrade After reading the crumpled bit of paper, Holmes stood utterly still, his jaw muscles working furiously. Then, much to my dismay, he leapt into action, grabbing up his newly acquired inverness and deerstalker cap. "Come Watson! We must get to the Yard as soon as possible, before the trail goes cold," he cried, bounding out of the room and disappearing down the stairs before I could respond. Like a well-trained bloodhound, Holmes was on the scent. I had no other option but to follow him, so with a sigh, I quickly took up my own garments and contented myself with keeping his lanky form and billowing overcoat in view. J. H. Watson ******************************************************************* Chapter 4 *********** Metropolitan Police Headquarters Great Scotland Yard, London Winter, 1871 "Someone's probably snatched it to sell on the black market," Inspector Lestrade said blandly, his expression verging on profound exasperation. I winced at the man's callous comment and glanced surreptitiously at Holmes. Anger flared briefly on his face, but was quickly doused by the chilling glare that he fixed on the older man. "I am *well* aware of the possible motives behind this incident," said Holmes, his voice razor-sharp. "What I expect from you and your department is a prompt and thorough investigation into the matter! Though I cannot say I've been overly impressed by your efficiency thus far," he added under his breath. The insult seemed to echo in the tiny office. Inspector Lestrade began to sputter indignantly, his round face flushing crimson. I edged deliberately toward the rigid Holmes, deciding that I might at least attempt to prevent their strangling one another. To my decided relief, a burly P.C. chose that moment to poke his head 'round the open door. "Sorry to in'erupt you, Inspec'or Lestrade, but ye said you wan'ed those reports from 'ospital straight away when they arrived," the young bobby announced crisply, tucking his blue, domed helmet under his arm and extending a thin dispatch envelope to the livid Inspector. After drawing a deep and, hopefully, calming breath, Lestrade leaned across his cluttered desk to snatch the sheaf of papers from the constable and muttered a quick, "Well done, Hampton, you may go." Nearly overcome by this minuscule compliment, P.C. Hampton snapped to attention and did a smart about face before leaving Lestrade's office, his hand stealing up to finger his sparse mustache in pleasure. My momentary amusement at the man's officiousness was quickly squelched by the grim look I saw on Lestrade's face as I turned my attention back to him. He was scanning the few pages hurriedly, his brow furrowed in consternation, but then he seemed to remember his audience and clapped the folder quickly shut. The portly, newly-promoted Inspector looked admirably calm as he made his pronouncement. "There is no record of a Miss Elizabeth Hardy having been attended in any state of being at any of the greater London hospitals. A thorough search has been made of the hospital to which the ambulance delivered the body, and no trace can be found. As I have said, her body has simply disappeared--no intrigue involved!" He said this last quite sharply, and I felt his words hit me like a smart slap in the face. How dare he speak of the recently dead in such a fashion, and to those closest to her in life, no less! This new injustice on top of an already painful grief led me to seriously contemplate turning on my heel and walking out of his infernal office without another word. Needless to say, if the Inspector's words were causing me such distress, I could only guess at what seething emotions might be hidden beneath Holmes' icy facade. Holmes held himself stiffly, his hands clasped tightly behind his back, his voice carefully measured as he asked, "Did your constables use the picture I lent you to check any unidentified bodies?" There was no longer any hesitation in his reference to Elizabeth as simply a body, though I suspected that this show of practiced professionalism was mostly for Lestrade's benefit. "Yes, Holmes!" Lestrade exclaimed, clearly fed up with the entire situation. "We've followed every avenue available to try and locate the girl's body, but it is simply not there for us to find." "But, Inspector--" "No, Mr. Holmes," he pronounced with a definite air of finality. "There is not a thing left for us to investigate. Miss Hardy's body is gone, and that is that. There will be no finding it, not by Scotland Yard and certainly not by you!" He did not bother to hide the faint trace of distaste in his tone as he said this. I secretly hoped that he would feel some nasty consequences for this blunder from his supervisor as soon as the new day dawned. "Good day then, Inspector," Holmes bade him farewell with great asperity, moving forward only as much as was necessary to retrieve the small photograph of Elizabeth from atop a teetering stack of files, and left the room without a second glance at either of us. I moved to follow him, but was stopped short by a sudden, overwhelming need to vent my reproach at the Inspector's uniformly roughshod treatment of our feelings and of Elizabeth's memory. I puffed my chest out a bit, looked the older man squarely in the eye, and said with gravity, "I hope you're satisfied, Inspector Lestrade. Elizabeth was a fine girl, and she certainly did not deserve to die so young or in such a manner, still less to have you--supposedly a representative of justice--relegating her to the status of a mere cadaver that might be sold for organs." I felt the bile rise in my throat at the thought. "Had you only chosen to believe us earlier, or at least to look into our legitimate concerns, a dear friend of Holmes and myself would likely be alive at this moment, instead of becoming a short footnote in your case file." He had the decency to look chagrined, but as he seemed unable to answer my charges, I quickly excused myself and left his office. As I rounded the corner and stepped into the corridor, I spotted Holmes pacing restlessly a little further on. I was grateful that he'd waited for me, as I knew what it must have taken to restrain the kinetic desire for knowledge that was, once again, building up in him. That glimpse of him is forever etched in my memory: his shoulders hunched, one arm crossed tightly over his chest, the other kneading his jaw in thought, and mumbling quietly to himself. It was, however, the desperation in his movements, tinged with a faint, almost nonexistent hope, that caused a sudden gush of sadness to wash over me. Even now, after having witnessed Elizabeth's death in his arms, Holmes was able to grasp the unknown and make it into the shadow of a possibility. If he couldn't see her empty eyes and feel her glacial skin for himself, there would always be a doubt in his mind as to her fate. Repressing a sigh, I fell into step beside him, and we made our weary way out of the Yard building. Thinking him to have been utterly preoccupied, I was surprised to feel the brief, warm clasp of his hand on my shoulder. A glance at him showed no change in his concentrated expression, but I knew that he must have heard what I'd said to the Inspector and was thanking me. Even in the face of the biting winter wind, it warmed me right through. J. H. Watson ********** A/N: Hmmmmm..... Students of the Holmsian method of detection might be able to pick up on where this ride will be taking us. Just a note: the Met Police commissioner had offices on a street known as "Great Scotland Yard," but there was not an actual station there until 1875, so I have had to house them anonymously. Nonetheless, since the Head Man was housed on that street, the organization itself, regardless of location, was often known as "Scotland Yard."Anyone have any more information? ******************************************************************* Chapter 5 ********** London December, 1871 In spite of Lestrade's warning, Holmes immediately made his way to London's largest working hospital, with my weary self trailing in his wake. He confronted each and every nurse, doctor, and orderly in the receiving area, forgetting most of the time to be polite in his questioning. This inevitably led to exasperation on the part of the hospital staff and our eventual expulsion from the building. I was secretly relieved to be away from the place; they hadn't been able to shed any light on our problem, anyway. As Lestrade had so casually stated, there was no record of Elizabeth's body by name or otherwise. No one could recall a young, dead girl having been admitted into the hospital morgue on the night in question nor subsequently. In short, the paltry trail was stone cold. Holmes was quietly furious as we returned to sit in the old professor's study. "I'm missing something, Watson!" Holmes exclaimed as he threw himself into his usual chair. "I must be. There's foul play afoot here, I am certain of it, but...." He sighed in frustration. I watched him for a moment, searching for any sign that he still harboured the preposterous glimmer of hope I'd seen in his eyes after our meeting with Lestrade. It was still there, I discovered, though considerably dampened by the utter lack of evidence in any direction. "Holmes," I began slowly, "I must say that I am inclined to agree with the Inspector's conclusions, now more than ever. Someone must have taken her body to be sold to a medical college. It happens all too often, as I should well know." He stared at me for a long while, and I did my best to meet his gaze with all the weight of my conviction. I could fairly see the gears of his formidable mind whirring as he mentally stepped back from his emotional involvement in the situation to analyze what scant data we possessed. In the end, I watched with some private chagrin as that bare hope that had so thoroughly gripped him flickered and died a lamentable death. I hated that it was I who had killed it in him. At the same time, I was secretly awed that he trusted and valued my judgment enough to allow me to do it. With a resigned sigh, Holmes finally sank back into his chair, seeming to fold inward on himself. After the day's short, but furious expenditure of energy, we both turned our minds and our hearts back to the task of laying our friend to rest. Though I knew rationally that we were in no way at fault for Elizabeth's heinous murder, the part of myself that had come to love her so dearly ignored our successes and pointed unwaveringly at our ultimate failure in the matter. Elizabeth was dead. We had failed her--failed to protect her, failed to save her, and even failed to adequately avenge her. I felt the despair of that very keenly for a long while, so I am sure that Holmes felt it even more so. In all of my long association with him, Holmes continually took even the most miniscule of defeats deeply to heart. A case that ended in anything less than shining success would set him quietly brooding over any fault he should happen to find in his own actions. And yet, somehow Holmes was always able to come to terms with his doubts and lay them to rest in favour of the next "pretty problem." The loss of Elizabeth was no exception. I like to think that my carefully surreptitious encouragements in this direction helped him move forward, but of course, he never commented on it to me. All too quickly, in my thinking, the day came when I had to bid my friend Holmes farewell. Elizabeth's funeral had been a small affair, as she had no more living family, with only some members of the faculty and student body attending. The service was made all the more painful for Holmes and myself, as we were the only ones present who knew that the coffin was horribly empty. Unlike myself, Holmes did not shed a single tear, though when I glanced at him toward the end of the service, I could swear that his eyes were glittering suspiciously. The boys at the school were sympathetic enough, in their own rough way; they had all liked Elizabeth Hardy a great deal. As might be expected, once the nefarious deeds of the inimitable "Rathe" had come to light, the school officials were only too happy to reinstate Holmes and myself to full scholar status, though no apologies for our ill treatment were forthcoming. We even learned from the maths professor that it had actually been Ehtar who had insisted upon Holmes' summary expulsion, but that wasn't particularly surprising after all that had come to pass. When the time came, I helped Holmes pack once again, from the old professor's study this time, and carried his violin down to the waiting carriage. I turned to him once I'd placed his case into the hack, and had some trouble keeping a satisfied smile from taking over my face. "Of course, you did forget one very important clue," I stated casually. "Oh?" He looked taken aback. "Please enlighten me." "Well, 'Rathe' is 'Ehtar' spelled backward," I declared, with no small amount of triumph. His appreciative grin rewarded my efforts. "Very clever, Watson. Well, I'm certain I would have arrived at that conclusion, sooner or later." Any tendency on my part to feeling crestfallen was thwarted by the mischievous twinkle I caught in his eyes. "Sooner or later," I agreed indulgently. "Are you coming back after the holidays?" "No," he said quickly, turning to glance at the second floor window we'd seen Elizabeth standing at just days earlier. "There are too many memories here." Desiring to put his mind at ease in some way, I exclaimed, "Holmes, you have your entire life ahead of you!" His gaze did not waver. "And I'll spend it alone," he pronounced firmly. Seeing no use in contradicting him, I instead drew a hastily wrapped package from my coat pocket. "Merry Christmas, Holmes." I was a bit anxious about his reaction to my gift, remembering that he'd derided my choice when I'd purchased it, but I needn't have worried. Holmes looked genuinely pleased to receive the battered pipe, placing the stem in his mouth at a rakish angle. He'd taken to wearing that infernal inverness overcoat of Ehtar's--a practice I thought rather morbid--and together with the old professor's shapeless deer stalker cap and my gaudily curved antique pipe, he cut quite a romantic figure standing in the new snow. "I thought you might have more luck smoking it. It does seem to suit you...but that coat! Why do you insist on wearing that *ridiculous* cloak of that *unspeakable* person?" "Consider it a trophy, Watson. The skin of a leopard," he explained placidly. "Indeed," said I, a bit grudgingly. Suddenly, he stuck out his long, thin hand to me, and I clasped it. "I'm going to miss you, Watson." "I'm going to miss you, too," I replied in kind, and found that I truly meant it. "You know," I added as emotion threatened to choke my voice, "you were right about something." "About what?" "It was a great adventure." Holmes did not reply, only smiled a farewell and climbed into his cab, shutting the windowless door with an air of finality. Just as he was about to signal the driver, I remembered the epiphany I'd come to the night before, and leapt forward to grasp the ledge. "Holmes, I know why the bear's white! The only room with an all southern view is in the North Pole, it's a polar bear!" He smiled again, approval alight in his expression, and said, "Bravo, Watson. You have the makings of a great detective." With that high praise ringing in my ears, I stepped back onto the kerb and watched his four-wheeler drive away into the distance. ********** London January, 1872 With Holmes gone, the school felt deadly dull. The black coats of the student uniform and the shadowy corridors created a thoroughly sombre atmosphere that served to dampen my mood even further than I had thought possible. I had made a few casual friends among the boys in my year, but no one had the crisp and bracingly logical energy that I'd come to appreciate in Holmes. It was several days before it dawned upon me that I actually missed his company, but as any boy would, I made do. I received a telegram from him almost immediately after this realization, saying that he'd arrived at his brother's safely and was deeply absorbed in some mystery or another. I was glad that he had something to distract his mind from the all too recent past. Confidentially, I was also slightly envious for the same reason. His wit cheered me considerably, however, and caused me to belatedly realize that I'd not written to my father in some time. I knew that he would be exceedingly worried and might even come blustering down to London if I didn't remedy the situation soon. Still, I hesitated as to how much of our adventure I should reveal to him. To be sure, he would be appalled at how close I had come to losing my situation at Bromton, to say nothing of the peril I'd faced to life and limb. After much debate, I decided to spend most of my letter detailing the more innocuous episodes of the case, while slipping in the information about the less savory aspects as surreptitiously and briefly as possible. I'd never actually lied to my father before, by omission or otherwise, and I wasn't about to start now. Still, one shouldn't dwell on one's misfortunes. Once I'd posted the letter, I didn't expect an answer for some days, as Her Majesty's mail service in the north of England was decidedly less than efficient in those days. Needless to say, I was unpleasantly surprised to receive a reply in little more than a week. The tone of the missive was unequivocally stern and overwhelmingly reproving for my "reckless" conduct and "disregard" for my schooling. I should have guessed that he would immediately grasp the well hidden allusions in my letter. My father made it clear that he expected a whole hearted return of focus to my studies, with my goal of a career in medicine fixed firmly before me. Smarting from the rebuke, I quickly put his letter away and turned my attention back to my chemistry texts. Consequently, it was some time before the remonstrative majority of his message faded enough to let the words of his closing paragraph register in my mind. I had written to my father, a gifted private physician in his own right, at length about the darts used by Ehtar's religious followers to deliver the poison to their victims. I'd even been able to find out the name of the substance, and had included it in my explanation of its effects. Father had dutifully replied in kind--once he'd finished berating me, that is--detailing everything that he could discover about that insidious drug. Of course, under the weight of his prior tirade, I'd taken little notice of what he had to say on the matter, preferring to simply rid myself of the letter altogether. Several days later as I was studying my anatomy text, his clinical commentary came back to me with an all-encompassing rush. Frowning, I rifled through my cluttered drawers, finally locating the offending document and spreading its last page before me. It read: "I found your reference to the nerve toxin quite intriguing, indeed. The poison used on the darts is rather unusual, to say the least. I've done a bit of in depth reading and questioned a colleague of mine who worked for a time in the East Indies. Apart from its hallucinogenic properties, the compound on your darts has a peculiar effect on the recipient's circulatory system. Essentially, it causes the blood flow to slow considerably, well below the level seen during sleep. In fact, this friend of mine claims that several patients of his under the drug's influence were thought to be quite dead for a short time before it had worked itself out of their bodies...." I sat at my desk for a full minute, too stunned to even analyze his words beyond the obvious connotation. It was impossible, simply impossible! There was absolutely no way that such an effect could have coincided with the tragic events that followed our escape. And even if it were possible that a stray dart could have pierced Elizabeth's skin, I had checked her pulse myself, seen her breathing stop, watched her limp form being spirited away in a horse-drawn ambulance! There was simply no possibility of the outrageous things my imagination was conjuring up. Certainly not. Suddenly, my mind cleared and all I could think about was the minute flicker of the eyelids that I myself had witnessed. Not a spasm of death, it seemed to me now, but a decided sign of lingering life! Clearly, if my wild imaginings were even remotely correct and Elizabeth had survived the gunshot, we had missed any sign of her at the hospital because our search had been exclusively concerned with finding a corpse. No one had recalled her under Holmes blistering questions because the very much alive girl would have been taken to an entirely different section of the enormous building. Once the police had written her disappearance off as a body snatching, not a soul had bothered to look any further, or (in Holmes and my case) to look in a different direction. As my incredulity battled with my sudden firm, propitious belief, I wondered what in the world I could possibly do about it. My first impulse was, of course, to contact Sherlock Holmes immediately, so that he, with his brilliant reasoning and succinct strategizing, could tell me what to do. However, the fear that I was simply going mad stayed me just as quickly, and the thought of giving Holmes another teasing hope to be crushed persuaded me to leave him out of the matter for the moment. My next thought was to make immediately for the hospital myself to prove or disprove my tentative theories in comfortable anonymity. However, I could not very well go barging into the surgery demanding to know if anyone had performed a near-miraculous and highly unlikely operation on a young woman over a month earlier. Abruptly, Holmes' measured tones sounded in my head: "The most effective way to get information out of somebody is usually not by direct questioning. A round-about method oftentimes yields better results." With this advice in mind and feeling almost as if my friend were standing beside me, I managed to restrain myself from leaping impatiently into action and put my mind to creating a suitable ruse. I pondered the problem for quite some time, rejecting several possibilities as too thin, before settling on the perfect story. In preparation for my afternoon outing, since I would need to look the part of a professional and rather older student, I donned my stiff school uniform with its jet waist coat and crisply pressed trousers. I even attempted to tame my mop of unruly hair, succeeding to some degree, and certainly well enough to fool my prey. Looking quite smart, I caught a hansom cab (to emphasize my supposed status) and made for the city hospital. Doing my utmost to imitate Holmes' impeccable posture, I strode confidently up to the supervising nurse to state my case. "Pardon my intrusion, madam, but I have an important problem to bring before you," I said crisply. The good lady looked not at all impressed by my stately manner, asking flatly, "'Ow can oi 'elp you, sir?" Undaunted, I pressed firmly onward, calling on what little dissimulation skill I possessed. "Madame," I said gravely, trying to deepen my voice, "I am a medical student here in Town, and have recently been tasked with a singular project. I am looking for information regarding any cases of abdominal gunshot wounds within the last year, or so. As you surely know, many advances have been made recently in treating such cases, and the probability of survival has greatly increased." I crossed my fingers discretely behind my back at this last, hoping that she would take me at my word. Her expression had not softened in the least, so I thought to attempt a bit of cajoling. "Have you been working at this hospital long, madam?" "Goin' on twen'y year, now," she said, blushing a bit at the attention. "A long and, no doubt, distinguished career, mum," I exclaimed, making my appreciation plain. Her gaze dropped to her clasped hands, a bit demurely, and I was gratified to see a pleased smile tugging at the hard line of her mouth. "I'm sure you must have seen all that there is to see during your tenure here." I smiled solicitously, and that was all it took to open her up. Clearly this woman was not often on the receiving end of even such a small amount of praise. "Aw, yessir, oi seen everyfing pass froo 'er, oi 'ave! Why, jus' t'other day, we 'ad a bloke in oo'd 'ad 'is leg off in an 'ansom cab crash. 'Ow did tha' come 'bout, yeh might ask...." I waited as she regaled me with the gory details of several recent cases, ruthlessly quelling my impatience with her long-winded monologue. In addition to this, we were often interrupted by various persons checking in with complaints ranging from influenza to gout. Finally, just as I was about to try and steer her back to my original query, she kindly volunteered the information without further prodding. "Now, sir, wha' you said when yeh firs' came in, now tha' reminds me of a slip of a girl we 'ad in, not two month ago." Somehow, I refrained from leaping over the counter and demanding the information at once. Affecting a mildly interested expression, I said, "Oh? Please, I am very interested." She giggled, and my teeth ground together loudly. "Wew, this young lass were brought in wif an 'ole frew 'er middle, way o'er on th' lef' side, if oi recollect rightly. Not a soul knew 'ow she'd been shot, or wha' 'er name were, an' i' loo'ed real bad for 'er fer a long while." I swallowed convulsively. "She survived, then? How did that come about, if I may ask?" "Aw, you'd 'ave ta ask Doc'er Fitzgerald fer 'ow it were done." The name imprinted itself indelibly in my mind, though I made no comment. "All oi know is," she continued, "tha' poor young thing 'ad an 'ole frew 'er stomach, bu' she weren't bleedin' like she should 'a' been. Though' she were dead already when they brung 'er in, bu' th' good doc'er were able ta patch 'er up real good-like." She clucked her tongue sympathetically, failing to notice my hands gripping her counter in white-knuckled tension. "What happened to her, then?" I asked, a trifle more brusquely than was prudent. "Aw, she were on th' edge fer many a day, sir. Oi fink she were 'ere fer more 'n free weeks befo' fings loo'ed a bit brigh'er." Keeping my excitement tightly reigned, I commented, "So, she's still alive then? That's amazing!" "Aw, yes, love, tha' i' t'is." "This is just the sort of case I've been looking for. Would it be at all possible for me to speak to--Dr. Fitzgerald, was it?" I asked, hoping against hope that the man himself could give me more detail than this nurse possessed. "One moment...." She trailed off as she scanned through several lists resting on her desk. "Whoi, yes, love, th' doc'er is makin' 'is rounds just now. Oi'm sure 'e could spare a few moments for yeh, lad. Sybil," she called, turning to a slip of a girl in a nurse's uniform who was passing behind us. "Could you show this gen'lem'n ta Doc'er Fitzerald, please?" "Yes, miss," she replied softly, giving me a little curtsey, and then turning to continue on her way down the corridor. I pasted an appreciative smile on my face and gave the matron a parting, "Thank you, madam," as I hurried off to follow the girl. The young nurse was silent as she led me through endless hallways smelling of disinfectant and human suffering. It reminded me, once again, of how fortunate I had been that my father's practice was so small and unpretentious, rather than immense and impersonal as this city hospital was. Various groans and wails greeted us as we passed by a seemingly endless succession of sick wards, before finally turning into one populated by emaciated children. A wave of compassion threatened to overwhelm me as I took in their pitiful little faces. Part of me wished to weep at the sorrowful lives these younglings were doomed to lead, but I instead let the sight firm my resolve to pursue my chosen career. What better way could I find to help relieve such anguish? A doctor was standing next to the door with a sheaf of charts in his hands, checking over the vital signs of his small patients. The man was short, hardly taller than myself, in fact. His graying blond hair was left unfashionably long, and hung down to cover his spectacles as he read. His clothing, covered by his white medical smock, was well cut, though not too expensive as to be impractical in his profession. He looked up as we approached, and I was startled by the weariness that seemed to hang about him like a cloak. Dismissing the nurse, the doctor gave me a tight smile and bade me to accompany him through his rounds as I explained myself. "What is your name, my lad?" he asked with a somewhat distracted air. "John Watson, sir." This seemed to startle him, for he stopped in his tracks and exclaimed, "Not Henry Watson's boy?" "The very same!" I could not keep my eyebrows from creeping up my forehead in astonishment. "By George, my boy, I knew your father at university! We lived in the same lodgings, and went through all the trials of medical school together." His face seemed transformed as he gave a delighted bark of laughter and clapped me on the shoulder. As I thought about it, I suddenly recalled my father speaking at length about his mates at college, including one Liam Fitzgerald. What a stroke of luck! My father’s relationship with this man could be just the device I needed to obtain the ever-elusive information about Elizabeth’s fate. I was an inch from revealing the entire truth to him without delay, thinking that surely the good doctor would sympathize with my plight. In fact, my tongue was only halted by Holmes’ voice sounding once again in my mind: “Use your brain, Watson! An effective disguise, no matter how trivial, must be carried out to the letter if you wish to succeed. One misstep and all could be lost!” Accordingly, I cleared my throat to cover my conspicuous pause, and tried to regain my air of aspiring medical student as I repeated my story to Doctor Fitzgerald. To this day, I’m sure that it was only his pleasure at meeting the son of an old schoolmate that distracted him from any skepticism he might have felt. Thankfully, Doctor Fitzgerald invited me back to his office in a genial manner to take tea with him, perfectly willing to relate the entire uncommon case to my welcome ears. As I sipped piping hot Earl Grey from a plain teacup, he thumbed through stack after stack of patient files, finally happening upon that of the anonymous young woman in whom I had taken such a professional interest. “Let’s see,” he began, scanning over his notes to refresh himself of the details. “Yes, that was quite a case, my boy, quite a case. That girl should have died, there’s no question about it. However, for some reason, her heart rate was so low at the time of the wounding that her bleeding was kept to a minimum, far less than it should have been.” He paused, maddeningly, but I somehow managed to keep my hold on the delicate cup and saucer. “The wound,” he continued, “was situated in the upper left portion of the abdomen, just shy of the ribs. An inch to the right, and the aorta would have been perforated, not to mention the stomach and liver. Amazingly, the bullet penetrated only about an inch and a half into the abdomen, while I would have expected the wound to extend quite a bit deeper. I speculated at the time that when the gun was fired, there was something amiss with it or with the shell, probably too little powder. It made the shot fire weakly, and averted considerable damage to her internal organs.” I abruptly realized that I was slack-jawed in my astonishment. Surely, such an extraordinary combination of circumstances couldn’t have conspired to thwart Ehtar and save sweet Elizabeth! Surely it must be another girl! My mind reeled with the implications, shuddered at the clear hand of Providence that must have been responsible for such an outcome. Thankfully, Doctor Fitzgerald was too engrossed in his narrative to be bothered by my quiet fit of apoplexy. “It was really quite remarkable,” said he. “We were in surgery for two hours trying to find and remove the bullet, and another hour was spent repairing the damage to the spleen and sewing up the wound itself. It was an exhaustive operation, and for quite a while, it looked as if we’d laboured for naught.” He sighed, sipping his tea contemplatively, and I nearly tore out my hair in frustration. “What happened to her then, if I may ask?” I said, my voice quaking slightly. “Ah, laddie, the girl was comatose for nearly three weeks, though she did surface from time to time--to cry out against some horrible night terror, I suppose. Also, she began to bleed quite a bit a few hours after the surgery had been completed, and we had the devil of a time getting it under control. However, the healing was coming along nicely, when she finally awoke. The girl seemed quite disoriented, and my nurses had trouble getting her to answer any questions. In fact, when I spoke with her, she said that she could only clearly remember receiving the gunshot wound, and had no recollection of her own history. It was a strange reaction, indeed, as amnesia usually comes about by a blow to the head. However, we worked with her for another week, trying to coax some memory as she continued to heal, but she could only seem to remember one word. What was it again?” Doctor Fitzgerald murmured distractedly as he rifled through the small stack of yellowing papers in his lap, before finally locating the information with a triumphant grin. “Yes, that was it. Her only firm recollection was the word ‘Rathe.’” When he finally looked up at me, my face must have been as pale as a ghost, and he leapt to his feet with concern written upon his features. “Here, now, laddie!” he exclaimed as I swayed dizzily in the high-backed chair. My vision began to cloud around the edges, and I am certain that I would have fallen into a dead faint had the good doctor not shoved my head between my knees and ordered me to take deep breaths. Of course, I would have been much embarrassed by my weakness had the confirmation of my dim hope not weighed so heavily on my mind. It was true, then. There could be no remaining doubt. Elizabeth was alive, recovering from a miraculously slight gunshot wound, and most assuredly within my trembling grasp! Once I had recovered some equilibrium, I could wait not a single moment longer before blurting out, “She’s here then, alive? I must see her!” “Calm yourself, laddie,” the doctor admonished, pushing another cup of tea into my hand and reseating himself behind his desk. “What is your interest in this, John Watson, and I’ll have no more tales from you.” His expression was stern, but the compassion in his eyes assured me that it would be safe to confess my story, if only in part. Choosing my words carefully, I explained, “I chose to pursue this topic for my anatomy project because of a friend I had lost recently in that selfsame way, not two months ago. No one could discover what had become of to her, and we were told that she was quite dead. So you can understand my reaction when I heard this remarkable story, and the inclusion of the word ‘Rathe,’ which is...her...her brother’s name,” I contrived hastily. Finding that I needed to put the hypothesis to a final test, I reached into my coat pocket and produced a photograph of Elizabeth which Holmes had given me. Holding it out for Doctor Fitzgerald to see, I asked, “Is this the girl whom you have described?” I waited with painfully bated breath as he scrutinized the small likeness briefly, before smiling kindly at me. “Yes, dear boy, that is my patient.” I nearly collapsed with the relief of this confirmation, but it was not a moment before my mind began to race with possibilities for my next plan of action. First things first, I reminded myself. “I must see her, sir,” I insisted, as politely as possible. Doctor Fitzgerald frowned, and his brow furrowed so deeply that I experienced a horrible rush of fear and doubt. “Lad, the girl was taken from this hospital almost two weeks ago by her uncle. I call it very callous that he did not inform you of this occurrence,” he declared, and was obliged to rush to my side once again as the blood drained from my face. “Come, lad, why do you not lie down--“ I cut him off hastily, forcing calm words past my swollen throat. “Doctor! Forgive me again, but I am simply astounded that her...uncle did not tell me that she had lived. I am not familiar with her extended family, so can you possibly tell me who he was and where he has taken her.” Doctor Fitzgerald stared at my ashen face for a long moment, obviously puzzling over my actions and trying to divine my intentions. Finally, much to my relief, he seemed to decide me trustworthy, and consented to provide the precious information. “Of course, laddie, don’t you vex yourself any longer about your young lass,” he intoned soothingly as he wrote the name and address out on a slip of paper. “There you are, then. You’ll be seeing the lass soon enough.” My hand shook violently as I reached out to take the paper from him, thanked him, and left with his admonition to “Give your father my regards, laddie.” I was soon outside and drawing in great lungfuls of crisp, winter air before I remembered that I hadn’t even looked at his information in my haste to depart the oppressive, antiseptic atmosphere. My hands still trembled slightly as I unfolded the paper and read in the doctor’s scrawling copperplate: Prof. James Moriarty The Kilns Oxfordshire The name meant nothing to me. I had reached the limit of my capabilities as a lone investigator, not only because I could not suddenly leave school, but because I had no notion of how to proceed against this obviously fictitious “uncle” who had spirited Elizabeth away. The time had finally come to contact Sherlock Holmes. J. H. Watson ********** A/N: Well, that’s the longest chapter thus far; in fact, it more than doubles the entire word count of the previous chapters combined. Don’t I feel creative. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed it. Of course, I had to make up some things to fit the plot, like the amnesia—I’m not sure how that came about yet. Also, Moriarty’s address is actually where C. S. Lewis lived for 30 years, just outside of Oxford University. It seemed a good idea to have a professor living near a university. “Henry Watson” came about from a question posed to a Sherlockian discussion group, who pointed out that Watson had a brother named “Henry, Jr.” Therefore, their father must also be named “Henry.” |