Author's Note: Hello to everyone on the Sherlock Holmes board! Yowch, how many months has it been? Sorry to everyone who has been following Timeless Enemies; my life went insane during the summer.working seven days a week does not leave a lot of time for writing. I had decided to put TE on hold for awhile, but no sooner had I made the decision than I was struck with inspiration for my next chapter. So it goes. I am working on it, and will hopefully have Chapter 6 up soon. In the meantime, I present to you Chapter One of my new story. Enjoy!

Lots and lots of thanks to the wonderful March Hare for beta reading this for me!

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters created by the wonderful, the fantastic, the incomparable Conan Doyle. Dammit!

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The Doctor's Patient By Mavelle Chapter One - A Midnight Visit

I have said before that of all of Sherlock Holmes' cases only two were brought to his attention by me. This is not precisely correct. There was another, but I have been restrained from telling the story for the past ten years. However, those involved have recently removed all such injunctions, as it now matters little who knows about it. I therefore am pleased to lay the full facts before my readers.

It was about a year after my marriage. My practice was thriving, and so busy was I that I had not seen Holmes for close on a month. I knew his cases had been few and far between of late, and I was quite worried that in the absence of any mental stimulation, he might turn, as he so often had before, to the cocaine bottle. I fervently hoped that a new and challenging problem would come his way soon, but I could not have foreseen the sinister mystery which was to come in answer to my wish.

It was a rather damp night. My wife was away on a visit to a friend, and I was warming myself by the sitting-room fire before retiring for the evening. As I have said, I was quite busy due to a rather nasty influenza going around; in fact I had just come back from a call. I was, therefore, not surprised when Sally, our maid, entered the room to tell me that man was here, and wished me to return home with him to see a patient. I was, however, surprised at Sally's condition. Her face was deathly pale, and she was trembling.

Concerned that she might be falling ill, I gently took her wrist to check her pulse and found that it was racing.

"Are you quite all right, Sally?" I asked, attempting to check for fever. She eluded me and bit her lip nervously.

"I am well, sir," she said, "but if you please sir, I . . . I am quite frightened by that man in there."

"Has he molested you in any way?"

"No sir," she replied, "but he frightens me nonetheless."

I was somewhat worried, for my maid is a good, practical, sensible girl, who does not jump at shadows. This was quite unusual behaviour for her. Nevertheless, I sent Sally to bed, and entered my consulting-room (rather cautiously, I must admit), to meet my visitor.

The moment I saw Mr. Jonas Hamilton, for that was the name on his card, I understood what had frightened Sally. He was a large, dark-haired man, with thick, black eyebrows, a heavy beard, and piercing eyes that darted around the room, missing nothing. But it was not his physical appearance that sent shivers of fear down my spine. The man exuded an aura of menace. He seemed like a hunter constantly stalking his prey.

Fear is not a sentiment that a medical man can indulge in, however, at least not when a patient is concerned. I thrust my feelings aside and went in to meet him.

"Mr. Hamilton?" I said, extending my hand. "I am Dr. Watson." He did not return my greeting, nor did he take my hand.

"I have been told that you are a man of discretion, Doctor," he said bluntly. "Is this true?"

I was rather offended.

"I can hold my tongue; perhaps somewhat better than the next man," I replied.

"Good. Then, Doctor, you will accompany me to my home. A guest of mine has fallen ill, and I wish you to examine her. I will pay you tonight, in cash."

Certainly this man wasted no words on politeness. I fought down a rising surge of anger. I would not let the innocent patient suffer for this man's rudeness, so I swallowed my pride, got my bag, and followed Mr. Hamilton to the waiting four-wheeler.

The curtains of the cab were drawn to prevent me from seeing out. This closed-in carriage strongly reminded me of the case of Mr. Melas, the Greek Interpreter, and I must confess that I trembled in fear of what might be waiting for me. Nor did Mr. Hamilton do anything to assuage my fears, for he sat in ominous silence, staring at me with his fierce eyes the whole time.

After an uncomfortable drive of perhaps half an hour, we came to a stop. Mr. Hamilton motioned me out of the cab and up the steps of the house. A severe-looking woman who, I was informed, was the housekeeper, Mrs. Avery, admitted us. I found myself in a large, but rather dismal foyer, facing a set of stairs leading to the upper floor. In front of the steps Mr. Hamilton stopped and faced me.

"Now, Dr. Watson," he said, "You will examine the lady whom you will find upstairs. Mrs. Avery will show you the room, and remain with you during the examination." He gave me an unpleasant smile. "Just to ensure that everything is properly done, of course."

I resented his implications, and I had the distinct impression that he was more concerned with making sure I did not poke around upstairs, than of preventing any improper behaviour. However, I held my tongue and proceeded upstairs after the housekeeper.

I entered the sickroom, followed closely by the grim and silent Mrs. Avery. On the bed lay a young woman of about twenty. Her cheeks were flushed with fever, and sweat had plastered her hair to her brow, but it was easy to see that she was quite lovely. I stepped up to the bed, and proceeded to examine her, all the while under the watchful eyes of the servant.

The girl appeared to be only half-conscious, but I found nothing to seriously alarm me. At one point she called out for water. I looked around and, seeing none, asked the housekeeper to go and fetch some.

"Beggin' yer pardon, sir," she replied, "but my orders were to stay here."

I was rapidly losing patience with this entire household.

"My good woman," I said, adopting the firm, no-nonsense tone I use with troublesome patients, "the lady is very ill and must have fluids. I cannot leave her, even if I did know the way. You could send someone else, but then you will still have to leave to find someone. Therefore it will be much more convenient for everyone involved if you simply get the water yourself."

I have often found that tone of voice to be far more effective than shouting. The woman said nothing, but left the room. I resumed my examination, and was taking a bottle from my bag when a hand grabbed my wrist.

I turned in surprise to see the young lady half sitting up in bed. I attempted to make her lie down, but she gripped my wrist with surprising strength and brought my face close to hers.

"You must help me," she said, in a low urgent voice, tinged with delirium. "He is a devil and a traitor. He will kill me if he knows."

I made some soothing noises and tried to calm her, but she would have none of it. I attempted to bring her to reality by asking her name.

"Elizabeth Carlisle," she gasped, and she fell back on the bed, as if drained of energy. I quickly felt her pulse, but found no change. As I did so, the door opened and Mrs. Avery returned. I took the water and held it to the young lady's dry lips. Then she closed her eyes, and seemed to go to sleep.

I must confess I was at a loss what to do. My first instinct was to dismiss it all as delirious ramblings; however, I had received a very unfavourable impression of the master of the house, and began to wonder what the true state of affairs was here. My thoughts still in a tumult, I packed up my bag, and after uttering a few reassuring words to my patient about the state of her health, I went downstairs.

Mr. Hamilton was waiting impatiently at the bottom of the stairs for me.

"Well, what is your opinion, doctor? Will she recover?" He fired these questions at me before I had a chance to say a word. I almost detected a genuine note of worry in his voice; however, the idea was so contrary to what I had already observed of his character, that I dismissed it in my mind.

"Given time and proper care, she stands an excellent chance of making a full recovery," I said. "Someone should remain with her at all times, and be sure she receives plenty of liquids. I have left some medicine with your housekeeper and instructions on when it should be administered."

"Excellent. Then here is your fee, in cash as promised. The cab is waiting at the door to take you home."

I was not to be put off so easily, however.

"Mr. Hamilton," I said, "you are very generous, but I would prefer to wait for payment until my patient has fully recovered, whereupon I shall send you my bill."

"Doctor, I assure you," he replied, "we will not need your services again. You have said the lady will recover, and I shall take you at your word."

"Sir," I said, beginning to get angry, "you do not understand. Influenza is not as harmless as it appears. The lady may seem to be recovering, but influenza can take a nasty turn if not watched carefully. Pneumonia may develop, which is exceedingly dangerous."

"I do not think you understand, Doctor," he said, crossing his arms and looking at me with a malevolent gaze. "As far as you are concerned, she has recovered. You may leave your medicines for her, but you will not be returning here, so if you wish to be paid for your time I suggest you take what I offer now."

One look at his face, and I realised that attempting to argue with this man would be an immensely foolish idea; disgusted, I took the proffered money, and immediately found myself roughly escorted to the waiting cab. As the cabbie took up the reins, Hamilton thrust his head in at the window.

"Remember, Doctor," he said in a voice that chilled me. "Discretion."