This is my attempt at a Holmes story, After reading The final problem, which I thought was kind of a lame way to bring back the great dective Ithought I'd give it a whirl. Let me know what you think, flames are welcomed so long as you make atleast one suggestion too!
If the characters sound familiar than they aint mine!
Chapter 1 Has been changed as well so you might want to give it a re-read… thanks to all of those who are reading! I really could you all of your imput.
It is with a befuddled mind and a cautious heart that I commit these words to paper. Nearly two years after the death of my beloved, Mary, and three since the untimely demise of my dearest friend, Sherlock Holmes, I have become a shell of the man I once was.
I have let my work at the hospital consume me. Alone, stuck in this depressed funk, I often find myself getting lost in the thoughts of a happier, brighter past.
It was on such a day, a rainy day might I add, that I received a message of the most peculiar nature in the afternoon post. The envelope, thick and heavily abused, had clearly traveled far.
Upon opening it, I was presented with a series of train tickets leading to North Ridding, England. Delving deeper into the envelope, I produced a sheet of paper folded thrice over. My curiosity clearly and understandably piqued as I anxiously scanned the note.
"Dr. Watson, … your presence is needed … Sherlock …" I read that word another four times before continuing. Expecting news that his body had been recovered and that a proper burial was to take place, I took a deep breath and continued. "… suffering from mental dementia …" Suffering as in the current state of being? "… your services are required; please follow the timetable …" Numbly staring at the small piece of parchment in my fisted grip, my eyes ran to the bottom of the sheet. Recognizing the precise scrawl, " Sincerely, Mycroft Holmes." I said aloud.
To say the least, I was at the station the following morning, arriving two hours premature, insuring I would not miss my train.
My journey was agonizingly tedious, leaving me to my own devices, and thoughts. Was it truly him, alive? How had he survived, and why now, after three years?
Arriving at my destination, I found a hansom waiting for me. Superstitiously taking a glance around for anything peculiar, I boarded the cab. My mind was far too busy trying to come to terms with what I was about to face to enjoy the beautiful countryside that rolled by.
Far too soon for my liking, I arrived at the gates of a modest estate. The house, set farther back on the property, was in decent condition. My heart leapt to my throat as the carriage pulled up the graveled path. Cautiously descending from the hansom, I could barley ascertain my surroundings.
In my distraught state I neglected to notice Mycroft walking up to me. A large bear of a man, Holmes' brother, Mycroft, is an "accountant" for the government, though some of the accounts he supervises deal with far more then cash tender and bonds.
"Doctor Watson, John; how are you? Your journey went well, I hope?" A swift pat to the back accompanied an iron strong handshake, and while his welcome was as jovial as it normally was there was, something in his mannerisms which gave him a great air of unease.
The dampening, vice-like mitt squeezing mine brought me back to the situation at hand. "Mycroft, is it true? What is this all about?"
"Come Doctor, we have much to discuss," the elder Holmes said, ushering me into the foyer, motioning for the young butler to handle my luggage. "You see, last week, I received this, through not the most reputable of sources."
A torn piece of parchment was thrust into my hand. The incredulous look I gave him prompted him to explain.
"I know, it seems quite unreal, but I went to see for myself and he was there, in that hospital. I do not know the exact origins of that little scrap of paper," angrily gesturing to the parchment, "or why someone feels the need now, suddenly to bring to my attention the fact the my brother is indeed very much alive-" Taking a deep, shuddering breath he continued, "John, for once I do not know what is going on here, but I plan on rectifying that situation. No one, save for the certain members of the staff, you, myself and our mysterious informant, knows that Sherlock is here, I believe you may be able to help him, or I should say I hope you can." At my confused reaction he stated, "Perhaps it is best if you see for yourself."
We walked towards the rear portion of the Holmes House as I looked over the note again. Words cut from a news paper, and meticulously pasted, spoke of Holmes being in a hospital and, as Mycroft said, very much alive. I could hardly fathom what I was about to witness. As we stepped onto the back foyer, the setting sun glared into my eyes; shielding them with my hands, I turned towards a sound off to my right. There sitting in a rocking chair, languidly basking in the afternoon sun, sat Holmes.
He looked the same, perhaps a bit more filled out, no longer looking like the skittish, emaciated skeleton that I entertained in my parlor those five years ago. Upon my arrival, a genuine smile appeared on his face as I walked out into the afternoon sun.
Approaching me he stuck out his hand good-naturedly, "Holmes, is it really you?," I asked, barely believing my eyes. As soon as I had spoken, his face lost some of its luster, confusion disoriented his sharp features.
"I do not understand why everyone insists on calling me by that name, as far as I can remember, granted that's not too far, my name is James Moriarty. Then again Doctor that is why Mycroft contacted you is it not, to help me remember my past?"
The world seemed to spin around me, a white mist blurring my vision, while a defining ringing took residence in my ears. Amnesia, how could this be?