I eased the door open, and Marianne looked up from a book. Holmes and I staggered into the living room, pale and out of breath. But Holmes' hands were pressed against his stomach and he collapsed to the floor.

"Watson," he gasped, after a minute, "Do you think you can help me with this?" He pulled back his hands, slowly, and both Marianne and I could see they were sticky with blood.

I gasped and practically flew to his side. "Marianne!" I said sharply, "Call 911!"

"What?" Marianne was wringing her hands and white as a ghost.

I kicked myself inwardly. Stupid American. "The ambulance - call an ambulance!" I said, helping Holmes unbutton his shirt. I stripped it off of him, laid him on his back, and pressed the white cotton against his wound. From the broken glass, I noted, my hands shaking.

"Holmes, it's going to be okay, you just pull through this, you hear me?" The shirt was slowly filling with his blood. I increased the pressure, crying desperately. "You can't leave me, I won't let you!"

Holmes opened his eyes, moaning. "Watson - find... find the..."

"Find the what?"

"Foe.... a foe's... toe..." Holmes whispered. Then he groaned again, and he was gone.

"Holmes!" I screamed, crying. "No!" I thought I heard sirens in the background. "Holmes!"

Hands snatched at me. "It's all right miss, it's all right." I was pulled away from him, sobbing. As they took Holmes away, I had the presence of mind to scream for Marianne to call his parents, and mine. Then I was a mess, a quivering mess on the bloody carpet, and all I could think of was that night, that horrible night when this all began...






March 30, 2002


"Sherlock!" someone was screaming. "Sherlock Holmes, you've got to help me!"

Holmes started and then opened the door. He was practically bowled over by a sobbing Marianne. "Sherlock!" she screamed, clutching at his arms, "Help me, help me, please! My father... my father!" With a groan, she fell against him, unconscious.

Holmes and I exchanged one astonished glance before we dragged her to the couch. Here I was thinking that it would be a nice, quiet night. I had been enlisted to help baby-sit Colleen, Holmes' little sister, and I was looking forward to a peaceful evening. But that was all shattered, now.

We laid Marianne on the couch and I began stuffing pillows underneath her feet. "It gets the blood flowing back to the brain," I said, in answer to Holmes' questioning look. "Listen, I know it's taboo, but do your parents have any brandy?"

Holmes nodded and ran to get some, while I took Marianne's pulse. She was alive, but very, very frightened. Holmes came back with the brandy and I uncorked it. Lifting her head I poured some of the amber liquid down her throat. Marianne sputtered, coughed, and then opened her eyes - eyes that were red and swollen from crying.

She glanced at me, then settled on Holmes. "Sherlock!" she moaned. "Sherlock, my father's been... been..." She started crying again. Holmes helped her sit up, and I put the cork back in the brandy.

"Calm down, Mari, calm down," Holmes said soothingly, patting her arm. "What's wrong?"

"My father is dead!" Marianne screamed. "He's dead, he's dead, on the floor in the parlor dead! He was murdered!" She sobbed into her hands. "Daddy..."

Holmes and I stared at each other, astonished. Then the door opened, and the voices of Mr. and Mrs. Holmes floated in. "Mari," Holmes said quickly. "You have to hide for a moment, okay?" With that, he picked her up and stood her behind one of the long curtains. Holmes and I sat back down on the couch and tried to look nonchalant. I realized I was still holding the brandy bottle, and I stuffed it in the cushions just in time.

"Well," Mrs. Holmes said, looking very pretty in her sparkling evening gown. "How was Colleen?"

"A little angel," I said, conveniently forgetting the spilled egg nogg (bleach! left over from Christmas!), the burned TV dinners and the monumental no-I-will-not-take-a-bath temper tantrum.

Mrs. Holmes laughed softly and handed me a little money. I stammered that she didn't have to do that... and then the curtain hiccuped. Mrs. Holmes looked around confused, but Holmes put a hand over his mouth. "Oh, excuse me," he said. Mrs. Holmes looked wary, and I pushed at the brandy bottle, trying to get it as far in the cushions as possible. This would not look good if she found it.

Holmes coughed and hit his chest with his fist. "Well, I guess I'll walk Watson home, Mother."

"Don't be stupid," I said, "It's only four hou....remph. Ahem." I had stopped at Holmes' raised eyebrows. I made myself shiver. "But it is awfully dark out, I would appreciate it."

"Goodnight, then, dear," Mrs. Holmes said, and left the room. I got my coat and yanked it on, then hustled out the door with Holmes and Marianne (whom Holmes had pulled from behind the curtain).

When we were about half way down the street we stopped. "Now Marianne," Holmes said, taking her by both shoulders and looking her at the eye. "I want you to stay here for a moment. Watson and I are both going back to our houses and then coming out. We'll meet you here in half and hour." Holmes shrugged out of his coat and put it around her shoulders. I felt a twang of jealousy (Holmes had never given ME his coat!) but that passed quickly. I wasn't the one with a dead Dad. In more ways than one, I guess, Marianne needed that coat.

But STILL!

I shook my head as Holmes turned to me. "Out the window?" I asked.

Holmes took a deep breath. "Out the window."

"I hate that. The last time I got stuck on the drainpipe."

Holmes laughed. "I know, I know. Meet you all back here in half and hour."

Holmes and I turned and walked away. I felt kinda bad leaving Marianne there, but she would be okay.





Wouldn't she?




I slipped in the house, knocked on my parents' bedroom door and told them I was home and goodnight. They muttered a sleepy response and I went to my bedroom.

Changing out of my icky private school clothes I pulled on some dark blue jeans and a black sweater. I yanked my coarse almost-blond hair into a ponytail and squinted to make sure my contact lenses were in place. Then I grabbed my notepad, flashlight (torch, what a dumb thing to call it it's a flashlight!) and walkie-talkie and pulled the window open.

My parents, being parents, learned very quickly what our front door sounded like and they had very unfortunately come to check on it during one of my midnight cases with Holmes. I had managed not to get caught by my parents, but they called the police. To this day they talk about the burglar who knew enough about our house to jump out the kitchen window, knowing "he" would land in the bushes.

And then next time, when I decided to try and get out through the window, I got stuck on the drainpipe, literally by the seat of my pants, and had to be rescued by Holmes. Not very dignifying.

But I was determined to be more careful this time. I eased backwards out of the window, putting a foot on the ledge. I shut the window and clung to the drainpipe, then shimmied down.

I hurried along the street and was there by Marianne before Holmes. Marianne was sobbing softly, and I must say it broke my heart. I put one arm around her and she didn't even flinch.


Holmes showed up a few minutes later. "Now, Mari," he said kindly, but sternly. "You've been through a lot but we're going to have to ask you to be very brave tonight. When we get to your house, we'll need a distraction. Do you think you can go up to your room and scream, perhaps, so that even the police come running?"

Marianne hiccuped and nodded, pulling Holmes' coat tighter around her. Holmes knew the way to her house and as he led us down the foggy London streets, I shivered.

Something in the air that night told me we were walking into danger, death, deception, and an OW!


Lamppost.


I rubbed my head and hurried to catch up with Holmes.