Hey! I'm back!

Haven't you missed me soooo much? Hahaha

Right then, down to business…

This is the first chapter of my newest story in the 'Sherlock Holmes and Luanna Watson' series of fanfiction… I'll hold for applause here hehe.

Right, from the beginning, I'm going to remind you all that I've still got a full time job which makes it a little bit difficult to write all of the time though I will dedicate parts of my weekends to getting them written for your enjoyment because nothing makes me happier than making you all happy XD

So without further a do, I present to you 'The Return of Sherlock Holmes and Luanna Watson'…

I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoy writing it

It was in the spring of the year 1894 that all London was interested, and the fashionable world dismayed, by the murder of the Honourable Ronald Adair under most unusual and inexplicable circumstances.

The public had already learned those particulars of the crime which came out in the police investigation, but a good deal was suppressed upon that occasion, since the case for the prosecution was so overwhelmingly strong that it was not necessary to bring forward all the facts.

Only now, at the end of nearly ten years, am I allowed to supply those missing links which make up the whole of that remarkable chain. The crime was of interest in itself, but that interest was as nothing to me compared to the inconceivable sequel, which afforded me the greatest shock and surprise of any event in my adventurous life.

Even now, after this long interval, I find myself thrilling as I think of it, and feeling once more that sudden flood of joy, amazement, and incredulity which utterly submerged my mind. Let me say to that public, which has shown some interest in those glimpses which I have occasionally given them of the thoughts and actions of a very remarkable man, that they are not to blame me if I have not shared my knowledge with them, for I should have considered it my first duty to do so, had I not been barred by a positive prohibition from his own lips, which was only withdrawn upon the third of last month.

It can be imagined that, through my close intimacy and work with Sherlock Holmes and Luna, I had developed a deep interest in crime; after his disappearance, I never failed to read with care the various problems which came before the public. And I even attempted, more than once, for my own private satisfaction, to employ his methods in their solution, though with indifferent success. However, whenever I attempted to include my sister, she would silently leave the room.

There was none, however, which appealed to me like this tragedy of Ronald Adair.

As I read the evidence at the inquest, which led up to a verdict of willful murder against some person or persons unknown, I realized more clearly than I had ever done the loss which the community had sustained by the death of Sherlock Holmes and my sister. There were points about this strange business which would, I was sure, have specially appealed to them, and the efforts of the police would have been supplemented, or more probably anticipated, by the trained observation and the alert mind of the first criminal agent in Europe.

All day, as I drove upon my round, I turned over the case in my mind and found no explanation which appeared to me to be adequate. At the risk of telling a twice-told tale, I will recapitulate the facts as they were known to the public at the conclusion of the inquest.

The Honourable Ronald Adair was the second son of the Earl of Maynooth, at that time governor of one of the Australian colonies. Adair's mother had returned from Australia to undergo the operation for cataract, and she, her son Ronald, and her daughter Hilda were living together at 427 Park Lane. The youth moved in the best society—had, so far as was known, no enemies and no particular vices. He had been engaged to Miss Edith Woodley, of Carstairs, but the engagement had been broken off by mutual consent some months before, and there was no sign that it had left any very profound feeling behind it. For the rest {sic} the man's life moved in a narrow and conventional circle, for his habits were quiet and his nature unemotional. Yet it was upon this easy-going young aristocrat that death came, in most strange and unexpected form, between the hours of ten and eleven-twenty on the night of March 30, 1894.

Ronald Adair was fond of cards—playing continually, but never for such stakes as would hurt him. He was a member of the Baldwin, the Cavendish, and the Bagatelle card clubs. It was shown that, after dinner on the day of his death, he had played a rubber of whist at the latter club. He had also played there in the afternoon. The evidence of those who had played with him—Mr. Murray, Sir John Hardy, and Colonel Moran—showed that the game was whist, and that there was a fairly equal fall of the cards. Adair might have lost five pounds, but not more. His fortune was a considerable one, and such a loss could not in any way affect him. He had played nearly every day at one club or other, but he was a cautious player, and usually rose a winner. It came out in evidence that, in partnership with Colonel Moran, he had actually won as much as four hundred and twenty pounds in a sitting, some weeks before, from Godfrey Milner and Lord Balmoral. So much for his recent history as it came out at the inquest.

On the evening of the crime, he returned from the club exactly at ten. His mother and sister were out spending the evening with a relation. The servant deposed that she heard him enter the front room on the second floor, generally used as his sitting-room. She had lit a fire there, and as it smoked she had opened the window. No sound was heard from the room until eleven-twenty, the hour of the return of Lady Maynooth and her daughter. Desiring to say good-night, she attempted to enter her son's room. The door was locked on the inside, and no answer could be got to their cries and knocking. Help was obtained, and the door forced. The unfortunate young man was found lying near the table. His head had been horribly mutilated by an expanding revolver bullet, but no weapon of any sort was to be found in the room. On the table lay two banknotes for ten pounds each and seventeen pounds ten in silver and gold, the money arranged in little piles of varying amount. There were some figures also upon a sheet of paper, with the names of some club friends opposite to them, from which it was conjectured that before his death he was endeavouring to make out his losses or winnings at cards.

A minute examination of the circumstances served only to make the case more complex. In the first place, no reason could be given why the young man should have fastened the door upon the inside. There was the possibility that the murderer had done this, and had afterwards escaped by the window. The drop was at least twenty feet, however, and a bed of crocuses in full bloom lay beneath. Neither the flowers nor the earth showed any sign of having been disturbed, nor were there any marks upon the narrow strip of grass which separated the house from the road. Apparently, therefore, it was the young man himself who had fastened the door. But how did he come by his death? No one could have climbed up to the window without leaving traces. Suppose a man had fired through the window, he would indeed be a remarkable shot who could with a revolver inflict so deadly a wound. Again, Park Lane is a frequented thoroughfare; there is a cab stand within a hundred yards of the house. No one had heard a shot. And yet there was the dead man and there the revolver bullet, which had mushroomed out, as soft-nosed bullets will, and so inflicted a wound which must have caused instantaneous death. Such were the circumstances of the Park Lane Mystery, which were further complicated by entire absence of motive, since, as I have said, young Adair was not known to have any enemy, and no attempt had been made to remove the money or valuables in the room.

All day I turned these facts over in my mind, endeavouring to hit upon some theory which could reconcile all of them, and to find that line of least resistance which my poor friend had once declared to the starting-point of every investigation.

I confess that I made little progress and, in need of help, I turned to the empty shell of my sister who had been staring out of the window though her eyes were unfocused and it was obvious that her mind was far away from Baker Street, bathing in the spray of the Reinbach falls.

"Luna, what thoughts do you have on the case?" I had asked, hoping to see some light return to those dead eyes that I had been forced to look into but that did not happen. Instead, they closed as she turned away from the window to face me. To describe how much my baby sister had changed was difficult but, my dear reader, I shall try my best.

Her once deep mahogany curls had lost all lustre and now hanged lifelessly from her head, her eyes had dulled in colour and lost all of their life, growing fainter day by day as the whites were slowly stained crimson from sleepless nights of tears. Her frame had dwindled down to an alarming size, to the point where a corsets strings needed to be trimmed in order to be able to pull it tight enough to hug her thin frame. Of course, as her brother and her doctor, I had tried to get her to eat but she would simply stare at me with those dead eyes before fleeing the room to take solace in his room, amongst all the things we couldn't bring ourselves to part with.

"None…" she whispered, her voice soft and hoarse from lack of use. It was difficult to get a sentence from her since that day and the sight of what she had become broke my heart but I knew that hers had been shattered that day and it was going to take a lot of time and patience to heal, especially since she had withdrawn from society; the only people she would interact with was myself, Mary, Mrs Hudson, Mycroft and Lestrade and though we all tried to visit the flat as much as possible, she still was left alone a lot of the time. "Sherlock…" she choked as tears began to fill her eyes. As always, I walked over and wrapped an arm around her trembling form, trying to comfort her in any way I could. "... w-would have."

So, what do you think?

Do you like it, hate it, love it?

Do you just want me to take it down and crawl back into my little black hole?

Don't be afraid to leave a review in the box down below… I don't bite… honest.