CHAPTER ONETHE FIRST LETTER

221B Baker Street was unusually quiet. It's famed resident sat deep in thought in front of the drawing room fire, his full calumet pipe left unsmoked on the table in the middle of the room, and his violin, leaning against the study wall, unplayed in three weeks.

Sherlock Holmes continued to stare into the dying embers of the fire, while his associate, Dr John Watson, sat opposite, looking very concerned for his friend.

" Dammit, Holmes! You cannot go on like this! It's not your fault that that dashed fellow missed you, and killed Mrs Hudson with his poison dart! You must not blame yourself, Holmes, Mrs Hudson wouldn't want you to!"

Sherlock Holmes finally stirred, only to dismiss his friend's assertion with a question.

" Wouldn't she, Watson, wouldn't she?"

" What do you mean by that, Holmes?" replied the mystified Doctor.

Holmes was about to tell his friend that as his elderly housekeeper, Mrs Flora Hudson died in his arms, the poison dart still deep in her generous Scottish backside, her dying words were " It's all your fault, Mr Holmes, and to think I was about to ret..." Mrs Hudson did not even manage to tell her employer she was indeed retiring,

and duly died, her index finger pointing right at Holmes.

But neither did Holmes manage to pass on the old lady's last words, as the two friends were interrupted by a knock at the door.

Both Holmes and Watson looked at each other, waiting for the housekeeper they didn't have any more to see who was calling. Finally, Watson arose from his seat, muttering 'damned stupid housekeeper, what did she have to get her fat backside in the way for? Mind you, then Holmes would have got it, or me. Oh well, well done, Old Girl."

He reached the door and opened it and standing there was a cabbie known to both men, his having picked them up on many occasions over the years.

" Leggy Lewis! What on earth brings you here this time of night!" chortled Dr Watson.

" Er, begs your puddin', Dr Watson, and you, Mr 'Olmes, ( he leaned past Watson as he said this ) but I'se been asked to give you this, not ten minutes ago."

" What is it, Watson?" asked Holmes, who had finally turned his gaze away from the fire, and stared over at the door, curious as to what the cabbie had brought.

" Have a bit of patience, Holmes, I don't know m'self yet. Huh, most impatient fellow I've ever met." replied Watson, lowering his voice to a mutter.

Lewis passed a letter to Dr Watson, and then just stood there grinning, with his hand half raised and half open. His hand was still half raised and half open as the door was slammed in front of his face.

Watson walked straight across to Holmes, who was now stood by the fireplace.

" It's a letter, there you are, old fellow, it's addressed to you." said Watson.

Holmes took the letter from Watson, and read it out loud:

" John Smith will die tonight. He will then be the late John Smith. You, Mr Sherlock Holmes will be too late to prevent his death.

I will contact you again, Mr Holmes, when I am about to wipe the grin off another fellow's face.

Yours Faithfully

Jabberwocky"

" What on earth is this all about, Holmes?"

" I don't know, Watson, like you, I have just read the contents of this letter. However, our not knowing is confined to the reasons why, for now, but we do know that someone named John Smith is about to die. We've no time to lose, Watson, although we may still be too late. I'll contact Lastrade, you get onto the Post Office, and the Census people, we need the address of every John Smith within the sound of Bow Bells."

" But what about outside London? It could be any John Smith, anywhere in the country."

" I don't think so, Watson. The cabbie brought the letter, he only works in London."

" But what if he had an accomplice, from Manchester, or Scotland, anywhere at all?"

" No. The ink from the pen which was used to write the letter is also on the outside of the envelope, and just before you unceremoniously closed the door on our friend the cabbie, I noticed that he had the same ink on his hands. The letter, my dear Watson, was written shortly before we received it."

" Yes, but what if an accomplice simply followed instructions?"

" That, Watson, is a chance I am prepared to take. Come, the game's afoot!"

Holmes and Watson both left 221b Baker Street in pursuit of a twisted murderer by the name of Jabberwocky.

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