Case of the Faceless Men: Chapter One
The Inconceivable Happens
Being a Reprint from the Reminiscences of John H. Watson, M.D., Late of the Indian Army Medical Department. Now the close friend and chronicler of Mr Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street, London.
I have often wondered if I should ever bring myself to tell this tale, Holmes has on many an occasion asked me if I was ever going to commit to paper this most singular and in some ways distressing if not peculiar series of events. A task if I am honest that I did not believe I was up to, surely my mere words could never do all that transpired justice.
And yet as I sit back now and notice amongst my many papers a pair of slightly faded photographs. The first of WJB smartly dressed in his uniform with his "beau" DP stood beside WJB's close childhood friend FS, the second being of Dr AP stood as jovial as always next to WJB's Aunt RL and her new American husband Detective Sergeant ML. A lump comes to my throat as I read the inscription on the back of the picture of the three young men.
"To Dr John H Watson, the man I wish had been my father who taught me more than anyone ever did about life and proved to me that I was worth saving - I will do you proud sir, love W"
I find myself feeling guilty that I have not yet immortalised them all in ink, that I am willing to let them all fade as they surely will with the passing of time, much like these much loved photographs that I was given and still cherish to this very day.
Eventually I was persuaded both by Holmes and DP to gather together not only my own notes as well as DP's and was even surprised by Holmes adding his own notes and journal on the whole business but to look back on testimonies given at the time by those involved as well as interview those that I could in order to fill in any voids that I discovered.
My biggest problem now lay in where to begin
November 1894
I was aware of the acute pain first and foremost, something that I knew all too well having tasted a bullet back when I was in Afghanistan and part of the Army Medical Corp, something I had prayed that I would never feel again.
On instinct I put my hand to my head and felt the all too familiar sticky warmth that was my own blood. Moving my hand I stared at it and its red covering for a moment, slightly puzzled before collapsing in a heap on the ground.
"WATSON!" I heard Holmes cry out as he dashed to my side.
My eyes were already loosing their focus as I fought back the darkness that so wanted to claim me
"Holmes" my voice sounded so weak and was barely audible.
In the distance, I could just make out the noise of a police whistle and a gunshot..followed by the sound of several guns being fired at once. The sound of running footsteps halted not far from where Holmes was kneeling next to me and a voice I should have recognised but at that time could not spoke.
"We got him Mr Holmes..we got the man who shot Dr Watson"
Holmes, cradled me in his arms totally oblivious to what he had just been told "You can't die man...I-I need my Boswell, I n-need my friend" his voice was cracked and choked with a rare emotion that I had never heard before.
Forcing myself to focus, I looked up and instantly wished I hadn't those steely eyes and his hawk like features where a picture of absolute misery and agony. Try as I might I found that my voice would not come and I was unable to reassure and offer comfort my old friend.
"Oh Holmes..my dear Holmes..my dearest friend...how I wish I could spare you from such pain, but I cannot...but do not be too sad old friend, I will be joining my Mary soon enough"I thought to myself.
Then the strangest of things happened, I became aware that I was looking down upon the scene and as it became clearer my heart broke at what I witnessed. As I watched the most brilliant man I have ever known break down into a mess of pitiful sobs and such wails of pure anguish.
My attention was drawn away from the scene of my death and towards a Brougham drawn by a pair of grey horses, that had paused briefly to take in the view of the park and the tragedy that had occurred.
This in itself was not peculiar..but the hushed voices or rather the conversation within was
"You see...in order to break Holmes we had to remove his raison d'etre, without Watson to help him remain focused he will be easy to sway over to our cause, my lord...a fine addition to your growing army"
"Good, good...but do not under-estimate the sheer vindictive nature of Sherlock Holmes, he will turn his grief into a force so strong...nothing will stand in it's path...I know, I've faced him many, many times"
With that the carriage rattled away and I was left alone, never in all my life have I felt such loneliness, not even the "death" of Holmes or of my beloved Mary could compare to what I was feeling at that moment in time, in truth it was as if time itself was slowing down.
Was this what death was like?
Suddenly something pulled at my very being and I found myself being moved onto a stretcher, every fibre of my body ached and try as I might I couldn't move nor utter a word to let Holmes my dear Sherlock Holmes know of what I had overheard, that some fiends were plotting against him and that all this was nothing more than means to and end.
"Careful, lads...be gentle with Dr Watson" the new voice paused and the last thing I heard was "Don't you worry none Mr Holmes...we have some excellent surgeons at the London, if anyone can save him..they can"
With those words echoing in my ears, the miasma of unconsciousness pulled me under and the world for me at least went as black and as silent as the grave.