London, 1885

For the four years in which I have traversed the most perilous and interesting portions of the kingdom alongside my friend, Sherlock Holmes, I have discovered him to be a man of aloof manner and cool sensibility, incapable of any deep affection or real human attachment. That is, until I witnessed the near catastrophe brought about by his neglect of a message sent by a seemingly-insignificant young woman living in Camden Town.

This case, unlike any of its predecessors, proved critical and I daresay life-altering for the both of us. It took us to the hearthsides of old friend, across the thresholds of the most blackhearted criminals imaginable—and into territories of the heart that Sherlock Holmes had doubtlessly never explored.

Thus, it is with as truthful a pen as I can manage that I set this case down before you—the case which changed everything for the famous detective and myself: The Adventure of the Neglected Penny Post.

SSSS

I have put on my black coat and polished shoes before sitting down this morning to make a final perusal of this vital document, in an effort to save time, before I depart 221B Baker Street, nevermore to return as a permanent lodger. The boxes and trunks looming in the corner behind me are reminder enough that an age of particularly singular adventure has come to an end. I should never have suspected, just a month ago, that my handful of years serving as the colleague and chronicler to the world's most brilliant detective would endure such a swift and sudden change. And yet, here we are, and I needs must accustom myself to this great shift in course.

It is this case—the catalyst of this swift and sudden change that now sits before me on my desk. This case, without which, I am positively certain, the lives of myself and my friend, Sherlock Holmes, would be vastly and unrecognizably different. It has now been recorded with all the fullness of which I am capable, and for the simple reason that it is so vital to the upcoming turn of events in my own realm of existence, I have abandoned the "romanticism" of which Holmes so often accuses me, and have endeavored to recount, in as precise detail as possible, every moment from the beginning to the present. I confess, however, that my efforts at precision shall expose many matters dangerously close to the heart and the nerve, and reveal things about the soul of my friend that hitherto I would have declared flatly impossible. And thus, quite possibly, this case may never greet the eyes of anyone but myself for many years to come.

J.H. Watson, M.D.

Sherlock Holmes

And the Adventure of the Neglected Penny Post

CHAPTER ONE

I sat down heavily in my chair and flapped the Times open to the third page, clearing my throat as I did. I halfway wondered if this would rattle my friend out of his deep, silent musings, but it didn't seem to have any effect. I glanced over the right hand page at him, my mouth tightening.

He had covered the breakfast table in our drawing room at 221B with various clippings and notes, and he had been standing there in a shaft of morning light, before his collage, for at least three hours, motionless as an oak in midwinter, one arm across his chest, the other raised so his fingers draped over his lips. He wore his dark blue smoking jacket over his shirt and trousers, and he had combed his hair and shaved, but I'd seen him take no breakfast. I had dressed, eaten, taken a walk, visited my bank and returned, and in all that time, the most progress I'd observed from him is that he had gotten up from his own chair near the fireplace and taken about six steps across the room.

Something caught my eye, and I frowned.

"Holmes?" I called, sitting up straighter and picking up a letter off the side table.

"Hm?" he grunted deeply.

"Looks like something came while I was away," I remarked, turning the envelope over in my hand. "It's a small thing—woman's handwriting. She's used blue ink—"

Sherlock sighed heavily and pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose.

"Yes, her mother doubtlessly wants me to come round for tea. Again," he muttered. "I've no time for that nonsense, especially right now."

"Who is she?" I wanted to know.

"No one of significance," Sherlock muttered. "Not today, anyhow."

I frowned harder down at the handwriting.

"She hasn't included a return address. And our address here seems to have been written very quickly." I looked up and studied him. "Are you sure it isn't important?"

"I know exactly who it is, despite the lack of address, and I've not consulted her concerning this case, so I don't see how it could be important," he replied, a bite to his tone as he folded his arms across his chest and continued to bore his gaze into the collage.

"You've consulted this person on other cases?" I asked, slapping my paper down onto my lap and leaning forward in interest. "Who is she?"

"If the need ever arises, which I doubt it shall," Sherlock ground out. "I shall introduce you."

I gazed at his lean, dark form a moment longer, then bit back my impatience, sat back and kept reading. I knew better than to disturb him at the moment. He would tell me something when he had something to tell.

Half an hour later, the clock above the dusty mantel struck eleven. The groan of the gears and the soft ding-ding resounded through the quiet.

And as if on cue, Sherlock spun on his heel, faced me, and clapped his hands together.

"So, now that you're here, I may tell you that I have it, Watson," he declared, his gray eyes blazing. I tossed my paper down.

"I have been here, you know," I reminded him. "For quite a while, now."

"During which time, and your earlier absence, I put to rest four other cases," he nodded pointedly toward me.

"You did?" I sat up.

Sherlock huffed.

"Would you like to hear what I have deduced—"

"Yes. What is it?"

"You recall the words to the ritual?" he asked, pacing toward me.

"Yes, we've memorized it by now," I answered. "'Whose was it?' 'His who is gone.' 'Who shall have it?' 'He who will come.'"

"'What was the month?' 'The sixth from the first,'" Sherlock went on feverishly. "'Where was the sun?' 'Over the oak.'"

"'Where was the shadow?' 'Under the elm,'" I continued. "'How was it stepped?' 'North by ten and by ten, east by five and by five, south by two and by two—'"

Sherlock whirled and faced me directly, his tone resonant and purposeful, his eyes pinning me where I sat.

"…west by one and by one, and so under.'" He leaned toward me. "Don't you see, Watson? It is a measurement. Something is buried out there."

"Buried!" I cried. "But—what could be buried out there for so long?"

Sherlock tipped his head to the side, his mouth frowning.

"If I had to make an excellent guess, according to the last line: 'What shall we give for it?' 'All that is ours.' 'Why should we give it?' 'For the sake of the trust', I would say something vital to the monarchy."

I stood up out of my chair like a lightning bolt.

"The monarchy—!"

"Guessing by the age of the ritual, I would imagine it to belong to Charles I. Perhaps the crown jewels."

"Good Lord…!" I gasped, putting a hand to my swimming head.

"So!" Sherlock cried. "We haven't a moment to lose. We'll go to Musgrave's this afternoon and tell him to haul out his best spade." With that, he dashed noisily off to his room to find his waistcoat, coat and hat. I ran up to my own chambers to gather whatever I might need—including a weapon—and barely managed to catch up with my friend as he swept like a hurricane out of the rooms, down the stairs and out into the noisy streets of London.

SSSSSSSS

It was indeed the crown belonging to His Majesty Charles I. I was still chuckling to myself about it as we tromped up the creaking stairs to our rooms late that afternoon, our trousers and shirtsleeves covered in dirt. Sherlock himself seemed pleased—he'd smiled constantly during our muddy excursion into an ancient cellar, made a few sly remarks about feeling like a pirate unearthing treasure, and his eyes had brightened to twinkling.

Now, he trotted happily up the stairs ahead of me, and into our dimly-lit drawing room. Clouds had gathered outside, and it seemed evening would darken London, and our flat, earlier than usual.

Sherlock tossed his coat and hat down on the back of his chair and flopped into it, stretching his long legs out in front of him, toward the fire.

"Well, that was most interesting," I remarked, smiling, as I took off my own coat and hat and hung them up. Sherlock grinned at the hearth and chuckled.

"Yes, it was," he admitted. "I enjoyed it. And I know you needed the exercise."

"Pfft, me?" I objected, coming in and sitting down across from him. "Says the man who didn't move all morning long."

"Tosh," he waved me off. "My manner of thinking is exhausting enough."

I snorted and sat back.

"I don't doubt it."

Sherlock sighed and blinked sleepily, his gaze unfocusing as he studied the flames.

"I shall be bored again tomorrow," he lamented quietly. "Perhaps I should go out."

"To tea?" I canted my head. "At this…insignificant woman's house?"

Sherlock's brow furrowed hard and he turned to me.

"What?"

I swiped the letter off the table and held it up for him to see.

"This. This letter you dismissed this morning. You said she wanted to have you round for tea."

He looked at me, then at the letter—as if he'd never seen it before. He got up and snatched it from me, then tilted it toward the light.

"Watson," he suddenly hissed, very quietly. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I did tell you," I shot back as he ripped the envelope open. "You said it wasn't important—"

"You could have realized from the handwriting—"

"I did," I insisted. "You said it was nothing—"

He unfolded the paper so fast he almost tore it, his gaze flying wildly across the script.

"My God," he prayed—low and tight.

He dropped the paper. It fell like a shorn leaf. He shot to his feet, threw on his long black coat in one raking motion, forgot about his hat, and pounded out of the room.

I leaped to my feet, my heart slamming into my ribcage. Right before I dashed out of the room after him, I managed to read what was scrawled upon the paper:

Come at once, if convenient.

If inconvenient, come all the same.

-MH

SSSSS

Sherlock flagged down a hansom almost instantly, and bounded inside—I had to catch the door to keep him from slamming it on me, and the whole carriage rocked violently. Sherlock leaned out his window and barked out an address in Camden Town. The driver lashed the horses, and we took off—faster than the usual pace. Sherlock turned a snarling look on me.

"What are you doing?"

"What is going on?" I demanded, trying to catch my breath. "What did that message mean, and why are we going to Camden Town?"

"I have no idea why we are going to Camden Town," he retorted, staring out in front of him. "This is my business."

"Yes, well, your business often ends being my business, so I thought I'd save time," I countered, straightening my crooked hat. "Who is she?"

Sherlock ground his teeth, and he sucked in a breath through his nose.

"Miss Molly Hooper," he answered tightly. "Her late father was a surgeon at St. Bartholemew's Hospital."

"And you consult her on cases?" I pressed.

"Occasionally. When I need particular access to the hospital," he replied.

"And she lives in Camden Town?"

Sherlock didn't answer—he folded his arms across his chest and lowered his head, glaring out front, unseeing. I bit my cheek and fell silent, hoping I would have more answers very soon.

The hansom trundled through the noisy streets, and many sights and smells assaulted us from both sides, but Sherlock didn't notice any of them, or make a single remark. His arms tightened further and further around his chest, and his jaw clenched. I watched him, shifting uneasily in my seat, unable to make my heartbeat slow down.

Finally, we wound through the somewhat dirty streets of Camden Town—a place that had become, in recent years, quite a mixed society. Some houses remained very fine, while others had run down, and some alleyways and turned downright treacherous. I noted with a cold feeling in my gut that the sky was darkening. I didn't relish the idea of tramping around here at night.

At long last, we drew up in front of a tall, stately white house with black shutters. Sherlock did not wait for me—he almost didn't wait for the horses to stop—before he threw open his door and lunged out. His shoes clattered on the cobbles and he tore around behind the cab and headed for the stairs. I pushed my own door open and hopped out, then hastily tossed a few coins into the driver's hands before following Sherlock up the front steps.

Sherlock had halted before the shiny black door, and stared at it in the twilight. I peered around him, and instantly saw what he had.

"The bolt is broken," I panted. "Someone's broken in."

He said nothing. He stepped forward and crashed through the door and into the house.

The entryway was quite dim—nobody had lit the lamps. And the next instant, Sherlock's feet crackled on glass.

He halted. His head came up, and his gaze found a portrait hanging shoulder-high on the wall to our left. A portrait of an older gentleman with a beard. Its glass had been shattered.

Sherlock's eyes went wide.

"Molly!" he cried. His voice rang through the house—and its strange, terrified tenor shot me through the heart.

He rushed through the entryway and bolted into the parlor. I followed him, then staggered to a stop.

The chairs and couch had been flung about, knocked over and broken. Books lay strewn on the floor. Papers heaped in the fireplace. Pictures hung askew. Sherlock stormed amongst it all without paying any heed to what he kicked or smashed. His attention swung through the room, his breathing labored.

"What's happened here?" I gasped. Sherlock ignored me.

He turned around and shoved past me, and I, my head spinning, hurried after him. He clattered into the white-walled dining room, and we found it in a similar state. The long, dark-wood table had been tipped, the chairs upended. Silverware had splattered across the red rug—the pieces jangled as Sherlock kicked through them and stormed the kitchen.

"Molly!" he called, but as soon as he had entered the kitchen he whirled and came right out again—it was empty.

"Holmes—" I tried, but his wild eyes couldn't see me. He broke into a run, nearly knocking me over, and barreled into the sitting room again. I followed on his heels, feeling for my revolver. He dashed through the far door, and up a flight of stairs. Together, making a racket to wake the dead, we charged up and up until we hit a landing and burst into an upstairs library.

The evening light filled the room, enough for us to see that this space had been torn apart just as badly. Books everywhere, like leaf piles, and armchairs lying on their sides. One couch by the tall window had been flipped onto its back.

Sherlock skidded to a stop, slipping on the pages of Tennyson…

Then he leaped forward and dove behind the couch.

I landed on my knees on the rug right beside him.

And froze.

A young woman lay there on her side, her back to us. She wore a faded maroon dress and worn-out shoes. Light brown hair had been mussed loose of its pinnings, and covered her face.

She was very still.

Sherlock knelt by her feet, his hands coming up in sudden helplessness as he stared at her.

"Is she alive?" I demanded.

Sherlock stopped breathing

"Sherlock, is she alive?" I pressed, trying to scoot closer.

Sherlock's eyes unfocused again—almost as if my words were sinking through him like poison.

Then, he slid himself between her and the wall, shakily pushing her hair out of her face, bending low and close, his eyes racing over her features.

She was fairly pretty, with dark eyelashes—but deathly pale. And bright blood stood out on her forehead and mouth.

"Molly," Sherlock whispered, as if it hurt him. "Molly, Molly…" He pressed his long fingers to her throat.

"Well?" I almost shouted.

He closed his eyes and heaved a short, painful sigh, and gulped.

"Yes," he croaked. "Yes, she's alive."

I heaved a sigh of my own and sat down on the floor. Sherlock lay down even further, propping himself up on his left elbow, tilting his head so he could see only her, his brow knitting. He stroked her hair out of the way, pressing his hand to her face, her throat, as if trying to warm her.

"Molly," he said urgently. "Molly, can you hear me? Molly, it's me."

I watched him, stunned to my core—and feeling like I was suddenly observing a stranger.

"Watson," he said, not taking his eyes from her for a second. "There are some smelling salts on the mantelpiece, in an ebony box."

"Right, right," I puffed, getting up and clambering through the mess toward the mantel. Remarkably, the box had remained on the mantel and intact, so I fished the smelling salts out of it and returned, handing them to him. He hardly glanced at me as he pulled one loose of my grip and held it by her face.

"Come, come, Molly," he murmured. "Molly…"

She frowned. Squirmed, then turned her head. Sherlock dropped the smelling salts and his eyes widened again.

"Molly?"

She blinked her brown eyes open—and started breathing rapidly.

Her shivering left hand lashed out—

Sherlock caught it, and pulled it to him.

"Molly, it's me," he told her. She blinked several times, trembling all over, and finally focused on him.

"Mr. Holmes," she whispered.

"Yes, I'm here. You're safe," he assured her.

"What…" She kept frowning, her voice hoarse. "Why didn't you come…when I asked?"

Sherlock gazed at her—and his expression broke.

He smiled weakly, but to no avail.

Finally, he drew in a tight breath.

"I'm taking you with me," he said.

My mouth fell open, but no words came out.

"Do you think you can stand?" Sherlock asked her.

"I…" She attempted to push off with her arms, but only got so far as her elbow before she shook her head. "Mmm. No."

Sherlock climbed up on his knees, then slid his arms underneath her. He effortlessly scooped her up, and she winced as he settled her against him. I stood up with him.

"My head hurts…so badly," Molly breathed, closing her eyes and leaning her face into his coat.

I ground my teeth, rage burning through me.

"How did this happen?" I gritted. "Who did this?"

Sherlock looked at me. And the pain that filled his eyes stung me like a slap.

"I did," he breathed.

And, pulling her close, he headed for the door, and started down the stairs. Feeling sick, I snatched up the smelling salts—wagering we might need them later if she had a more severe head injury—and wordlessly followed them out into the night.

To be continued…

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