A/N: I don't own Sherlock Holmes, nor do I own Watson or Lestrade. However, Sarah and James Foley are my own creations and so is the plot. All properties go to their respective owners. Now that I've go all the legal stuff out of the way, let me introduce myself. This is my first story that I'm sharing publicly and I've done it in Sir Doyle's Sherlock Holmes style. I tried to emulate it as best as I can, but if things feel a bit awkward, that's probably why. This was made for an English assignment and as a result I had to wrap it up quick, as the limit was 2000 words. Mine's about 2500. Maybe I'll come back to it some other time. Please give feedback as I'd love to know what you thought. Thanks :)

Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes—A Case of Decadent Wit

'I don't expect they would,' said I.
'On the contrary Watson, I would be surprised if they didn't.' remarked Sherlock Holmes, rather impatiently. It was late May of 1895 and we were sipping tea in 221b's living room. Holmes had asked me if I thought that the British military would use Dr. Röntgen's discovery against enemies of the state. We were in the midst of a rather heated discussion when there was a knock at the door. 'It seems we have company,' said he. Then, addressing the unknown caller, 'Enter.'
In response, a young woman wearing a long, black dress and a widow's veil walked into 221b. Without pause or hesitation, she asked, 'Are you Mister Holmes?'
'Indeed I am,' said he. 'And how may I help you, Miss.…?''Foley. Sarah Foley.' She extended her hand for shaking, but Holmes dismissed it as usual.
'Please.' He gestured to the chair opposite him. 'Sit down.'
She looked at him as if being offered a poisoned apple. Then, reluctantly, she took a seat. As she was doing so, I was able to catch a fleeting glimpse at her previously obscured features. And I was both shocked and amazed by what I saw. She was beautiful, or at least, had been. By the time I laid eyes upon her, tragedy's cruel hands had defaced her perfect visage. Her eyes were weary beyond their years and her natural attractiveness was hidden behind a screen of sorrow. One look at her and I wanted to right every wrong done to her. I would later realize that, yet again, I had allowed beauty to be my undoing.
'Now,' continued Holmes, 'just what has befallen poor Mr. Jim Foley?'
Miss Foley was shocked. 'How could you possibly know why I am here?'
'The same way I know that you were once a governess but became a secretary to please your estranged father who is now dead. You told me,' Holmes answered, as if it was perfectly obvious. 'I did nothing of the sort!'
'But my dear, you did. You gave me all the evidence I needed to deduce what had happened. Your mouth may have been silent, but your appearance spoke volumes. What I did deduce from your words was your father's name. Jim Foley, the locally famed editor of Foley's Weekly Newspaper. Now, your last name alone would not have given me proof that he was your father, but once I compared it to the other facts, it confirmed my suspicions. You have the weary look of a governess, presumably one who had to work for a family with many children. But more recently you have acquired the flat elbow of one who has been doing a lot of writing. Now why would you be writing a lot in recent times? Being your father's secretary is a logical reason. It's well known that Mr. Foley has an estranged daughter. Once I combined all the facts, it was natural to come to the conclusion that I did. Of course, all of this occurred in my head within seconds. It was simple really.'
Miss Foley was astounded. 'Of course,' she stammered, 'why didn't I think of that?'
'Because you're an idiot.' She stared at him, shocked. He continued, 'Oh don't take it personally. Nearly everyone is.'

As I looked upon the exchange that was occurring, I recalled my first little misadventure with Holmes. Nearly the same thing happened with me. He deduced my life's story and called me an idiot. I felt extreme discomfort. Just then it occurred to me that Holmes probably did that the first time his met Lestrade, the rat-faced Detective-Inspector from Scotland Yard and most likely everyone else he has met. At the time I felt like an insignificant part of my partner's life. Another mere mortal for him to woo and amaze. I know now that this is not the case. At the time of this writing, Holmes has been dead for nearly 3 years now, after throwing himself off the Reichenbach Falls along with Professor Moriarty. Even now I frequently have tea with Dectective-Inspecter Lestrade and we both agree on how I was no mere mortal to Sherlock Holmes. That he did care about me in his own way. But at the time, I felt unremarkable.

'It's astounding, isn't it?' I said to Miss Foley, 'The way he does that. Tell your life story from the stains on your sleeve.'
'Yes, yes, Watson,' interjected Holmes, 'enough with the praise. Poor Foley has been murdered and all you can care about is how brilliant I am.'
'Yes,' she continued. 'On to the matter at hand. When I was a young girl, my mother passed away. The doctors believe that she had pneumonia. As a result my father who, as you know, is the editor for his own paper raised me alone. Constantly enveloped by his work, he was distant and remote to me. It was like I was my own father and mother. When I turned sixteen, I became a governess for the Merryweathers of Dorset. From the moment I started there, I could tell that he did not approve. Recently, as you mentioned, I became a secretary in his newspaper's office yet still saw neither hide nor hair of him. Until two weeks ago.
'One fortnight ago, on May the 4th, I received a curious correspondence. The letter was signed from my father and told me to meet him in 10 days time. Intrigued and unsure, I went to my father's office, which was the specified meeting place at the right time and waited for him. 'I waited for 3 hours before I eventually went inside. Upon entering I saw my father sitting at his desk. He had articles scattered all over it. But that wasn't what shocked me, Mister Holmes. What shocked me was that a knife was protruding from his chest. Screaming, I ran upstairs.'
'Interesting,' Holmes said, 'And who has access to your deceased father's office?'
'Myself, the maid, the publisher, several journalists, and of course, his hand servant Ives.'
'Do you know of anyone who would have wished ill upon your father?'
'Not that I know of. And, I presume, not that he would either. He spends all of his time locked in his office; I would be surprised if he's spoken to anyone outside of his staff in recent memory.' –Holmes stood up—'What are you doing?'
'We must go to the scene of the crime. Hopefully, we will be able to find some clues there. I do have one more question Miss Foley. Why come to us? Surly Scotland Yard would be able to handle this.'
'That's exactly I am here, Mister Holmes. Scotland Yard thinks they have solved it.'
'If they have solved the case and, I presume, caught the perpetrator, why in the world would you come to us for aid?'
'Because they're wrong. They've caught one of his rivals, Arthur Bowman. They say he killed him out of spite. His initials were found on the murder weapon, his footprints on the floor and his "Bowman's Insoluble Ink" on my father's waistcoat.'
'But, my dear, if the evidence is that infallible, why would you possibly refute it?'
'Because, Mister Holmes, it's too obvious. Attempt to recall your past cases and you will see that it is rarely ever that easy.'
'We shall see. Take us to your father's office.'

With that, our motley group of three left for Mr. Jim Foley's office which was across the street from University College. Foley's office was a mess. There was a rust-red stain on the chair, which was placed behind a desk with nothing but a silver hunting knife on it. What Miss. Foley told them must have been true as there were indeed black footprints on the floor, leading from the desk out the door. After a thorough examination of the room, Holmes decided that we could learn nothing more from Foley's private quarters.
'It seems you may have been right. While the initials on the knife were indeed Bowman's, the knife was not.'
'How could you possibly know?' I asked.
'Simple. The knife has a grip made for the right hand. Bowman is left-handed, as evidenced by the fact that his newspapers have larger margins on the left. Otherwise, he'd get ink all over his fingers.'
'What shall we do now? Shall we tell Scotland Yard? Surely they will want to know.'
'I don't see the need to burden them with this information.' He turned to the third member of our party. 'Sarah, we will conduct a proper investigation. Now, I suggest you leave us to our business. You can go relax.'
'Relax!' She ejaculated. 'My father has been murdered and his killer is still out there, and you ask me to relax?'
'Yes.' He replied, calmly. 'They tell me Sussex is lovely this time of year.' Angry and confused, Miss Foley reluctantly left.
'Now, Watson, what do you make of all this business?'
'It seems peculiar. But why would the murderer go through all the trouble of leaving all the evidence against Bowman. Surly it would have been enough to kill Foley and not leave any evidence.'
'My thoughts exactly. It seems like our murderer wanted not only to kill Foley, but ruin Bowman's business as well.'
'A third rival perhaps?' 'Or perhaps someone entirely different,' He said thoughtfully. After a moment of silence, Holmes began to walk towards the printing rooms. 'Perchance our nefarious perpetrator has left a gift for us in here.'

We examined the printing rooms, again finding nothing remotely helpful. The same occurred with the salesrooms, and the kitchen, and the vestibule. We were resting outside the lead-journalist's office, when we encountered Foley's hand servant. He was a tall, muscular man of dark complexion. He was kind enough to me. To this day, I know not of what happened to him, although I often wonder if he found new employment.
'Good day,' said Holmes. He always told me to allow him to interrogate witnesses or suspects, so I dared not interject.
'Indeed it is,' he replied, 'how may I help you?'
'You were Mr. Foley's hand servant, correct?'
'I was. Ames is the name. Shame what happened to him. Dreadful catastrophe,' he said, shaking his head. 'Alas, what can one do? I presume you're 'ere to ask me about 'im.'
'You presume correctly,' he said, 'what can you tell me of the late Jim Foley?'
'Everything I know I have told to one Tobias Gregson of Scotland Yard. I have no desire to speak to any police no more.'
'My dear Ames, we are no police—though I have collaborated with them on occasion. My partner and I are private individuals, he, a retired army doctor and I, a consulting detective. The only one in the world. I invented the position.' Ames did not look entirely convinced. 'Do you know if the inspectors who came in moved anything in Foley's office?'
'They left everything, save his body.'
'Very curious'
'Why is that?' Said I.
'Because, Watson, his desk had nothing but a knife on it. Where were all his papers?' Then, turning back to Ames, he said, 'Thank you for your time. You may return to your duties.'
'Hold on!' Ames yelled as we were leaving. 'Who hired you?'
'His daughter.' I called back. Unbeknownst to me, Ames' expression made Holmes freeze with fear. The look on Ames' face clearly expressed the impossibility of our employer. And without a second glance, we departed for 221b.

Holmes hailed a cab for us to ride back to his flat. As always, he had it drop us off 20 meters from our destination. Holmes has difficulties with trusting others. Even now, as I recall these events, I remember him being extremely troubled at the time. Something seemed to bothering him. I know now what that was. And as you, dear reader, will find out soon enough, it was ample reason to be troubled.

Once we were safe at 221b, Holmes gestured for me to sit in the armchair next to him. 'Watson, it seems like this little mystery of ours has become more and more confusing. I shall have to look it over tomorrow. But now, the hour is late and it would do best to get some rest.'

The next morning, I awoke to Holmes standing over me. 'Watson! Wake up! I've something you must see.' He handed me a slip of paper with the writing 24 Gower, #87378. 'Go to the address. You'll know what to do.'

When the cab dropped me off at 24 Gower St. I noticed one thing that I did not expect. I was at the Gower St. cemetery. I suddenly realized what #87378 meant. It was a grave plot. I walked through the cemetery, looking for plot #87378. 87375…87376…87377…87378. Nothing I can remember astonished me more than what I saw next.

#87378

Sarah Jane Foley

'Beloved by her father and late mother'

1872-1893

When I returned to 221b, I found Holmes sitting with the woman who introduced herself as Sarah Foley.
'Find anything of interest, Watson?' Said Holmes.
'Yes. But how is it possible?'
'After searching through records, I discovered that the real Sarah died of tuberculosis 2 years ago. Ashamed by this, Jim decided to hide this from the world. Maintaining this illusion, he buried his daughter in secret. Even his official will stated that all his possessions go to her. Obviously, you,' He turned to Sarah, 'stood a lot to gain. Four million dollars to be precise.'
'Four million?' I repeated incredulously.
'Yes,' Holmes snapped, impatiently. 'Were you not listening? Anyhow, you must have realized this and forged the documents, stating that you were his daughter. That explains your sudden excess of writing. It was not secretary work, but forgery. You made mistakes though. You referred me to his servant, Ames. A man whom you called Ives. You took his documents. All his papers. As trophies. The only one who knew of the genuine Sarah's death was Jim, so all you had to do was kill him. Framing a business rival was an obvious choice, but you wanted more. You had to prove your intelligence. You wanted to show the world that you were smarter than them. Smarter than the most brilliant of them. Which is why you came to me. A worthy opponent. It looks like I will have the last laugh, for it is the mark that outsmarted the trickster. Not the converse.'
Sarah seemed genuinely terrified. With pleading eyes, she looked to the door, as if planning an escape.
'Oh, I wouldn't do that.' Said Holmes. 'I have informed Scotland Yard of your crimes. They should be here'—the front door burst open—'Now.'
Detective-Inspector Lestrade entered the flat. 'You're coming with us.' He said to "Sarah."
In a final act of desperation, she launched herself towards the door, only to be stopped by Lestrade's men.

The next day, Lestrade came to us. 'She'll be punished for her crimes soon enough. I cannot express how grateful we are. If it wasn't for you, we might've hanged the wrong man.'
'It was not us who caught her.' Said Holmes. 'It was her own arrogance. It is often the downfall of the most dangerous of criminals.' He smiled absentmindedly.

As I look back, I've realized that this was the first, and last, time I've ever seen my companion smile.

A/N: The end. Thanks for reading. Remember to review and comment. If you have any questions, feel free to private message me :)