While this is not my first story with Holmes as a character, it is my first post on fanfiction.net. This was a spur of the moment project, yet I plan to continue. It is set in modern day, though it is the original Holmes, Watson, etc. Both of whom, I do not own.
Yard's Inability Punctuated by Loss of Life
LONDON January 18- Arising from the outburst of violence that has gripped the city in recent months, Scotland Yard is expected to be reprimanded by the Home Security Office, for its lack of success in bringing the perpetrators to justice.
The Yard's failure to conclude several high profile crimes; including at least 240 murders since 1989, has incited the hiring of detectives, both new and retired, to shed some light matters. Organizational problems, understaffing, and low pay are said to be contributing factors to the Metropolitan police's somewhat dubious results.
Several recent murders, such as the death of Martin Sanger, a prominent philanthropist have resulted in an outcry of public concern. Yet, with five murders in the space of a week, one can't help but wonder if there is a remedy for London's diagnosis murder.
I kneaded my brow roughly with my fingertips, inwardly cursing cliché endings and roundabout articles assigned by pompous, consumer driven newspaper editors. Signing my name to the document, a sense of finality flooded my head, accompanied by a jolt of energy.
Then again, perhaps that energy was a result of the torrent of coffee I'd subjected my system to. As a journalist, coffee is a staple ration: convenient enough to be found on any street corner, and powerful enough to keep you awake during the most boring lecture, or the most thrilling event. Unfortunately, fate (and my boss) had rendered coffee merely a stimulant for drudging through the tedium of writing cumulative pieces, based in other's findings.
Cutting my internal rant mercifully short, the waiter approached, wielding the tab and a pen. I surveyed the disarray of empty cups and an unfinished pastry, sighing not only at my mindless consumption, but also at the impending bill. Bravely, I reached out to accept the consequence, all the while promising never to loose track of time in café again.
The waiter, clad in black, sported a goatee, which truly did not compliment his face in the slightest. As I went about checking the total for discrepancy, I followed the trajectory of the young man's gaze, which fell upon a table across the café, situated parallel to my fort of papers and cups. A middle-aged woman, with a fair complexion and flighty air sat, chatting animatedly to an equally animated waiter. Fuzz-face's eyes narrowed in what appeared to be intense concentration, but could also be construed as dislike. Perhaps it was both. My own gaze took in a relatively deserted establishment, which is not surprising, due to the lateness of the hour. A well-built young man, about the same age as my server, also focused on the table in question.
"Well, Miss Talbot, busy at work I see. Is writing about crime very interesting?" I looked up at the waiter's question. "Yes, it is." I replied, "Although not this, I'd much rather be writing about a specific case than Scotland Yard's blunders. It might be uplifting to actually see a crime solved."
Check paid, Fuzz-face bid me a good night and briskly departed to the kitchen. After a moment's reflection, I looked at my papers where I had neatly printed my name at the top. Very observant of him.
I readied to depart into the mustard, opaque cloud of London night, when I was startled by a shout.
"Watson! Detain that man!" screamed my waiter, who was running toward the focus, where client and attendant were frozen in alarm. The sturdy gentleman, Watson, was pulled up by the command as if a marionette on strings and hurtled himself at the waiter, pinning him to the faux-wood floor. Coffee spilled on the two men, causing both to yelp. The waiter, receiving most of the liquid on his face, was frantically pawing at his face, pushing the liquid away from his mouth: into his hair, down his neck.
"Watson," the authoritative voice interjected, "Do not ingest any of that. The coffee beans have been ground with Laburnum seeds, which contain poisonous alkaloids. Which is what you intended to use as an extra ingredient in Mrs. Sanger's coffee, was it not?" This last remark was intended for the captive, who returned his inquistor's question with a glare and cold silence.
"So, I'll keep him here until the Yard arrives, then, Holmes?" grunted Watson, attempting to ensure the waiter's capture.
"Yes, that should be a great help."
For the first time, the woman seemed to come to her senses, and now, suppressing tears, she was wringing "Fuzz-face's", excuse me, Holmes', hand, as he now, somewhat uncomfortably, attempted to shake her off.
"Be rest assured, Madam, I would not have rested until your husbands murderer was brought to justice, nor until I was rest assured you were indeed safe."
"Oh, thank you, Sir, thank you so much; I don't know how I'll ever be able to repay you," she whimpered in a very weak and beautiful manner. I believe I might have gagged had I not been so enthralled in the capture.
Now that was a story.