It was a warm afternoon. The sky was all alight with sunshine, white light complimenting the rich blue sky that hung over London like a hen's wing. The gray smokestacks puffed out of the chimneys of the buildings. Street lanterns on each corner added rigidity to the colorful liveliness of the people below. Children played games together on the sidewalk while couples adorned in their Sunday best, colorful parasols bouncing about, waltzed together down the cobblestone roads as a horse-drawn carriage clip-clopped around the corner. It was on such streets that the normal daily lives of the London natives would go about, unaware of any danger or fear. However, there still remained those whose duty it was to keep said people in such an oblivious state. Among these were the officers of Scotland Yard, the local police force. As well, two gentlemen whose intelligence seemed to completely tower over that of the Scotland Yard officers would be included into these calculations. It was on these streets that these two gentlemen strut, chatting aimlessly.
As if in perfect synchronization, the men skittered side-by-side onto the sidewalk from the cobblestone road and under a faded wooden sign hung high above the door of a small shop. Barely legible upon the wood in gray chipping paint were the words "Wells Gunsmithery". The two men entered confidently met with the overpowering scent of gunpowder and brass. Removing their hats out of courtesy, the second man to enter, the tallest one with a head of neatly combed honey brown hair and a dashing brown mustache, shouted inward towards the back of the smithy in a polite but friendly voice. "Abram! Are you here? It's me, John Watson!"
From behind the furnace emerged a sweating and scorched young man of perhaps 30 years. He smiled brightly at the men, making a sloppy effort to maneuver around the machinery and tools lying about. He pulled out a cloth and wiped his face clean of sweat and ash, revealing his straight nose and warm dark eyes. He ruffled his short dark brown hair and, afterwards, swiped his burned hands clean of scorches. The men shook hands heartily before the man named Abram stepped backward and asked "So, wha' can I do for you today, eh boys?" His thick and jolly accent melted the straight lips off of the shorter man's mouth, revealing a small smirk that decorated his unshaven jaw. Watson answered with a smile. "Just a quick cleaning, please. I need her to shoot straight and true for tonight."
Abram nodded knowingly. "Righ', you two go' a dangerous case tonigh'. I'll fix you two up righ' now." The two men followed Abram over to a countertop where the gunsmith began working diligently on the Remmington pocket pistol that Watson had removed from his coat. As the two waited on a small wooden bench near the counter, Watson looked over to notice that his companion seemed to scan the shop for something, shaking his leg unconsciously. How rare it was for the man to act in this manner.
"Holmes, is something the matter?" Watson asked his partner, though he already half-knew what it was that made the great Sherlock Holmes behave with such unrest. Before the detective could answer, Abram cut in. "Lookin' for Evie? I'll ge' 'er for you. Evie!"
Sherlock's brown eyes widened. He reached his hand out towards Abram, perhaps hoping to grasp his shout and suppress it. "No, no…" He whispered to Abram sharply. It wasn't that Sherlock hated Evangeline. In fact, she and he were very dear friends but he hadn't wanted Evie or Watson to think that he came along just to see her.
Down a flight of steps near the counter, bounded a cheerful young woman. Her large bright smile seemed to be an exact replica of Abram's. Her hazel doe eyes glittered even in the darkness of the smithing room and her pale skin seemed to emanate its own light. Her pink lips widened into another grin as she set her sights on Watson and Sherlock. A beautiful woman she indeed was. A lady she most certainly was not. She was dressed entirely in men's clothing, from her white laborer shirt to her sable-brushed cotton trousers and black canvas Y-back braces to her black mid-calf boots. Her thick, straight blonde hair was pulled back into a low ponytail with a black ribbon. She approached Watson and Sherlock excitedly. "Sherlock! John! How are you both?" her voice tinkled gaily like a bell. She spoke perfectly unlike her brother who learned to speak in a country town while she grew up in London. She wrapped one arm around Watson's neck and one around Sherlock's and pulled them close to her in an embrace. Watson chuckled at her excitement. "We're both doing well. Thank you, Evie." She retracted her arms and flashed another smile. However, her smile disappeared quickly. "You both are here today. Do you have a dangerous case? You never come together unless it's important." Her shoulders dropped and her eyes were cast to the ground with concern.
Sherlock smirked and placed a warm hand upon her shoulder. "What's this? Evangeline Wells? Worried? About us? Have you no faith in us, dear?" She lifted her head to look into his face. Her lips curled upwards into a shy smile and a giggle. Sherlock chuckled as well and ruffled her golden hair playfully.
As they continued to wait, the three chatted excitedly about the ambush on Lord Blackwood that Sherlock and Watson were to attend. Sherlock was so positive that Lord Blackwood was behind the murders of late that he could no longer think of any other person it could possibly be but Blackwood. However, out of the group, none were more entertained and animated about the possible arrest than Evangeline. Abram, her protective brother, had kept her locked up tightly since the second murder of a young woman. "Can't 'ake any chances, Evie," he'd say. She was suffocating inside her own home. She needed to get out or she feared she'd go mad. Therefore, in order to make her cease her ridiculous whining, Sherlock had promised her that he'd take her out to celebrate the fall of "Lord Bloody Blackwood" – as Evangeline called him angrily.
It took a mere 20 minutes to clean the entire gun, handle to barrel and everywhere in between. Abram was a true master of firearms. Just as Watson reached for Sherlock's pocket to take some money for payment, Abram waved his hand nonchalantly. "No," he said, "you takin' down this murderer is paymen' enough." Watson looked utterly shocked. He felt a soft fist on his shoulder. Looking down, he saw it was Evangeline's gentle, reassuring touch. "Go get 'em, boys." She winked and smirked, mischief apparent in her hazel eyes. Watson smiled down lovingly at her before turning to Sherlock who nodded seeming to understand that it was time to go and meet the officers of Scotland Yard and plan. Evangeline gave out more embraces and smiles before they walked away, trenches fluttering, down that same lively street that they had sworn to themselves to protect.
Evangeline sat, knees to her chest, upon her window seat in her bedroom on the second floor. Her white slip strap fell off her shoulder as she shifted. The room was hot seeing as it was placed directly above the smithy and she could not longer sit still though her gaze remained fixed and focused upon the window of a home across the alley that her window overlooked. In the window was a young newlywed couple with their young child playing together. She smiled at how at peace the little family seemed on this night and, no doubt, it was a gorgeously warm night especially for March. She often would peer at the family through her window whenever she needed to think. How she wanted to start a family. Was she not at the age for starting families? She was nearly 29, a ripe old age for a woman without a husband. The young wife that she eyeballed turned to lock eyes with Evangeline, followed soon by her husband. The couple did not look surprised however. Rather, the wife hoisted her young child, barely old enough to walk, up onto her hip. She proceeded to whisper something to the little boy and lifted his sleeve to wave at Evangeline. Evangeline beamed at them and waved back to the young boy. You see, this family had noticed Evangeline's stares long before this night and felt there was no harm in her people-watching habit. They simply went about their business after a brief greeting. Tonight was no exception. The wife ran off towards the kitchen and the husband walked the boy over to the fireplace to relax. Her mind wandered once more the various subjects of interest before resting itself upon a question. "How are Sherlock and John doing now?"
She pondered this question intently, genuinely concerned with their well being. She began to perspire, not from the raging heat inside the room but from her worry. She had to help them if something went wrong. This was a serial killer, after all! Her furrowed eyebrows eased and her lips curved into a smirk. She knew just what to do.
The cold corridors of the catacombs were nearly enough to make one shiver with both a chill and fear. Each balcony, stacked one on top of the other, surmounted a hall of sorts. Torches glowed merrily on the pillars, guarded by tall figures in black cloaks, surrounding a stone platform. On said platform was a stone table, dominated by another hooded man, arms raised in what seems like praise and murmuring a chant lowly. A young woman in a white dress lied unconscious upon the table, a dagger resting beside her. From the lowest balcony, Sherlock Holmes's eyes flashed across the scene for any minute details that could help him dissect the situation. As he surveyed the area, unbeknownst to him, a large man crept behind him, coming in for an attack. However, he let out a grunt as he fell unconscious due to a chokehold delivered with quickness. Sherlock turned, not a bit surprised at the attack, and smiled before extending his hand for a shake. The man took it and flashed a smile back.
"Always nice to see you, Watson."