Mystery and Madness
Chapter One: A Summons
A/N: This is my first attempt at writing a crossover. I am basing Holmes and Watson on the books. I am also going to be writing in third person, as I feel only Doyle himself can write Watson in first person and do it well.
It was a typical day in London-cold, foggy, wet, and dank-smelling. People scurried down the sidewalks, jostling each other as they hailed cabs, ducked into stores, restaurants, and other places of business. The sun peeked weakly out from the dull gray sky, casting dull light on the buildings.
On Baker Street, the traffic of people was just as heavy, but one observing would note that most of the buildings did not stand out from the fog, except for one-221B Baker Street, home to Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson.
Inside, the Great Detective sat in his favorite chair, smoking a pipe and watching in barely suppressed amusement as his colleague, friend, roommate and chronicler John Watson, M.D., frantically shuffled through a teetering pile of papers on the table. "Lose something, Watson?"
Watson glared at him, and then jumped out of the way as the pile of papers, already overbalanced, fell over, landing in a scattered heap at his feet. "Really Holmes, your housekeeping habits are appalling! I have spent nearly twenty minutes looking for…" he trailed off as he noticed Holmes holding a long cream colored envelope in his hands, a wicked smirk on his face. Watson groaned. "How long have you had that?"
Holmes chuckled and waved the envelope. "Since it was delivered last night. I have not had the chance to read it yet, however. But from the envelope, I can tell that it was written by someone who is wealthy, lives in the country, and was very nervous, perhaps even scared."
"How can you tell that?"
"This envelope is very heavy, and only the wealthiest could afford such fine paper. I've no doubt the paper the letter is written on is part of a very expensive set of stationary. Also, the ink is very fine, which only comes from the best pens. The country is easy enough. Observe the fine dust of pollen on the envelope. This indicates that the writer was near either a park or lives in the country." Holmes grinned. "The postmark is an even bigger indication." Watson sighed.
"Yes, but the scared bit?"
"The envelope is nearly transparent in places. Now, let us see what the letter says." He split the envelope, spreading it out on his knee to better read it. "To Mister Sherlock Holmes, Baker Street, London, from Mr. Randall Spode, The Green Oaks, Essex.
Mr. Holmes:
I did not know who else to write to, but I am in urgent need of your help. The local police and doctor are completely useless, you see. I have a young daughter, and she has always been a frail and sickly child. Three years ago, the doctor that had been treating her passed away, and I have since been looking for a new doctor. Six months ago, I received a visit from a man calling himself Dr. Merkle. He claimed to have a surefire cure for my Sylvia's ailment. At first, I was skeptical-I have had my share of fakers and charlatans, but the Doctor was able to convince my wife that he was speaking the truth. So, against my advice, she allowed the man to treat Sylvia.
For a while, it seemed as though his treatment was working-Sylvia was energetic, her face acquired a healthy glow, and she was able to spend a few hours outdoors. But then, one week ago, the maid went to fetch her for breakfast, and found her collapsed on the floor, pale as a ghost and unresponsive. Every effort to revive her was unsuccessful, and she was freezing cold to the touch. The only indication that she was not dead was the barely perceptible rise and fall of her chest.
Mr. Holmes, I am need of help. I was urged to write to you by my wife, who loves reading about your adventures. Please come at once, I am at my wit's end.
Sincerely Yours,
Randall Spode."
"So Watson, what do you make of it?"
Watson frowned darkly. "It sounds as though those poor people were taken advantage of. For a fellow physician to do something as reprehensible as that is baffling. He sounds nearly as bad as Dr. Roylott!"
Holmes nodded, and then bounded to his feet. "Yes, well, why are we still sitting around here? We've got a train to Essex to catch! Bring your bag, Watson!" The two men ran outside, and Holmes hailed a cab to the station.
The train journey did not take long, and Holmes and Watson soon arrived at the large sprawling estate owned by Lord Randall Spode. The Lord himself came out to meet them, his florid face drawn up in an expression of relief and worry. When he spoke, his voice was low. "Sherlock Holmes, I presume?" Holmes nodded, and Lord Spode breathed a great sigh of relief. "Thank God! I was beginning to despair."
Holmes smiled. "I hope to be able to help. This is my friend and colleague, Dr. John Watson." Spode and Watson shook hands, and then Watson spoke.
"If it's at all possible, I would like to examine your daughter."
Spode nodded. "You may if you wish, but I have had doctors coming in and out of this house for nearly a week, and none of them have been able to figure out what the matter is. But come along." He led them inside, then upstairs to a bedroom with two occupants.
The first, a pale young woman with brown hair and tired grey eyes, introduced herself as Lady Spode. The second occupant, a young girl that looked about seven, was lying in the bed, covers tucked under her chin. Her eyes were shut, and she was unnaturally still. Only by peering closely at her were Holmes and Watson able to see that she was breathing.
Watson touched her forehead, and then drew his hand back with a hiss. Holmes looked over at his friend. "Is she feverish?"
"No, Holmes, she's freezing. It feels as though she's encased in a block of ice." Watson frowned, then took out his stethoscope and listened to her heartbeat for several minutes, a dark frown on his face. "Her heartbeat is very slow." He removed the stethoscope, shaking his head. "All signs point to hypothermia, but this is high summer." Holmes leaned in, peering intently at Sylvia.
"Watson, do you see the color of her lips? They are nearly black. There's also some sort of substance on them." Watson blinked, and then leaned close to Sylvia.
"You're right, Holmes. There's something there, though I'm not sure what it could be. Perhaps the remnants of something she drank?"
Holmes nodded, and then turned to the parents. "Now, I think it is time you tell me all about this Dr. Merkle."
A/N: The Underlanders will appear in the next chapter.
