The Case of the Antique Massacre
A/N: Let me preface this by saying that this story was written a few years ago for the Watson's Woes community on livejournal. Shortly after the writing of it, I found a different fandom to dip my toes in and sort of forgot the poor thing. In any case, it is done, and I'm kind of just hoarding it on my computer. I thought, "Why not share?"
This is a story pieced together by twenty different prompts and entirely fashioned from 221B's. Though some chapters have more than one 221B involved. I have not had this beta read. All mistakes are my own.
Disclaimer: Clearly Holmes and Watson don't belong to me. Forgive me playing with them for a while all the same.
Chapter One: Rain for the Cab Man
There's not much a bloke what drives a hansom cab can do about crazy toffs. An' then I get this real crazy one flaggin' me down in the middle of a downpour. What could I do? I know what I wanted to do. I wanted to go home and cozy up with my wife by the fire in dry clothes. Of course, a man can't rightfully earn his supper iffn' he isn't willing to pick up crazy passengers in rainstorms or any other sort of weather.
This one, though, he comes runnin' out in front o' my horse all arms and long legs and flapping overcoat. O' course I stop. The toff, he leaps in in one bound and directs me in a truly masterly tone to whip up my horse and drive us 'round the corner. I says "Yes Gov," while thinking he best be payin' me good for this.
I makes it round the corner barely more than the span o' my horse when my passenger hails me to stop and wait and jumps to the sidewalk. I watched him take to a street lamp in three steps, where I first sees that a man be leanin' might heavy-like against it. I can't see much o' this second bloke, except a wet and muddy lookin' overcoat and bowler.
The man leaning against the light post looked up a bit stiff and slow like on approach of my passenger. He had himself a fine blonde mustache and the sort o' face t'would make girls blush at. Man had a look of only hazily recognizing my passenger when he approached, and I looked again at how he leaned on that light pole for support. Could be my crazy toff as picking up a drunken friend. They'd be payin' extra were he to sick-up in my cab.
Only I saw real quick that drink weren't the problem. The tall toff with his dark hair and his abrupt manners was gentle in pulling the other bloke's arm over his shoulder and hobbling him toward my cab. And then I sees it. The long tear in the shorter man's right trouser leg. Went from mid-thigh down past the bloke's knee. He was bleedin' bad but for a dirty bandage wrapped about his leg.
This suddenly wasn't some crazy rain-soaked rich bloke and his drunken buddy. This was serious. I jumps from my seat to offer an arm to the two in helping the wounded man up. I offered to take them to hospital. Only, they refused. So I takes em' to Baker Street like they says, and watch the rain wash away the blood.