First story on in six or seven years! I'm so excited to share with everyone! I'll get my disclaimer out of the way. None of the characters in this story belong to me except for Bella Bragge. The character Sara Black belongs to my sister, everfaraway. Thanks so much, and I hope you guys enjoy!
Sherlock Holmes was up late again scraping away on his violin, much to the annoyance of his roommate who was lying wide awake in bed, listening, with growing irritability, to Holmes "practice". What had the man in such a knot? There was no case he had been solving as of late. Maybe that was the problem, with his "mind rebelling against stagnation" and all that.
Ever since the last case in which Holmes had caught a man who was making quite a fortune stealing race horses and selling them under different names, Holmes had been in his present slump. It had been quite a feat, of course, to catch the thief, but now Holmes had seemingly solved all the interesting cases London had to offer and was stir crazy, wanting of occupation. The man wasn't short on money. The owners of the race horses had paid him quite handsomely with the return of their prized ponies. But with nothing to do with his mind, money was not what made Holmes happy.
Several blocks away, Sara, a gypsy-born childhood friend of Sherlock Holmes, released her pet raven into the night sky. Clutched in its beak was a note that said, "Come if convenient…if inconvenient, come all the same." It took the bird only a few moments to find 221B Baker Street and to land on one of the window sills. Quickly, the raven began to peck the glass pane.
Holmes started at the sound of the raven and crept to the window. When he realized what it was, he shook his head and opened the window to draw the bird into the room. He read the note taken from the bird and thought for a moment. Sara's handwriting was deliberate, clever. Unhurried. She wasn't in trouble. Her need for him wasn't urgent, despite the wording. He considered his violin, setting the note down on the table. He lifted the bow to the instrument and scraped one short "note" before the door opened.
"Blast it, Holmes, I've put up with it for three nights in a row. Three nights! Please, for God's sake, put away the damn thing!" hissed Watson, his eyes red with lack of sleep.
Holmes carefully observed his comrade and said, as if he hadn't heard Watson, "I've just received a note from Sara."
Watson sighed and rubbed his tired eyes. "Is she all right?"
"I'm sure she is, but why would she have need of me?"
"Why don't you take the time to walk the few blocks to her home and see?" asked Watson in a manner of explaining something simple to a child.
"I'm…busy…"
"Holmes," snapped Watson, taking a step toward him.
Sherlock stood, holding his violin behind his back and said, "I believe I will be visiting my dear friend Sara this evening. So glad I thought of it."
"Right," said Watson quietly, shaking his head. He turned from the room and went to get himself a drink from the kitchen.
Sherlock dressed himself in his usual rough around the edges attire and snatched up his keys and wallet before hastening downstairs.
"Don't wait up," said Holmes from the kitchen door.
"I won't," replied Watson.
Holmes tucked Sara's letter into his inner pocket and left for her shop. He didn't take a cab. It was only a few blocks.
Sara had left her door unlocked for Holmes, knowing he would be there shortly. Her shop smelled of incense and was considerably warmer than the outside weather. There was music being played in the back room from a phonograph. A few of her gypsy friends were in town, and she had guaranteed them a place to sleep and meals, as her mother had before her. The only thing that was out of place was the body under the sheet in her back room, which the gypsies were gathered around.
Holmes entered Sara's apartment that was built over the oddities store she ran and let the overpowering smell of incense wash over him, giving him a perfumed headache. The warmth always made him feel sleepy and slow, though still more observant than the average man. He could hear the sounds from the back room, and thinking Sara might have company, he went to stand in the doorway. He considered the scene momentarily, knowing Sara would notice him.
Sara glanced over her shoulder at him and whispered, "Come in. There's a body I need you to look at. My friends brought him to me, hoping I could heal him, but he passed away before I could do anything. We believe it to be poison."
Her dark hair was up in a bandanna and instead of her usual red and gold skirts with white or cream colored shirts, she wore a black skirt with a blue top in mourning. Her bangles flashed in the dim lights when she moved toward Holmes.
Holmes turned back the cover over the body and said, "Poison indeed. Cyanide poisoning."
He opened the mouth and peered down the throat.
"It appears as though he's done it himself," said Holmes, "Though I could be mistaken."
"But why? He was a healer… He taught me all I know," she said, kneeling beside the body.
"I am aware that he is a healer," said Holmes, "I'm not sure as to why. He must not have taken a very heavy dose if he was still alive when he was brought to you." He peeled back the remainder of the cover and dropping it to the ground.
"Just barely," she whispered, lighting more candles so he could work, "Where's your doctor friend tonight?"
"Watson is currently drifting away into a peaceful and much needed slumber, no doubt," sighed Holmes, "I came alone."
She nodded and asked, "Would you like some tea? I recently got an exotic blend from the east."
"Yes, some tea would be excellent," said Holmes, following her into her kitchen.
"What would drive Mikelo to poison himself?" she whispered, putting a kettle on to boil.
"It's quite possible he was forced to take the poison, or perhaps he was given a 'medicinal' tablet and was a bit too trusting of the giver," replied Holmes in a low voice, leaning against the sideboard, "Was he depressed? Was he one for suicidal tendencies?"
"Mikelo? No. You remember him…or at least you should. He took us through the forests around my mother's home out in the country when we were children and the gypsies were camped out back," she said, dabbing at her eyes.
"I vaguely remember him. You know how distant my childhood memories are," said Holmes carefully.
Repressed was a better choice of wording, and he kept the memories that way happily.
"I suppose this means you'd like me to find out what actually happened to him."
"Please," she whispered.
"If you want to know the truth," said Holmes, "I might already have a thought about who did it, though I'd hate to accuse the man wrongly. Even if he were correctly accused, he is currently already serving life in prison."
"So he had outside help perhaps?" she guessed, pulling the kettle off the stove and pouring water over the new tea blend.
"It's quite possible, although most of them have been locked away as well, though not for life. I suspect the man from my previous case, the one responsible for the thievery of race horses. They were smuggling them through the woods, and it's possible our gypsy friend may or may not have seen something he shouldn't have. The smugglers were dressed as peasants and gypsies, and they may have approached him in a friendly manner, in which case he may have taken a tablet from them in trust. The tablet contained cyanide in a small dose, which would cause him to become ill, then fall into a coma, and then to die. The men were put away just two days ago, and your friend was probably dying for two to three days. The numbers add up quite nicely."
Sara wrapped her arms around herself to keep from shaking. "Then we really can't trust anybody that we don't know anymore," she whispered.
"We never could," said Holmes, "I will investigate of course, to be sure I'm persecuting the right man. It's only a theory after all, but it is highly likely. Sara, I know you aren't one for dances and neither am I, but in order to question the man in question, I need permission from a rather difficult man to persuade. There is a ball to which I was invited two evenings from tonight, and I was hoping you might accompany me. If I bring you along, then perhaps I will not be bombarded with questions as to how I reach my phenomenal conclusions as the men will not want to bore a lady with such matters."
"Where and for whom is this ball to be held?" she asked.
"The ball is to be held at the governor's manor. It is in celebration that all the horses have been returned to rightful owners," said Holmes, pulling his pipe from within his coat and lighting it.
Sara sighed and took a sip of her tea. "To find out why Mikelo was killed, I suppose I must," she whispered, sitting down to her little table and watching Holmes, "How long has it been since you slept, Sherlock?"
Holmes did not answer the question but continued to smoke in silence. It has been two or three days since he'd slept. This lack of activity had taken a toll on him, and he found it most difficult to sleep when his mind was this way. The silence terrified him. He needed noise.
Sara sighed again, stood, and gently slid her arms around his waist, leaning gently against his chest. They were occasional lovers, but they were friends as well, and she felt perfectly comfortable trusting him enough to relax with him.
Holmes didn't return her embrace, but he allowed her to lean against him. He'd long been considering his feelings for Sara, how odd their relationship was. Holmes wondered if he was in love with her, if she was "the one" with whom he was supposed to be. He wondered whether he was supposed to be with anyone at all. He wondered what would happen between them if he was to find someone else. Would she be his friend? Would she be his lover? What would happen? But then again, he supposed it didn't matter, as he wasn't ready to settle down and wasn't sure if he ever would be.
"I know your mind rebels against it, but you need sleep. And I'm sure Watson would complain if you came in so late and went about making a lot of noise instead of sleeping. And…I'm not quite ready to send you home," she whispered. Her feelings for Holmes were somewhere between adoration and love, having moved away from lust years ago.
Holmes nodded and said, "I see. I'm not sure what you are insinuating, but I won't protest. I don't feel up to walking back to Baker Street, and Watson has already put up quite a fuss as it is this evening. I think he expects me to spend the night here."
"Sleep and only sleep. I don't want to keep my guests awake since they are staying the night," she told him with a tone that held no argument.
"Sleep is best," agreed Holmes. His pipe had gone out, and he put it away. Then he made his way upstairs, kicking off his shoes at the bedroom door, pulling his jacket and hat off and placing them in their usual resting places.
Sara pulled off her blouse and skirt, pulling on a gown in their place. She removed her jewelry and bandana before placing them on her bedside table.
"Night Mama," she whispered, blowing a kiss to the picture on her dresser.
Holmes removed his suspenders and shirt before crawling into bed next to her, blowing out the candle and settling down with a sigh. Sara rested her head against his chest and curled up against him. If she could crawl into be beside him a few nights a week, it made her happy.
Please R&R! You guys are the best. Next chapter will be up soon, I promise.
