The Sherlock and Watson featured herein are a combination of both the movie and classic literature. I own only Allia Alanasry. Feel free to share pains and hates and woes and sorrows. I will giggle mastochistically at them all and smile sweetly will sipping the sickly sweet tea of arsenic. Enjoy.
An Artist Appreciates Only the Details
A Cry for a Savior
I was contacted by a grieving mother early one morning. When I say 'contacted' I am referring to a frantic beating on my door at some ungodly hour in the morning. And when I say 'some ungodly hour in the morning' it must have been around half past five. Any other day, this would not have bothered me so, but, seeing as how a freshly resolved case had required my unwavering attention for several days prior and I had only just fallen asleep for the first time in approximately 75 hours, half past five was a completely unreasonable hour for a barrage of thunder to suddenly roar through one's house. Still, if only to stop the torturous racket, I forced myself from the warm comfort of my bed and undulated down the stairs. I found myself caring very little over my lack of proper attire. If this customer was so desperate for my assistance, then they would simply have to ignore a young women's form scarcely hidden behind a flimsy nightgown.
Before the door was fully open, the frantic woman was suddenly storming through my house; a grating, high pitched voice screaming from convulsing lips. Immediately I deduced her to be in her mid thirties. She had married up some fifteen years prior, yet was still unused to the new wealth at her disposal. Preceding this marriage, she was a homely thing, possibly a maid, though more-then-likely a mid-wife. She moved with slight stiffness of her abdomen, but not in the way a problem with either the muscular or skeletal structure would cause. My bet would be a series of scares marring her back, old but deep, from some long ago whipping. She was pretty enough, but beginning to show the worries of her life through fine lines on her forehead. Still, the more noticeable lines around the corner of un-painted lips proved her life to have been filled with more good than bad, as she smiled more often than not. That all being acknowledged, her present state warned of complete panic. Beneath a slightly soiled cloak was nothing more than a wrinkled dress, more than likely from being discarded to the floor the previous night, which had been quickly thrown over a silken nightgown of great value. Her face was void of any make-up, and her feet were covered with mere slip on wraps; the fastest thing she would find and adorn, I was sure. She had been woken suddenly with some horrible news and, desperate to reach me with all haste, had literally thrown on the most readily available articles of dress to allow her only the basic modesty required by the law before racing to a hastily tacked horse and carriage. And still she was spouting a thousand things at once that echoed deafening through the once quiet house.
"Madam, if you wish for me to understand what you are saying, then pray shut up for just a moment." I muttered impatiently. A spark of rage flared across her face that nearly prompted me to show her to the door with a few choice words and give her problems not a second thought. Instant, though, she held her tongue and was still for just a few seconds before silent sobs wracked her trembling form. She was no longer used to people talking down to her, and, now being of high status and having known the degradation of being so addressed, nothing outraged her more than to be belittled so. Thus noted, her willingness to accept my demands sparked my interest. What could be so important that she would withstand something for which she had such loathing? Ah, a child.
"Now, slowly and simply, for I am with little rest and, therefore, little patience tell me what has distressed you so?" I spoke calmly; the most assurance I would give the frantic women, and precisely the type of assurance she currently required. She started to speak, but the word was strangled in her throat. She swallowed hard and ground her teeth to regain control of her voice before trying again.
"My daughter has been taking." She finally managed; broken and desolated. Before I could dismiss it was nothing more than a child's misdemeanor, she withdrew a note from her cloak and shoved it into my hand. "This was attached to a brick that shattered my window." It stated simply,
You bred her well. Thanks for the donation.
The paper was made from a local mill and the ink cheap and common. Nothing worthwhile could be ascertained from the note itself other than the fact that her daughter had indeed been taken, with no intent of being returned. And, as the mother must already have concluded, the girl was chosen for her physical characteristics. This was not the first girl to have been taken. Eight in total, had gone missing in the past few months from streets of Britain; mostly from humble families who could do nothing about it. I was aware of the disappearances, but was occupied with other things and thought little of them. Now, of course, there was an actual case to be solved. Surely the abductions were related.
"When was she taken?"
"She was to stay at a friend's last night. They say she never arrived. It must have been around five when she left." To my relief, the woman was answering quickly and directly.
"How old?"
"Fourteen, nearly fifteen." Same as the others.
"Alright, I'll need the both your address and the address of her destination. Have you noticed anyone strange lurking about as of late?" I asked, regardless the likelihood of a worthless answer. Either, she wouldn't have noticed and, therefore would create strangeness out of nothing, giving me false and time-consuming leads, or whomever she commented on would be long gone and her descriptions would fail to give me anything strong enough to pursue. Again, her answer surprised me.
"No." Though it told me just how desperate she was for me to find her daughter, it helped me very little with the case. Either her skills of perception are, as more than probable, inadequate, or the kidnapping was unplanned.
After assuring her that I would find her child in a timely manner and ushering her out the door, I proceeded to retrieve proper attire and forced my complaining body back out into the chilled air of late-fall Lambeth. The day proved long, but rewarding. I discovered just how similar the victims truly were. All of similar age, though vastly differing backgrounds, and all taken within a mile radius of each other.
What I should have done was to finally allow my body the rest it so desperately needed before acting on the plan that had already formulated in my mind. I should have at least eaten a decent meal before adorning the appearance of a young girl. More than anything, I should have checked the ammunition in the pistol I always had stashed away beneath my undergarments. But, I did none of these things because I was nearly certain of the cause for the girls' abductions. A sex scandal.
I succeeded in getting myself captured by the owners of said scandal. I also succeeded in freeing myself of their measly restraints once they had taken me to their base of operations; an abandoned building in London along the river near St. Paul's Cathedral. With a few, well placed strikes, I incapacitated the men that had taken me and proceeded to release the girls trapped within the cells in the basement. That's where my success ended. As the girls fled the building, I then went in search of the kingpin. I found him. He was with the women's daughter. He had yet to do much more than strip her, and for that I was grateful.
The man called for his guards. Footsteps echoed from elsewhere on the floor. Acting quickly, I swung my leg into the man's left knee, weak from what I assumed to be a fishing accident based on the rope burns on his arms and hands, and several scars unique to have a fishhook torn from one's skin. This blow knocked him down just long enough for me to untie the girl's limbs. Without another word, she ran from the room.
The next five minutes quickly escalated from interesting to inconvenient to inescapable. It was then that I came to learn on my pistol's uselessness. And of my body's weakness. I took down a few of them, at least. And the girls were free. That was my last thought before being struck over the head and dragged into the darkness.
I wish I could say that the first day was the worst, but that would be blasphemy. The first day was merely an introduction. The kingpin was angry. I came to truly fear his anger. From the very center of my marrow, I feared his anger. And the angry crack of the whip. How they loved to hear a pain filled cry. Nine fell by my hand the first time they came to my cell. I was confident five would never rise again. A whisper in my mind contemplated how that should have bothered me, but, when they tied my hands above my head and my legs to the floor, when they brought out the whips and knives and paddles, when they laughed as they ruined my body, the whisper stopped.
It was, indeed, a sex scandal. They captured young women. Some they sold to the highest bidder; others were kept in the cells in the basement as prostitutes. There were no rules as long as the customer was willing to pay. They were allowed to use the girls as they wished, even kill them if they could afford it. Almost all of the men that tried to 'rent' me, left with black eyes, broken bones, or bite marks plenty deep enough to bleed. At first, I was shocked at the men that entered my cell. Some I knew of from reputation; a few had hired me personally. Judges, doctors, policemen. Some I greeted by name. Generally, they ignored whatever history we had; they had paid good money, after all; why shouldn't they get what they paid for? After a few weeks, my body started to fail me.
My continuously injuring his clients was starting to hurt his business. The ropes that held me were replaced with wires and he began supplying the customers with weapons, encouraging them to 'teach me a lesson.' They cut my food ration; if the rotten muck they occasionally forced into my gullet could be called food. The beatings and starvation and cold took their toll on me.
After a month, I started to black out. They pain had become so constant, I was almost able to ignore it. But then they would return. And they tore open old wounds and left several new ones. And they would beat me until the room spun. And they would use my body for their own sick pleasure. I came to yearn for the blessed release of unconsciousness. There was no pain there. My mind became a pendulum between insanity and hopelessness. Trapped in the darkness, I couldn't separate the present from past; or the past form fiction. Occasionally I would feel cold fingers press into my neck, feeling for a pulse.
At some point, I stopped listening for the ring of the church bells. I stopped calculating how long I had been their prisoner. I lost track of the day and night, and, with it, reality. Vaguely, I realized how near I was to dying. With more clarity, I realized I longed for it. Death. The ultimate release. How happy I would be to merely cease. For the pain to stop without the horror of knowing that, when I next woke, it would begin again. Yes, I wanted to die. But then they made a mistake. They brought in another girl.
I could hear her desperate pleas as they shackled her in the neighboring cell. My mind started to falter but, for the first time in months, I fought it. I fought to force my senses to work. Four men. Two heavy-set, one of which had a slight limp. The other two were small; they would cause me the most trouble. The jingle of keys. The sound of freedom. They believed me to be weak; comatose. Weak, I was, but there was enough left in me to free the girl.
I began to whimper and plead. Absent murmurs of desperation that they loved so. To my delight, they heard me and quickly finished locking the chains before coming to my cell. They called me delirious a mad. A hand. My body involuntarily shied away, sending a surge of agony through my broken body. They laughed. Always they laughed. Take out the smaller ones first. They're likely to be more agile and indigent. The bigger ones are more likely to fight than run. If they run; if they bring in reinforcement than it's useless. Before they could react, my hands tightened around the cords restraining my wrists and I tucked my knees into my chest before kicking the skinny men hard in the throat. The delightful crack of their hyoids echoed through the room. The other two started to retaliated. I managed to catch the big one's neck between my legs and, with a hard twist that dug the wire into my hands and wrists, broke his neck. The last one had the limp. And a knife. Enraged at the ease with which I eliminated the other men, he came at me. I kicked him hard in the jaw, temporarily disorientating him. In a frenzy, he wildly flung his fist at me. I rolled around it, but couldn't dodge his other attack. My abdomen screamed in agony as the icy blade dug into my stomach. Without giving my body time to register the full extent of the damage, I smashed my heel into the man's nose.
As I'd hoped, he dropped straight down, but he tore the dagger from my side as he fell. But I couldn't stop. More would come. Trembling, I grabbed the keys with my toes and flipped upside-down to grab them with my hands. Body shaking from the cold and pain and adrenaline, I struggled to unlock my restraints, but, finally, they released me and I slid to the icy ground. My shoulders screamed and my joints ached, but I managed to force my muscles into obedience and I struggled to my feet. Already, I was panting; each hurried exhale creating a puff of frost before me. Don't think about the blood streaming down your stomach. Disregard the overlapping crisscrossed gashes of your back. Ignore the dislocation of your shoulders. Forget about the agony of your wrists. There's work to be done.