The Case of the Entreating Woman


DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any of the affiliated characters or ideas--their creator is the remarkable Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

KS: Here it is, chapter two. At the beginning is somewhat of an answer to KCS's "Sherlock Holmes blood test" prompt. (I've just always thought that Watson never had occasion to mention a test in which the blood test was used…So I made a situation. xD)

I'm sorry if this chapter seems a bit odd...I have had a rather annoying headache for the past few days, and I was in a rush, so this was not beta-read or anything before being posted.

Oh well. Enjoy!


Sherlock Holmes was situated at his chemical-table, his thin hands working with surprising finesse and quickness with his delicate instruments. Watson was out on errands, and the great detective was busy investigating a murder. A simple affair, but Gregson hadn't seen it as such, and had surprisingly consulted him on the matter.

He moved a small vessel of water before him in which he had been soaking a small piece of brown-stained cloth. He carefully added some white crystals, followed by a few drops of a transparent fluid, and just as he had expected, the mixture turned a dull mahogany colour and the characteristic brown dust gathered at the bottom.

He sighed as one would when bored by the commonplace and took up a telegraph form, writing quickly his conclusions to send off to the Yard.

Just then, the bell rang. Holmes's brow furrowed lightly and he stood to his feet, his grey dressing-gown billowing behind him as he moved to the sitting-room door. In a moment Mrs. Hudson had ascended, bringing a card upon her tray.

"A young lady to see you, sir," she announced.

Holmes snatched the card from the tray and glanced over it. "Miss Abigail Scott..." he read thoughtfully. "Show her up, Mrs. Hudson. And if you would, please send this telegram off for me."

He passed the form over to the good woman, who nodded and descended to send the new visitor up. Holmes cleared a chair of his research so the client could sit down—for what else could she be but a client?—and made sure his chemical-bottles were re-capped and sealed.

In only a few moments the woman entered. She was fair, young, fashionable… She did not work, but had someone taking very good care of her. It did not seem as if she had any real duties to speak of…

"Pray, sit down," said Holmes, gently leading the young lady to a chair, for he could tell by her countenance she was troubled, "and tell me why you have come to consult me."

Holmes studied the woman as she sat and collected herself; her hands folded and unfolded nervously in her lap.

"Well, Mr. Holmes…" she began, "I had a friend come to you some time ago—Miss Rachel Edwards. She spoke of you once or twice, and I thought that you would be much better to come to about my situation than the police."

One of Holmes's black brows rose.

"You see," the woman continued, "I don't exactly have any actual proof of wrongdoing…Nothing that will get him into any trouble, that is. He has too much money and influence."

"Who, Miss Scott?"

"He's…my…" The woman blushed and stared at the floor.

"You are his mistress, and you are not entirely certain that you wish to divulge his name for fear of losing his love, or, just as likely, his money," Holmes said.

The woman's eyes rose to meet Holmes's. "It isn't the money. I wouldn't care if Jack was the poorest man on earth…but…" her voice trailed once again.

"Miss Scott, I cannot help you unless you give me the details. And if this 'Jack' has illegal dealings you are better off without him. Now pray, tell me what has worried you."

The woman was quiet for a minute, but finally she took a deep breath and began. "Have you ever heard of a man named 'Jackson Hughes', Mr. Holmes?"

Holmes's dark brows knitted together, and he leaned back, stretching a thin arm out for his index. He flipped through, his steely eyes darting over the pages, until finally they came to rest upon the article he was searching for.

" 'Jackson Hughes…son of Reginald Hughes of Oxfordshire and Margaret Tyler Hughes of New York… Educated at Oxford University for two years and has excelled in the sports of boxing and hunting...' " Holmes's voice trailed as he read the rest of the article, and finally he snapped the book shut and looked at the young woman before him. "This is the man you speak of, correct?"

The woman nodded.

"And what has he done?"

"It's hard to say. He gambles, but that's nothing. I suspect more," said the woman. "For one thing, he has used money in the past that I am quite sure is not right."

"Not right? Counterfeit, you mean?"

"Yes, that's it."

"Do you have any of this money with you?"

"…No… He never lets me have any of my own money. He has said that it would make me a target for a robber, and that if I was robbed he should never forgive himself."

"I see. Do you have any other suspicions?"

"He gave me a necklace—a pearl necklace—a week ago, and I'm certain it was stolen."

"Can you describe this necklace?"

"Yes…he said he had imported it. It was a string of pearls, and there was one large, radiant, tear-shaped pearl in the centre at the fore of the necklace."

"Do you have it with you?"

"…It disappeared the morning after I asked if he had stolen it."

"Indeed? Most interesting."

"But these are trifles, Mr. Holmes. I suspect more. I suspect..." Here, the lady paused and composed herself before continuing. "I suspect he has killed men."

Holmes's grey eyes widened and he leaned forward in his chair with interest. "Pray, continue, and do not omit a detail, no matter how small it may seem."

"A man came to the house three days ago, for example. He seemed very nervous; Jack said he was to be our house-guest for a few days. He had an American accent, but I cannot recall much else about him…"

"Do you remember his name?"

"Only his surname—Garret. Well, during the night I did not sleep well, and I heard him and Jack and a few others elsewhere in the house talking, and though it was quiet I knew Jack's voice. He sounded angry. Their footsteps passed my door, and I fell back into a soft sleep after that…but, I swear I heard Mr. Garret scream."

"Nothing else?"

"Some loud noise, but I don't think it was a gunshot," the woman replied.

"I see. What did it sound like, then?"

"I'm not sure…something hard," she said. "Oh, Mr. Holmes, I cannot tell you how frightened I am! And yet…I cannot leave him."

"You are subject to his ill tempers," Holmes supplied, observing the finger-mark bruises on her wrist as she brought her handkerchief to her eye. "Miss Scott, you needn't worry. Do not accost him further, but rely on me. Do not let him know that you have come to see me; do you have an excuse to give if he asks where you have been?"

"I told him that I was visiting a friend to-day," she replied. "I was going to see her after I came to consult you."

"Excellent. Do take precaution that no one is following you; if they do, do not act suspicious. Send word to me by some reliable method he cannot trace if anything urgent arises."

"Then you will look into it?"

"I will look into it. It appears to be an interesting problem."

"Oh, thank you, Mr. Holmes! Please, do be careful. Jack is very strong, and very rich, and his temper is fierce."

"I have dealt with many unscrupulous villains in my time, Miss Scott, have no fear. If he has any illegal dealings, I will find out. You reside with him?"

"...Yes. In his house outside London," she replied.

"Then I certainly cannot reach you there," Holmes said.

"You can send a message to my friend's house," said the woman, writing something down on the back of one of her cards. "And I will get it."

"Excellent," said Holmes, taking the card and looking at it. "I will send word when I find anything."

"I cannot thank you enough," said Miss Scott, standing.

"It is my business," said Holmes, waving it off and opening the door wide for his client. "Good-bye, Miss Scott."

"Good-bye, Mr. Holmes."

Miss Abigail Scott left, and Holmes shut the door after her. His black brows drew together as he walked distractedly over to the mantelpiece and took up his oily black clay pipe.

Jackson Hughes...the name was certainly familiar. He was a very excellent boxer, and had not lost a match in years. Now a new 'occupation' of this man had been brought to his attention...

It was obvious from that young woman's description that this was a man over much criminal activity, but how had he not noticed a presence such as that before? He had felt the tremors of various criminal organisations…but nothing that would fit with a rich young gentleman being the leader, unless he was far too good at his game. Holmes filled the pipe with the tobacco from the slipper as he thought.

He could feel the excitement deep inside, cool, quick, and subtle as it welled up within him. This case seemed promising. Holmes placed his pipe between his teeth, struck a match, and held it in the bowl. It was always an intellectual treat to go up against the great unknown of the larger criminal world. His instincts told him it would be a problem he would remember for years to come...

Little did he realise how deeply it would affect him.


KS: Thanks for reading! Now, I suppose you can tell that this fic will have an open ending, as it is obviously a prequel to Brother.

Don't forget to review!