May 1818: One Month Later

The firelight danced across the desk as the man dipped his pen into the inkwell one last time, finishing the note with a dramatic flourish. The only other person in the dank room stood trembling at the door, her knees threatening to give as she watched a hollow grin spread across the man's face as he read what he'd written, clearly pleased with it. He sprinkled a bit of sand on the wet ink and gently blew across the paper. He folded it reverently before sealing it with blood-red hot wax and a seal. He flicked his gaze to his audience, his dark, soulless eyes seemingly sunk into his face. With deceptively light steps, he walked over and, pressing a kiss to the letter, handed it to his messenger.

'Be a good girl, my love, and deliver this immediately.'

She took the note and, with shaking hands, slipped it into the bust of her gown.

He brushed a hand down her cheek and she turned her head away, fighting back the rising bile in her throat. His expression turned stormy for an instant. Leaning down, he licked a path up her cheek, relishing the sob she unwittingly let out.

'Such a good girl,' he purred. With a final stroke of her cheek, he released her and watched, amused, as she fled the room. He turned and walked back to his desk, letting his fingers trail over the newspaper clippings laying there. One name linked every story. One name that had been impeding his plan. One name that was starting to become more of a problem than a nuisance.

An illustration peeked out from the pile and he slipped the piece out, grinning at the likeness staring back at him, the man's eyes piercing and curls peeking out from beneath a ridiculous hat.

'Let's play a game, Sherlock Holmes.'

The smog of London obscured the barely rising sun, the streets slowly filling with the clatter of carriages and horse whinnies and shouts as the people of London set about their daily business. And through the crowds, his polished shoes clacking against the cobblestone, Sherlock Holmes strode confidently. He cut a handsome figure, both in appearance and in bearing. He held himself tall and wore a tailored coat cinched tight across his broad chest, his trousers slim and flattering, and his shirt's top button undone in obvious disdain for propriety. His curls cut and brushed straight back in the latest style beneath his top hat, accentuating the sharpness of his cheekbones. But it was his eyes that distinguished him the most. They were a delightful swirling of blue, green, and brown and when one caught them in the right light, trails of gold seemed to flow between the colours. And when he looked upon you, those eyes sharpened in brilliance and read every detail about your person.

Behind him, Doctor John Watson hurried along, most always grumbling about the length of his taller friend's stride compared to his own.

'Do come along, Watson, we haven't time to waste,' Sherlock barked. 'Our business is most urgent today.'

'And what exactly is our 'business'?' Watson panted, quickening his pace to a near jog. 'We only just returned from Sussex last evening, I'd like some time to properly greet my expectant wife.'

Sherlock didn't reply. By now, they had reached the livery and he set about procuring their horses from the stable hands. Slipping a few pennies to the boys, Sherlock gracefully mounted his faithful stallion, Barbarossa, the urgent letter sent to him just that morning tucked securely in the inner pocket of his jacket.

He fought down the worry the note had elicited and the unwelcome guilt that accompanied it. It had been near gone two months since he had visited the estate, a string of seemingly unrelated cases keeping him tied to London. Perhaps if he had not been away for so long...

'With haste, Watson!' Sherlock called to his friend, who was just now swinging up atop his own mount, and clicked his tongue to urge Barbarossa into a trot. 'Mummy and Father are expecting us for tea.'