Last chapter!

The Case of the Masked Gypsy

Chapter 10 – Salt in the Wound

In an effort to both escape the rain and get this woman to help as fast as they could, Holmes and Watson hurried hastily through the London streets, which tonight seemed the most depressing they'd been in a long time. As the rain continued to fall, in a slightly heavier amount now than when it began, the detective and the doctor looked this way and that, as well as listened, for a cab or perhaps even a brougham, anything to get to Watson's home as soon as possible.

Of course, the still-present fog and the weather did not help at all. The gray, earth-bound cloud had settled firmly within the caverns of the now cave-like city, so all of her inhabitants had to be extra careful, whether on foot, by cab, or another form of transportation, never mind the light that still came from the street lamps. And the sound of the rain pelting against the stone, as well as the occasional ring of thunder, were all Holmes and Watson disappointedly heard. No sound of creaking wheels or clopping hooves ever reached either of their ears.

Even so, both men kept their heads up, as they were accustomed in situations similar to these. They admittedly had been in circumstances that were much worse, even occasionally cheating death. But the question tonight was whether they would be able to provide adequate help for this woman who continued to perplex them, especially Holmes. He was determined that the night would not pass without him having learned the truth, however alarming or bizarre it may be. Although, a voice that was not from Watson told him to be gentle as well as firm. Even he wouldn't descend to such depravity as to upset an injured woman. As he kept looking at her – for she had just drifted into unconsciousness – both in concern and the need to finish his case, Holmes made his mind up to ask the questions after Watson tended to her.

The two continued to walk on, and both could practically feel the hour growing late with each passing moment spent in the rain. Still, they could not find a cab. Indeed, they continued to see nothing but the thick mist and hear nothing but the pouring rain and occasional thunder.

But when they reached a particular intersection, both men heard a cry of shock on the pathway left. "NO!" It was so sudden and immediate that Holmes and Watson instantly stopped and turned toward the direction of the sound, and watched with raised eyebrows as two young people, a male and a female, hurried toward them. Two young people they both recalled seeing before.

The female had long hair a slightly lighter shade than the masked woman, and the same brown eyes. And like the Masked Gypsy, she wore trousers and boots along with a shirt, presumably borrowed from the male. Holmes decided to stop paying attention to such an odd sight and instead turned it to the male beside her. He was a bit shorter than her with dark brown hair and gray eyes, and wore evening clothes much like the ones Holmes and Watson had on. The two looked like they'd been running for a good while, as both were red-faced and were breathing hard, and they looked so much alike that they had to be brother and sister. Once Holmes realized that, and once he saw the stunned, frightened expressions on both their faces, he immediately knew who they were, and who they had once tried to be earlier that evening.

They stopped as soon as they were just in front of them. The female opened her mouth but looked too shocked to speak, so the male, presumably her brother, decided to speak for her. "What happened?" he asked in a somewhat commanding voice.

Holmes was about to reply when Watson interrupted him with a question of his own. "Pardon me but, who are you two?"

"Just tell us, please!" the female blurted out in an unexpected fashion. Holmes could see as well as hear that she was on the verge of tears.

Watson raised his eyebrows again, but didn't give an immediate reply. Instead, he turned to his old friend, who gave him a nod as permission to let them both know. Watson only pressed his lips together anxiously before turning back to the brother and sister before them.

"She jumped out of a second-story window," he explained as calmly as possible, "And, just a while ago, she had an encounter with a madman in a black cloak. She was lucky that my colleague and I were there to help her."

By now, although they received the explanation they desired, the sister had begun to cry while her brother had taken her hand in his and wrapped his arm around her shoulder to console her. Through the tears that seemed to come two at a time from her now red eyes, the sister managed to say, "I knew something like this would happen!"

Watson frowned and sighed in sympathy, unintentionally, and rather unexpectedly, causing Holmes to do the same. "I'm sorry that it did," the doctor said, "And, forgive me, but, I still don't know whom either of you are."

"Never mind names," the brother said, "Let's say for now that we're friends of hers."

"You know this woman?" Watson asked in surprise.

"Yes," the lad nodded, "And where are you taking her?"

"I'm a doctor," Watson replied, "We're trying to get her to immediate aid."

Just then, Holmes, feeling the usual need to put his own voice in the conversation, spoke up for the first time, making everyone look up at him. "Well we obviously can't do that if we're on foot," he said, "It's too far."

"Wait," the brother suddenly said, pointing in the direction behind them, "I think I see a cab over there."

Happy to hear any mention of a cab at all, Holmes looked in the direction the boy pointed out. Sure enough, to everyone's relief, a miniature black carriage pulled by two trotting horses was making its way down the road toward them. Not willing to let this opportunity swiftly pass him by, Holmes turned around and said to everyone with his usual commanding ease, "Stay here." Without another word, he turned again and hurried hastily toward the cab.

Watson watched silently until his arm was pulled on by the sister, who had managed to stop weeping but still kept the look of pure desperation on her face. "Doctor, please, let us come with you," she said, "If she's seriously hurt, I, I'd never forgive myself!"

Before Watson could give his reply, though he knew her genuine concern, he turned to her brother to see if he agreed with her. He gave him only a slight nod, allowing Watson to speak as calmly but as seriously as possible to the clearly distraught young woman, "Very well, you may. But you must promise me that you will remain calm, and that you will give me appropriate room to work with. Understood?"

The sister, in response, sniffed back her tears and replied in the most composed way she could, "Of course."

"Come then," her brother then said as he took her by the arm, "We need to hurry."

Watson and the young woman both nodded in agreement, and all three rushed quickly over to where Holmes stood on the far side of the street, waiting for them. He held the door open, and was waving ecstatically at them to hurry inside. And they did. First Watson, then the sister and brother, and finally Holmes took their seats inside the cab before he closed the door. Once Watson gave the address, they all sighed in a complicated mixture of emotions as they felt the cab move forward.

Throughout the ride, no one spoke. If they did, communication was silent, only done through expressions that were easily readable to someone like Sherlock Holmes or the common observer.

Josette didn't know if she could cry any more tears if she wished. It seemed that, for the moment anyway, her eyes had been made dry, save for perhaps one or two she felt dance like the raindrops outside down her cheeks. She was sure she looked hysterical both earlier and now to the both Dr. Watson, who sat next to her, and Mr. Holmes, who sat across next to Victor, but she couldn't have cared less. Her eyes were locked on her sleeping cousin, and it felt as though her heart had been forcibly torn in two as she saw both the dark red blood seeping from her wounds and the purple-gray bruises begin to form in various places. Still, she would remain strong, she told herself. She had to if she, and Esmé, were to make it through the night.

Victor, on the other hand, in a rare moment, did not know what to feel about the sight before him. Here he was, sitting next to one of the men he admired most, and yet, to enjoy it would have made him a heartless shell of a young man. And as he looked at Esmé, who looked almost nothing like the lively and vivacious young lady he'd known most of his life, all he found himself able to do was to sigh in bitterness and put his head in his hand. As the only male available in his family since his oncle was missing, he felt failure in his responsibility to see to the well-being of both his sister and his cousin begin to creep up on him one step at a time. He feared that, before the night was over, his mind would age before his body would.

After what felt like an endless sense of dreariness spent in confusion, the cab pulled to a stop. Watson looked outside and immediately looked relieved when he saw the familiar sight of his front door. Mindful that Holmes had already paid the cab, he wasted no time in opening the door and rushing out. Josette, Victor, and Holmes, needing no invitation, quickly followed suit up the stairs and then into Watson's house.

Once inside, Watson told everyone to remain quiet, as his wife Mary was asleep. They then followed him into the parlor, which was lit by only two or three candles and a fire still burning in the fireplace. No one said anything as the doctor gently laid the Masked Gypsy on the guilt lounge chair. It was only when he removed his coat and gloves and rolled up his sleeves that Josette felt the need to break the silence.

"Is there anything we can do doctor?" she asked.

"You can try to keep her comfortable if she awakens," he replied. Holmes, Josette, and Victor then stepped aside to give him some space as he proceeded toward the chair and began his examination.

First, he removed the golden wrist band and glove from one of her arms and pressed his fingers to her bare wrist. But then, right after checking her pulse, he heard what sounded like a moan, and instantly looked to see her moving slightly. Watson knew what that meant. Though he was a bit happy that she was regaining consciousness, as a doctor, he would have preferred it the other way around.

Still holding her wrist, he quickly turned to his former colleague. "Holmes, get me a bromide."

"Right," Holmes nodded. All three then watched as he rushed further into the house, where Watson kept most of his medical supplies. But another moan that escaped from the woman's lips immediately caused them to return their attention to her.

For a long time, Esmé had seen nothing but darkness, feeling as though she were floating in a formless void. Now, it seemed as if her body had awoken before she fully did, because she could now feel herself lying on what she soon realized was not a bed, but rather a long couch. Wondering wildly where she was, she forced her heavy eyes to open. What first entered her sight were two small but bright lights, and another more brilliant one underneath. It wasn't long after her vision began to clear that she found that the first two lights were candles on a mantelpiece, and the third was a bright, orange fire going in the fireplace. However, she also had the strong feeling that she was not alone. Esmé forced her head to move, and she turned it slowly to the right. The first person she recognized – by his warm, kindly, gray-eyed face – as Dr. Watson. And she assumed immediately that she was in his house. She had given him permission to give her medical aid.

However, nothing could have prepared her for what she beheld next. After turning her head further to the right, she saw two more people standing over the side of what she now realized was a lounge chair, and they had faces that she'd know anywhere. Her cousins, Josette and Victor. Once she realized that, her eyes quickly widened, and she opened her mouth to speak, to ask them what they were doing here, how they were here, when Victor put his finger to his lips and shushed her.

"We know what happened," he explained in a voice intended to calm her, "We were told everything."

Esmé then noticed Josette lean over the high side of the chair, and immediately noticed the redness still present in her eyes, a clear indication that she'd been crying. Knowing that she'd caused herself to be put in danger, after promising earlier that she wouldn't, Esmé felt the weight of it being pressed on her shoulders like an invisible force, and she met her cousin's sad expression with her own. This time, nothing was going to stop her from saying what she needed to.

"Oh I'm so sorry," she said, not caring how she sounded saying it, "Both of you."

Josette quickly raised her arm and rested her hand on her shoulder, all the while trying to smile, even if she herself still looked sad. "We can go over apologies later," she tried to assure her, "Everything will be all right."

Though Esmé knew her intent, she could still feel the uneasiness behind her calm exterior. Even so, she decided for her sake not to show it herself, and imitated her cousin's composure the best she could.

Fortunately, she quickly found something else to turn her attention to, as right then, a man entered the room holding a cup of what she assumed to be water in one hand, and something she couldn't see in the other. The moment she saw him, no matter how safe she felt with the doctor, Esmé's eyes widened almost instinctively when she saw his colleague, the detective Mr. Holmes, who raised his eyebrows as soon as he saw her.

"Ah," he said, "so we're awake at last."

"Holmes!" Dr. Watson said in an annoyed tone as he turned to him. Without another word, he took both the cup and the other thing he was holding, and Esmé saw that it was a small white pill. She then looked back at Dr. Watson, who, upon seeing her concern, slowly held them out to her.

"Just lie still," he said, "This will help you relax."

With assurance and help from both her cousins, Esmé sat up a bit more on the lounge chair before taking the bromide, followed by the water, and swallowing both. Once she did, Watson stood up from his chair and knelt down beside her.

"Now," he said, "can you tell me where it hurts the most?"

Where it hurts the most, Esmé repeated the question in her mind. She almost didn't know where to begin. Almost everything about her seemed to hurt. Not just her body, but her mind, her dignity, and every sense of well-being just seemed to melt away, and all in one night. She couldn't recall another time went she felt so low and pathetic. Still, she did not feel the need to be sarcastic to the good doctor, and replied with honesty, "It's mostly my right ankle, my left hip, and my left shoulder."

Watson nodded, but just as he was about to examine further, everyone heard what sounded like a feminine voice from the other side of the house. "John? Is that you?"

Watson sighed in frustration. Mary was awake, and he was unprepared to speak to her. Even so, he quickly stood up. But unfortunately, before he could head toward her, she walked into the room, and her tired eyes widened instantly as she saw the oddly dressed young woman sprawled out on the lounge chair in the parlor, surrounded by not just Mr. Holmes, but a young male and female. Quickly, she turned to her husband and opened her mouth to speak.

But before she could, he hastily walked toward her, took her hands in his, and said as calmly as possible, "Mary, darling, I know what you're going to ask, but I don't think now's the best time. However, I would like you to do something for me."

Still wide-eyed, Mary looked again at the scene before her, to make sure she was not seeing things, before she turned back to Watson and said, "Yes?"

"I need you to get me some bandaging material and three small towels filled with ice," he told her, "Can you do that for me? I promise I'll explain as soon as I can."

Though she would have preferred one at this moment, once she saw the sense of urgency in his eyes and felt it in his voice, Mary nodded in understanding. "Of course." She then hurried through the parlor to where Holmes went just a while ago, while Watson continued tending to his patient.

After taking off her right boot, and after her sash and belt holding her bag were removed, with gentle but firm hands Watson pressed his fingers on her ankle, hip, and then shoulder, feeling for anything unusual about each of them. Though Esmé let out small moans of pain as he did so, she did her best to remain as still as possible, biting her lip and fighting the urge to move when he touched a really sensitive spot. And even though the man was a doctor, she still didn't much like the notion of a man she barely knew laying his hands on her in such a way.

However, once he finished examining all three, his eyebrows raised and he looked somewhat surprised. "Amazing," he said, "Nothing is broken. Although, you can expect some rather serious bruising." Esmé felt a bit of her humor return as she felt a slight a smirk cross her face. She didn't need him to tell her that.

Shortly after though, his wife returned with the things Watson had asked for. Very quickly, he thanked her and then got to work, placing all of the towels containing ice on Esmé's ankle, hip, and shoulder. Once that was done, he took the bandaging material and wrapped some of it around her head and then around her arm where she'd been cut with the man's knife. By the time he was finished, Esmé was sure she looked a sight even more bizarre than what she saw the first time she wore her costume, but she was grateful to receive the care she did at the hands of none other than Mr. Holmes' former colleague.

All the while, Holmes had stood beside Mary and watched. "The poor darling," she said, having found sympathy for the strangely dressed woman.

"Indeed," Holmes agreed without a hint of emotion in his voice.

"But just who is she?" Mary asked.

"I don't rightly know," Holmes replied, "But I do intend to find out."

Once his friend had finished bandaging the woman, Holmes at last seized the chance he'd been waiting for, and took him by the arm in order to speak with him. Watson, recognizing Holmes' usual method of getting his attention when he wanted to speak to him alone, stood up from where he was kneeling, leaving his patient for what he hoped would only be a few short minutes.

"Watson," Holmes said quietly, "I don't mean to interfere if I am, but I do wish to remind you that I'm still on a case."

He then looked at the still masked woman laying on the lounge chair, causing Watson to do the same. Both saw that she was now being comforted by the people who identified themselves as her friends, but Watson, using his deducing skills that he'd learned over the years, allowed himself to assume that they were more than mere friends.

He turned back to Holmes and asked just as quietly, "Must you interrogate now?"

"Well I'm afraid that if I don't I might not get another chance," he replied.

Watson only closed his eyes briefly and sighed. He knew very well that once the great detective had his mind set on something, there was no chance of stopping him. "Then if you must," he said, "may I advise you to be slow and steady? I do recall a friend of mine once saying that slow and steady wins the race."

"Quite," Holmes agreed, knowing very well whom he was speaking of. However, the situation at hand could ill afford great humor, and he knew it. Donning his most serious, interrogative expression, he stood straight and walked the few steps over to the chair, to the woman he'd been so bent on catching the past few days. Indeed, it almost alarmed him, seeing her within his grasp, and in a rather unforeseen way. His friend's advice echoed in his mind, and he remembered at the last instant to change his usual tone of voice.

He knelt down next to her just as Watson did. "Well then, Madam," he said, "I assume you're feeling at least a bit better?"

She sighed a long sigh before replying, "I will admit, I've felt better. But, I suppose I shall live after all." A joke he thought, but he detected no humor in her voice or on her face, at least, what he could see of her face.

"Then I can safely assume, considering tonight's events, that there is little to no chance of you running off from me again?" he asked.

The woman frowned, and blinked once, then twice, before nodding her head slightly. Now that she'd given him that answer, Holmes wasted no time in asking the question he'd been seeking the answer to for a good while.

"I suppose, then, that we've reached a moment of truth? … I suppose it's now time to see the woman behind the mask."

As soon as she heard that, Esmé felt as though she experienced two reactions at the same time. The first, she noticed, being that her heart had stopped, while the other was the sensation of it begin to beat as wildly as a hummingbird's wings against her chest, like a caged bird desperately wanting to be released, or flee in this case. She knew a moment like this would come, but she did not think it would come so soon. It seemed as though the black cat had finally caught his red mouse. She looked to her cousins for support, but both looked blankly at her. Josette, however, asked, "Shall I do it?"

Not knowing what to say at first, Esmé bit her lip for a moment, and then sighed again, before shaking her head and replying, "No … I'll do it."

She then looked back at Mr. Holmes, the man whom she felt so complicated towards, the man she wanted to flee from yet admire at the same time. Even so, knowing there was no chance of fleeing from him this time, Esmé reached her fingers up to her mask, which had become like a protective shield to her, and slowly removed it.

Though he had his suspicions of who he would see, Holmes nonetheless raised his eyebrows in surprise once he finally saw the young woman's face. It was a face he clearly remembered seeing, with tan skin, large brown eyes, and surrounded by long, very dark hair. It took him a few seconds to find his voice.

"Why, Mademoiselle de Beaumont, we meet again," he declared.

"De Beaumont?" Watson asked, having heard that name before.

"Astonishing, isn't it?" Holmes replied, "The elusive Masked Gypsy is none other than the daughter of Monsieur Jean-Pierre de Beaumont, the missing ballet master of the local opera house."

"Are you certain?" Watson asked.

"Oh I never forget a face I find interesting. Especially if the person is equally as interesting."

Hearing those words she'd remembered speaking only yesterday, which now seemed so long ago, Esmé felt even more vulnerable and trapped than she did before. Determined to escape it in any way she could, she sat up to the best of her ability and declared in a clear voice, "My name is Esmé. And these are my cousins, Josette and Victor. They helped me."

She gestured toward them, and they both reluctantly nodded in agreement.

"What I've been doing is not what everyone thinks!" she then insisted before anyone else could speak up.

Right then, in that moment, all the emotions that she'd kept bottled up inside for no one to see, ever since her father disappeared, had proved too hard to contain any longer. Sadness for herself and for her family, anger at how things had turned out, the recent fear of facing a violent death, and the relief of escaping it, all boiled like hot water until the water was unleashed in the form of tears, in the presence of all in the room. Almost immediately, she felt ashamed and embarrassed, both of which only seemed to make her cry harder.

Holmes unconsciously raised his eyebrows at what he was now seeing. Not that he'd never seen a woman cry before, but how strangely this crying woman seemed to affect him. No longer did he see a stubborn woman, intent on thumbing her nose at him and fleeing him at every chance she got. He now saw a girl who had once determined to prove herself in the eyes of the disapproving, yet seemed to fail. Indeed, she seemed a bit like himself in that regard.

However, putting odd emotions aside, Holmes reached for a handkerchief and handed it to the girl – Esmé, and asked, "If you are willing then, would you please explain to me the reasons for your actions?"

Esmé took the handkerchief, but kept it in her hands rather than putting it to her face. After another drawn-out sigh, what he saw as an attempt to regain her former composure, she nodded, and began her explanation. "Well first, I think you should know that everything I'm about to say is true."

"That's all that I desire," Holmes nodded.

Esmé sniffed before continuing. "I'm not the thief who stole from Lords Loxley and Hampton. The real thief was Lord Wellington. I was returning the jewels to them."

Holmes raised his eyebrows with interest. "They personally asked you to do this?"

"No," Esmé shook her head, "I did it alone, with a bit of help from my cousins."

"And how do you know Lord Wellington is the thief?"

"When I first went into his house," Esmé explained, "I overheard him speaking with a friend of his. And, I will admit, I did not know until then."

"Then may I ask what you were doing in his house if not for the jewels?"

Esmé sighed again before continuing. "In truth, I was there because, a week earlier, a saw this friend of his, a landlord, take a pearl necklace from the wife of a man he was throwing out. I assumed, correctly, that Wellington would be keeping them in his own home for safe-keeping. And that day, was the day that, my father went missing."

"I see," Holmes nodded, "And, why did you act so rashly?"

"I have two reasons," Esmé replied, "First, I did not believe anyone would help that man and his wife. And, as for the other, since my father had gone missing, I thought I could better get your attention in this way."

Again, Holmes raised his eyebrows and nodded, but not in understanding. In fact, for all his rather brilliant deductive reasoning, it remained a mystery to him as to why a seventeen-year-old girl with upper-middle-class upbringing could act so daringly and so unlike that which was expected of someone like her. Holmes may have learned over the years to expect the unexpected, but one could say he was rather unprepared for something like this.

"My dear," he said in a non-accusatory tone, "why did you think you could handle something like this on your own?"

Esmé sniffed again, and this time used her handkerchief on both her eyes. "I did for a while. And I told you, my cousins were helping me."

"That doesn't matter," Holmes shook his head, "Did you have even the slightest idea of the dangers that awaited you in such a large city, and at night?"

"Yes, I did," Esmé nodded.

"And yet you still behaved as you did," Holmes said, "Tell me, Mademoiselle, how do you think your father would feel if he knew what you were doing? I don't have children, but if you were my daughter, I can tell you I would very likely have gone mad with worry."

Esmé blinked twice, as if to hold back fresh tears, before she nodded.

"And besides, why did you not tell me when I came to investigate?" he asked, "In fact, why did you not come to me for help in the first place as soon as you discovered your father was missing?"

In a bit of an unexpected response, Esmé laughed slightly as though she'd been told a joke, one she seemed to view as cruel. "Would you have believed me?" she asked in a rather cynical tone, "And to answer your second question, would you have willingly taken my case, or would you have turned me away?"

Though a question, it didn't take long for Holmes to realize that he already knew the answer, as all he found he could do was simply look slightly away from her in disbelief. The spotlight had somehow spontaneously turned on him, and strangely enough, it affected him somewhat differently than he was used to, and he didn't like it. In fact, he found himself somewhat agreeing with the girl. He very likely would have turned her away. But these sorts of things didn't bother him much before, so why did it seem to now?

When he was able to look back at her, he frowned as he saw her crying again. And this time, she didn't bother to use the handkerchief again. "You don't know how much I love my papa," she said before sniffing again, "He's old and ill and, I have no idea where he is. None of us do."

Holmes looked at her cousins, but both of them shook their heads sadly. When he looked back at Esmé again, their eyes met in a strange manner, but one that wasn't entirely unknown to either of them. "I only wish to see him well and safe. So, if you have any compassion at all, please. Help us."

Esmé looked away from him, and continued to weep, for herself, for her father, for the people she loved and yet seemed to fail. She couldn't recall another time when she felt so helpless and low. As she heard the rain continue to fall outside, she wished she could simply walk away and disappear into the night like a ghost. At least there people would mistake her tears for raindrops. She felt miserable yet relieved at the same time, such a strange combination.

Suddenly, she heard a familiar voice say her name for what seemed the first time. "Esmé." She turned to see that it was Mr. Holmes, and that he still looked serious, but also seemed to have a faint sense of concern across his face.

"Mademoiselle, you may be right," he said, "I don't usually take cases such as these. But, considering what's happened for the past few days, I suppose I can make an exception. I can't make any guarantees for the moment, but, I will do what I can concerning your father."

Upon hearing those words, for perhaps that first time that night, a small but genuine smile slowly donned on Esmé's face. "That was all I needed to hear. Merci, Monsieur."

Holmes nodded, and as he did Esmé thought she could see a faint smile appear on his face as well. "Good then, but, are you sure you don't know where he could possibly be?"

Esmé opened her mouth to speak, to say no. But suddenly, a spark of memory suddenly flared in her mind, and her mouth came open as she remembered a crucial clue. "Well, I did find a note at the last place where he was," she replied.

"What did it say?" Holmes asked.

"It said, 'Do not bother looking for him, J.M.'"

"J.M." Holmes repeated. He had heard of those initials before, and as he remembered who they belonged to, his eyes widened, his own mouth came open, and before long he found himself staring out into space as realization crept like a sneaking predator into his mind.

"Holmes," he suddenly heard Watson say. Immediately, he seemed jolted out of his deep thoughts, and he looked first at the three de Beaumont children, and then at his old friend and his wife. Knowing he needed to be in a stable position to announce his news, Holmes stood back up on both his feet. And yet, all he could look at was the rain that continued to pour freely on the largest city in the world.

"Watson," he said, "I believe we may possibly have a case re-opened."

Once he made his declaration known, everyone in the room could only wonder at what he meant, especially Esmé. It seemed unknown to everyone, even Holmes, what could possibly be in store for all of them. However, what the great detective and the former vigilante beside him knew for sure was that they had left one road behind, and were starting on a new one, this time together. As lightning flashed and thunder sounded outside, inside both had become set on finishing this road as well. Nothing was going to stop either of them from personally seeing to it.

To be continued…

Reviews would be appreciated.

Another story completed! Hope you all liked it! Thanks for the reviews and encouragement! Be sure to check out my other stories, especially the follow-up to this one.

The Case of the Sinister Conspiracy: Esmé, Josette, and Victor join forces with Holmes and Watson. A strange string of clues leads them all to the City of Lights itself, where they intend to solve the mystery once and for all. Where is Esmé's father? Who took him? And why?