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Chapter Fourteen

"Y—y—you can't be Sherlock Holmes," Ernest stuttered. "Sherlock Holmes isn't real!"

"I get that a lot," Holmes said dryly. Ernest stood with his mouth agape. "But, nonetheless, you can quite clearly see that I am indeed a real person, and so let's bypass all that, shall we, and march straight into the investigation." Holmes scanned the room.

"Watson—you didn't happen to move anything while you were waiting, did you?" he asked.

"No, of course not."

"Good." Something suddenly caught Holmes's eye, and with an "ah-ha!" he pounced upon the floor.

"What have you got?" Watson asked. Holmes held up his clue.

"A book?" Ernest asked, dumbfounded. "I thought you had a clue."

"I do have a clue," Holmes corrected.

"But it's just a book."

"Yes, but this is Sian's book, and it was on the floor."

"So?"

"That's a rather unusual place to keep a book," Holmes noted dryly, "especially in a room with so many tables, not to mention the bookshelf. And bear in mind, this is Sian we're talking about. She would never leave her book face-down on the floor."

"That's true," Ernest admitted.

"And so, what I see so far is that a person, probably a man, snuck into the house from the rear and startled Sian, causing her to drop her book."

With that being said, Holmes dropped to the floor, inspecting the rug. "I can see some traces of mud on the rug," he said, "but that is not unusual, since it was raining last night."

Watson and Ernest watched—Watson with amusement, and Ernest with amazement—as Holmes began to crawl across the floor, inspecting as he went. He stopped a few paces before the safe.

"Blood," he said.

"Blood!" Ernest repeated.

"Yes," Holmes replied tersely.

"Was she—was she stabbed?" Holmes felt a corner of his mouth tug upwards.

"There's not nearly enough blood for that, Mr. Fairfax. I would imagine that the man hit her in the head and knocked her unconscious. I also can see strands of her hair that snagged in the splinters of the hardwood." Ernest staggered, and fell into the seat behind him. Holmes paced across the parlor.

"I never thought my own home would ever be a crime scene," he muttered.

"We'll find her, Holmes," Watson said gently.

"It's not just Sian I'm worried about," Holmes said brokenly. "Jack and Violet are gone too. It's just that… they're babies. Not even a year old yet."

Ernest suddenly made a strange sound. It wasn't quite like a sob, but it was so miserable and pathetic that it even broke the heart of the already broken-hearten Holmes.

"My daughter," Ernest cried.

"My wife," Holmes added softly. "And my two children."

"Well," Watson began, but he stopped suddenly. Holmes caught Watson's almost-statement.

"What?" he demanded.

"It's just… what you just said," Watson began. "Sian… she wanted me to keep this a secret, but I feel that you should know now, considering the circumstances."

"Well?" Holmes demanded.

"Sian is… expecting."

"Expecting? Another child?" Holmes asked, his voice dazed. He slumped into his armchair. "That has changed the factors considerably," he said between gritted teeth.

"The factors?" Watson echoed.

"Yes. That has increased the amount of hurt I will feel if anything should happen to them. If such a thing was possible," Holmes said darkly.

"Oh, dear," Watson fretted. "Maybe I should have kept it secret."

"No," Holmes said shakily. "No. If anything, it only added to my… incentive… to find them. Again, if such a thing was possible." Holmes sighed, and rested his chin on his hands, contemplative. "Sherlock Holmes… husband and father of three." He grimaced. "Those words would sound so much sweeter if Sian and the little ones were here, safe."

Just then, Mrs. Hudson shuffled through the front door, scarf on her head and carpetbag in hand.

"Mrs. Hudson?" Holmes asked, confused. "Didn't you just leave for a funeral?"

"It's the funniest thing," Mrs. Hudson said, sounding dazed. "I got to Liverpool all right, but when I got to my sister's house, I found out that she hadn't died, after all. She was in the peak of health, no less. I, of course, was happy to see her alive and well, but I was much embarrassed for my mistake. But who on earth would have sent me a false telegram?"

"The kidnapper," Holmes growled.

"The what?" Mrs. Hudson, her hand flying to her heart. She finally looked around the room. Spying Ernest, she said, "Who is this gentleman? And where are Mrs. Holmes and the wee ones?"

"This is Mr. Fairfax, Sian's father," Holmes said. "And Sian and Jack and Violet… well, they…." Holmes couldn't say it.

"They were kidnapped," Watson whispered gently.

"Oh, my heavens!" Mrs. Hudson gasped.

"Yes," Holmes agreed sullenly.

"And you think that… that the telegram was sent… was sent to get me out of the way?"

"I think that seems pretty obvious," was Holmes's moody response.

"I—I—" Mrs. Hudson didn't seem to know what to do.

"Everyone is a little on edge," Watson said finally, explaining for his companions. "Why don't you prepare a pot of tea for us?" Mrs. Hudson nodded and rushed off to the kitchen, because, in her mind, a pot of tea could set almost everything right.

Holmes angrily paced over to the window and glanced out. "Ah, just the lad I wanted to see," he said. He threw open the window. "Cartwright!" he barked at the boy passing by. He stopped and looked up. "Yes, you! Go down to Bradley's and have them send up a shag of their strongest tobacco." Cartwright nodded. Holmes tossed him a coin. "For the tobacco," he said, and, tossing a second coin, he added, "and for your trouble."

Holmes shut the window. Ernest eyed him suspiciously. "You're just going to sit here and smoke?" he asked, bewildered.

"No, I'm going to sit here and think," Holmes corrected. "It usually goes along with detective work."

"I thought you gave up smoking," Watson said.

"This is an emergency."

---

"The question is, what would the motive be?" Holmes finally asked, one pipe and three cups of tea later. Ernest and Watson glanced up from their cups.

"I mean, why go through all the trouble of getting the housekeeper out of the way if a crime was going to be committed?" he asked himself. So caught up in his thoughts was he that he didn't notice that he was absentmindedly adding far too many lumps of sugar into cup number four of tea.

"Maybe so there wouldn't be any witnesses?" Ernest suggested.

"But why not just kidnap Mrs. Hudson as well?" Holmes asked. "And they must be alive, because why go through all the trouble of kidnapping people just to kill them later?"

"I—uh…."

"Exactly." He took a triumphant sip of his tea, and his face screwed into a horrible expression at the taste of its over-sugariness.

"But what would the man have against Sian?" Watson asked, slightly amused at Holmes, but remembering that he must be sober. "What could she have possibly done to deserve this?"

"I don't think it has anything to do with Sian," Holmes observed, shoving his teacup away and reaching for his pipe. "I think that the man must have some sort of personal grudge against me, and decided to get his revenge by injuring me in the worst way he possibly could—by attacking my heart."

"Well, that should be easy to figure out," Ernest said. "After all, how long could one's enemy list truly be? Who might have a grudge against you?" Holmes laughed bitterly.

"Do you have any idea how many people I've had put in prison?" he asked.

"No," Ernest admitted. He looked at the dazed look on Watson's face. "That many, huh?"

"Oh yes."

Holmes threw his arms into the air.

"Well, what does it matter who he is? He's killing me. Killing me!" Holmes raged. "He might as well have just taken a knife to my heart and stabbed me in a dark alleyway. I'll be dead!" Holmes stopped suddenly.

"I think that's the point, Holmes," Watson said mildly. "He's trying to hurt you in the worst possible way."

"That's it!" Holmes shouted triumphantly, jumping to his feet. "He's killed me! Killed me! At least six times already!"

"What on earth are you talking about?"

"Don't you see, Watson? Those men that have been murdered! They were me!"

"You?"

"Yes! That was the correlation! Not social status, not career, nothing at all usual. They all resembled me!"

Watson's eyes widened. "So that was it!"

"He's been killing me, metaphorically, for weeks now. I was just too blind to see it. So now, he's moved on, trying to hurt me in the worst way possible—and quite effectively, I might add."

"So a murderer is the one who has Sian and the children?" Ernest demanded. Holmes nodded. "Oh, God, they could be dead!" Ernest moaned.

"I don't think so," Holmes said. "And let me tell you why. The man obviously has some sort of grudge against me, hence my six metaphorical murders. I would assume that he won't rest until he's killed me, in reality, rather than in his sick, twisted mind. Sian and the children might just be being used as bait, to lure me to him."

"So you think that they're alive?"

"I'd stake my life on it," Holmes assured.