Prompt: A Bloody Ritual, from W.Y. Traveller

"I am quite certain, Watson, that Mr. Scholberg, the young man we spoke to earlier is behind the thefts of these artifacts," Holmes said suddenly from amidst the cloud of smoke he had filled our hotel room with.

He and I had traveled to Berlin to investigate the loss of some valuable ancient artifacts held for study by the Humboldt University. The professor whose work depended on these pieces had been distraught by their loss, having spent the greater part of two summers in the deserts of Syria excavating them. He had vouched for all his student assistants, so I was surprised to hear Holmes say that the young man in question, who had worked with the professor for the past year, was behind the thefts. "Are you certain, Holmes?" I asked.

"As certain as I can be," Holmes said. "There is a valuable black market for items found in that area of the world, and authorities do not watch for their loss as much as they do artifacts from Egypt, Greece or Italy. You will notice that he had few items in his lodgings compared to his fellows, and that his clothes were of a lower quality. I suspect his motives were purely financial. Come, Watson. If we hurry we may discover he still has some remaining in his student lodgings."

We arrived at the lodgings given to students by the university. The buildings were tall and imposing, with columns to emulate Roman design and many statues of donors and previous graduates around. As the newest of Europe's great capitals, Berlin did not have the charm of Paris or London, or the heavy weight of history as Rome, yet the atmosphere was one of progress and excitement for the new nation's prospects. We reached the lodgings as the sun began to set, and the maid informed us that Mr. Scholberg had gone out for the evening, as he was wont to do with his friends. Holmes, as I have said before, has a way with women when he so chooses, and soon had an address where we might find the young man. "It is not so good as finding the artifacts in his rooms," Holmes said. "Yet this might be where he meets his buyers!" His eyes glinted and he quickened his pace.

However, when we arrived at the address, we found a staircase leading to a dark cellar. Some twenty young men were inside when we arrived, each armed with a curved sword. I touched Holmes's arm. "I don't like this," I said. There were far too many for us to overcome should they attack, and I did not like the look of thoses swords. I felt for my trusty service revolver and breathed a sigh of relief when I felt its reassuring weight in my pocket.

Holmes, however, smiled and marched directly to our Mr. Scholberg, who was in the center of the room. His eyes narrowed when he recognized my friend, and appeared to ask him what he was doing here. I do not speak German, and so could only just follow the gist of the conversation. Holmes, of course, was fluent, and answered cheerfully. I can only assume that he informed our quarry of the evidence against him, for Mr. Scholberg's face grew red and he began to shout before Holmes had finished. I started forward when he brandished his sword, but Holmes took my wrist and held me back. "No, Watson," he said. "I must do this alone."

"Alone? What are you talking about?" I asked.

"An affair of honor, my dear Waton," Holmes said gaily, removing his jacket and handing it to me. "I have been challenged."

I looked at Mr. Scholberg, who returned my gaze with a menacing glare. I noticed for the first time how many of the men we were surrounded by had scars on their faces. "A duel?" I asked. Dueling had fallen much by the wayside in England, having been declared illegal some thirty years previously. I did not think a duel had been fought in my lifetime, nor could I see the purpose of two men seeking to kill each other over the smallest affair of honor. "Is that not illegal?" I asked in some shock.

"Very much so," Holmes said, his eyes glinting with excitement. "Do not worry, Watson."

I could see that Holmes would not be deterred, and I sighed. "Very well. But use my pistol, It is in better condition than yours," I said. Holmes was cavalier about firearms in many ways, not only in the places he chose to use them. It fell to me more often than not to clean his for him.

"Not a duel with pistols, Watson," Holmes answered. He took a sword that was offered to him by one of the other young men. "With this." He held up the sword for my inspection. I was astonished.

"What is this, a dueling club?" I asked, though I knew none of the men could understand me. "Of all the bloody, outdated rituals! You cannot mean to go on with this!"

"Indeed I do, Watson," Holmes said. "He has impugned my investigation and I confess, I relish the challenge." He smiled. "You know I am well-versed in swordfighting."

"In English fencing, yes," I said. Holmes was an acknowledged master of the form. Yet the sword we use is thinner, straighter. "This is entirely different. Are you not even to have padded clothing?"

"None," Holmes said, then laughed. "It is not a duel to the death, Watson! Merely first blood. I think our young criminal wishes to test himself against me. You see he has fewer scars than the others? He is the most skilled of them all, I would wager."

Mr. Scholberg did have only or two scars on his face and neck, while many of the others sported nearly a dozen each. He looked impatiently at me, and Holmes gently pushed me back. I could do nothing but watch as the two circled each other, until Mr. Scholberg finally lunged. Holmes jumped to one side so the blow missed, but barely. The other members of the dueling club groaned loudly.

I had seen Holmes fight on many occasions, with many different weapons. Yet I had rarely seen him do so for blood. His observational abilities, which he usually used simply to determine someone's occupation and living situation, were turned on his opponent, searching for a weakness he might exploit. His sharp gaze was utterly focused, and it occurred to me that I would not like to be on the receiving end of such a look. It reminded me that to the criminal classes, Holmes was one to be feared. He lunged, forcing Scholberg to twist to avoid it, a move he deftly turned into an attack of his own, but one Holmes met blade for blade. I was suddenly reminded of pirate novels I had read, where captains routinely fought each other for treasure.

Suddenly, Holmes went in for the final attack! Scholberg had swung his sword out, intending to come in for an attack, and quicker than a flash, Holmes jumped in and slashed upward. A spurt of red told me blood had been drawn as Scholberg fell back, his face bloodied from a long cut on his cheek, caused by Holmes's sword. Holmes looked satisfied and wiped the blood off his sword, saying something in German. Scholberg glared up at him, replying and then shaking his hand.

I looked between them, realizing the fight was over, and hurried forward Mr. Scholberg. Criminal he might be; he was still an injured man and I was a doctor. I wiped the blood away with a clean rag and inspected the wound. "You will have a scar," I told him, drawing my hand across my own cheek to indicate it. To my surprise, Sholberg smiled widely, despite the pain he must be feeling. I took out my doctor's kit and began to thread a needle to stitch it, but he stopped me, saying something else in German.

"He is asking for only a few stitches, that the scar might be more prominent," Holmes translated, when I looked up at him.

I stared in some astonishment at my patient. "Why, it could become infected if I do not stitch it properly!"

Holmes spoke again to his erstwhile opponent, who answered quickly, and my friend turned to me. "If you do as he wishes, he will take us to the site where he sells his professor's artifacts."

"Very well," I said with some acerbity, sewing the wound with only three stitches. Scholberg did not flinch once while I worked, causing his fellows to cheer mightily when I finished.

Later, as we were on the train returning to London, having broken up the ring of black market dealers and recovered most of the stolen artifacts, I reflected on the whole experience. "Holmes?" I asked. "Why did young Scholberg not wish me to stitch his wound properly?"

Holmes put down his paper and frowned thoughtfully. "I am sure you noticed, Watson, that most of the men in the dueling club had facial scars. The duel is a ritual, a bloody one, as you said, to show their strength and courage. The scars are a testament to that, considered a prize to be won. It is an irony that Scholberg, as the most skilled fighter among them, had the fewest scars to show for it, while his inferiors had many. I am certain that is why he challenged me."

"He knew you would be a match for him," I said in realization.

Holmes shrugged. "Either that, or he would be able to say that he had defeated Sherlock Holmes in a duel. However, he will be showing off his scar in prison, Watson. Now do pass me the tobacco, there's a good fellow."4

A/N: Another one full of historical details! Dueling clubs like this were (and still are, in some places) a real thing. They were called mensur clubs and they were especially popular among students during the late 19th and early 20th century in Germany. The idea was to cut one's opponent on the face or neck, and the scars that resulted really did become sought-after badges of honor.