NEXT CHAPTER!!!! Sad to say, this is the longest thing that I've ever written. But I'm going to continue it. I always hated when I read a story, and the author didn't finish it, then moved onto another story. But I won't do that. I'm somewhat loyal to my readers. Anyway, I don't own the original characters, and I suppose I don't own mine either. I didn't get anymore questions, so I'm hoping that there are none. Now, on with chapter five
Chapter Five: Interrogation
The next day was equally unimportant to me. Holmes continued the investigation, but this time there was no way I could help. He was busy inspecting the bullet all day, testing it and memorizing each aspect of it. It bored me. Finally, around seven, he pulled himself away from the microscope and looked at me.
"The suspect has money. The family that he lives n does not, but he has much to offer," Holmes concluded. I yawned and set down my book.
"How did you figure that out? And how does a boy have money when the family doesn't?" I asked wearily. Holmes flopped down in a chair, tired from the days events.
"The bullet is of the expensive kind. It is only found in boxes of five, which cost thirty pounds apiece. The suspect fired of thirteen shots, which is ninety pounds worth of bullets. Think about it. Yet all the evidence points to a poor family. There was a form of dirt on it that is only found in the poorest of areas in London. You will find it no where else. And I found a bit of a toe print with the same dirt on it. Our suspect has money, I would deduce, because he is involved in something criminal that pays well," Holmes explained. I gasped.
"Like... drugs? You don't think that..." I trailed off, not wishing to go one. Holmes nodded.
"That would have been my first idea," he replied grimly. I frowned.
"So, we're dealing with two attempted murders, stealing, and drug possession? This guy has fallen into the deep end of crime," I said. Holmes closed his eyes and leaned back in the chair.
"One would assume. But then, we should never assume anything. For all we know, he might of stolen the money. It really is of no importance to us, yet. It will be in the future." Holmes yawned.
"Now then, Watson. I'm really quite tired. Please accompany me home. I need to give you something, for your safekeeping," he said. I followed him out of my room, curious as to his behavior. We began to walk to his house in the biting cold of November.
It surprised me a great deal when we walked in the front door of his house, considering we usually climbed the tree to his room. I looked at him as we went up the stairs.
"Why did we enter through the front door? Doesn't your father usually get angry?" I asked. Holmes pulled open the door to his room and ushered me inside.
"We're moving in another two weeks or so. He's at Charise's house right now, planning where he wants my room to be. All though I'm sure that he would prefer it if I lived outside," Holmes muttered bitterly. I gaped at him as he dug under his bed for whatever he wished to give to me.
"You're MOVING! I thought Charise was no big thing!" I cried. Holmes scowled.
"Trust me, so did I. But oh no... he's marrying her. In two months. So, we have two weeks to solve this case. Charise hates me, and will lock me in my room. And she won't let you come over, for sure. I tried to tell him again that she was a recovering drug addict, but he doesn't care," he said, his voice barely audible because he had once again began rummaging under his bed. Finally, he pulled his body out from the bed and tossed me something.
"This is something of great importance to me. I hope you like it. Parts of it are from you great-great-great grandfather, and the rest are from my ancestors. I know you don't have these, they're personal. Open them when you get home," he said, stopping my hand from yanking open the manila envelope. Suddenly the door slammed downstairs. Holmes shot his hands into the air and grabbed me.
"Get out of here," he whispered into my ear, "my father's home."
I climbed out of the window in with a speed I had hardly thought possible. I ran down the block. Finally, I was about ten houses from mine and so I slowed down to an easier pace. My gloves limited my grip on Holmes' folder, so I tucked it into a secret pocket I had sewn in my jacket during my early association with Holmes. I walked with ease along the street, when I heard a rustling come from the bushes. I stopped and looked around. That proved to be a bad idea. I heard someone come up behind me, and I spun around.
There stood a boy, maybe a woman, I couldn't tell. They raised a piece of pipe into the air and it connected hard with my skull. Then, blessed darkness.
I woke with a start and moaned. My head hurt, so badly that I wanted an aspirin (and I don't take them). Light shown through the windows of my prison, which I soon realized was the old factory about five blocks east of my school. Looking around some more, I found someone was sitting in a chair in the corner. It was rather obviously a woman, although a mask obscured her features, including her hair and eyes. The only thing visible was her mouth. I glared at her.
"Ah, good, you're awake. I was worried that my buffoon who attacked you had permanently knocked you out. Then I would have to kill him," she said casually. She had a light voice, one of a singers. I looked at her with disgust.
"Who are you?" I asked, maliciousness ringing in my voice. She smiled.
"Names are not of importance right now. But I know you're name. You're Jennifer Watson, fifteen. You, who love that meager fool, Sherlock Holmes. Who have meddled in my affairs long enough. You saved that idiot's life! He would be out of my way were it not for you," she said, no longer acting cheerful. Suddenly, her whole demeanor changed.
"Tell me, does he miss his darling mother?" she asked. I was surprised at this change of subject and looked at her suspiciously.
"Why do you care to know?" I asked. She smiled once more.
"Just tell me," she said.
"Yes, he does. Very much," I replied, regretting it almost instantly. This woman could use it against him!
"Tell him, if you live that is, that I'm sorry," she whispered, a curious sound of woe resonating in her high voice. I stared at her.
"What do you know of Holmes' mother?" I asked. Holmes had told me little of his mother.
"Ah, so you wish to speak of her? Very well. She was beautiful, very beautiful. She was kind and loving, even to her husband, that wretch of a man. She loved her son the most, though. She thought Sherlock was the most precious thing in the world. She knew her husband was directly related to the famous Sherlock Holmes, and so she named Sherlock after him. She left the family when Sherlock was young. I don't remember when. She was hurt in a car accident. Glass pierced her face, disfiguring her and making her ugly. No one could bear to look at her. Her pain was surreal. She wasn't sad about the fact that her husband disowned her, only that her beautiful face was gone. Forever. Surgeons could do nothing. The opera house she had belonged to wouldn't let her come back. She was doomed. I killed her," the woman stopped her narrative. I launched myself at this murderer, the one who had caused so much pain to the Holmes family, even Holmes' father. She caught me in mid-leap.
"I don't think so Jennifer. I am afraid to get the information I need out of you, I'm going to have to tie you down, something I did not wish to do," she said, placing me in a chair and winding rope around me.
"Information?" I asked. She stood and dusted her hands off.
"Well, yes. You see, I am a leader for criminals. I was the one who directed my minion to poison Holmes, although he was quite happy to carry it out. A little to happy, one would think... I lead half of the crime in this city. Haven't you figured it out yet? I am Marie Moriarty!" she announced. I gasped. This lady was a descendant of Professor James Moriarty, the Holmes' enemy. She laughed at my surprised look.
"Just as you are the descendant of John Watson, and Sherlock the descendant of Sherlock Holmes, there must be someone to take Moriarty's place, sadly enough. Isn't it sad how history repeats itself?" Marie asked. I was shocked at this woman's delusion.
"You're mad! Stark raving mad! History doesn't have to repeat itself, you know it doesn't!" I cried. Her mouth pulled downward into a dark frown.
"You are quite correct, Miss Watson, but I believe it must. The world must be rid of pests like Sherlock Holmes. But I promise you, Holmes won't go over the falls of Reichenbach. No, indeed, it must be something a little more eloquent than that. Perhaps suicide... yes that would do nicely. But lets put that aside for right now," she said. I couldn't let go of what she said, though.
"If history is to repeat itself, than perhaps you should watch yourself! Moriarty was killed, not Holmes!" I yelled. Her hand flew and I felt it connect with my face. She calmly rubbed her hand.
"Indeed, he did. But I also believe history does not have to follow it's events directly. There may be small changes, such as who dies, but I do believe I said we are to ignore that for right now!" she retorted angrily, losing whatever calm she had. She turned her back to me and looked at the door.
"I think Mr. Holmes gave you some papers the other night. Give them to me," she said. I glanced at her rigid back, and quickly made up my mind.
"I do not know what you are talking about. Holmes kicked me out of his house before he gave me anything," I responded coolly. Sher whirled around.
"Give them to me, or I will not be held responsible for my actions!" she screamed. I winced at her fury, but withheld.
"If I had these papers that you speak of, why do you wish for them with such a vengeance?" I inquired. If she was to keep me here, I might as well learn something.
She began to pace around the room. "They hold the history of the Holmes family, every single little detail, including one clue that would give all my efforts away. I wish to read and then destroy," she barked, all pleasantries gone from her voice. I sighed.
"I'm sorry, but I do not have them," I muttered. She pulled out a knife.
"So help me God, I will use this if you do not give them to me," she said, her voice still and calm, pointing the knife not even an inch from my nose.
"I don't have them," I repeated. She screamed with pain, anger, and a touch of anguish and threw the knife neatly into the wall. Marie turned and stormed out of the room, slammed the door, and left me to my own devices. I sighed, glad to see that the knife was not sticking into me.
"Well, that went well, didn't it?" I said to myself.
A chunk of the wall fell to the wall, the knife protruding from it ironically.
This persisted for days. It became painstakingly obvious Marie was insane. But under her anger there was and undertone of bitterness and bewilderment. She obviously didn't want to harm me, I became aware of that the second day of my containment. She hurt me by slapping me, and that was all. Until the third day of my containment.
"Good day Miss Watson. I see you have slept well?" Marie entered the room, holding no obvious weapon. I sneered at her.
"But of course, Miss Moriarty," I began. She raised a finger to her lips.
"I realize that you become impatient of you containment here. I apologize, of course, but I really do need those papers. As much as I loath to say this, if you do not give them to me by tomorrow, I'll have to have the liberty of bringing your precious Holmes here," she said, smiling. I tensed, all remarks gone from my tongue. Thinking quickly, I laughed derisively.
"Holmes would never come here," I answered. This time she laughed.
"Oh my dear. You have not seen him in three days. You do not know how he feels. He has become most frantic without you. He suffers, my dear. He will fall into any trap we lay for him. I am certain of it," she said. That was the end of our conversation, as she continued to pry the papers out of me.
Two hours later she left, paperless as ever. And so began the long wait for the next interrogation to begin.
It never came.
One hour after Marie had left, I heard a sharp tapping on the window of my prison. I couldn't well see, for my back was to the window, but I craned my neck backwards. Holmes was carefully opening the window. Overjoyed, I nearly let out a shriek.
"Now then, Watson. I highly doubt you wish for your guards to here us, so I recommend you not making a sound," he whispered as he slid his long body through the window. I did as he requested and kept silent as he cut loose my bonds with the knife (still on the floor trapped in a bit of the wall). When he had freed me, I jumped into his arms.
"Oh Holmes! It is so good to see you," I whispered exuberantly. I felt his tense body relax, all though he still refrained from putting his arms around me.
"Yes yes yes. Come along now. Your mother is very worried," he said, pulling himself away and lifting me up through the window. I glanced behind me as we walked down the sidewalk. I was free from my imprisonment.
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Holmes questioned me relentlessly as we walked swiftly toward my house. He asked multiple questions, but the most frequent was if they had harmed me. Finally, directly outside of my house he turned and asked one last question.
"Do you know who your captor was?" he asked. I nodded.
"Marie Moriarty," I replied. Holmes when dreadfully pale and stared at me.
"Are you positive?" Holmes asked. I nodded. Holmes turned and ran for his house, leaving me to puzzle about his behavior.
