Disclaimer: The events and characters recognizable from YSH belong to
Paramount, though I have reason to believe that Holmes belongs solely to
himself....
A/N: Ah-hah! The plot begins to emerge....
**********
Further Adventures of the Young Sherlock Holmes
**********
London
Winter, 1871
At the close of the affair with Ehtar and his Egyptian cult, the turmoil that had
marked the preceding week simply refused to cease. Though Holmes and I were no
longer chasing all over London like men possessed, there remained many questions
that needed answering, and thus many interminable sessions with Inspector Lestrade.
At the time, they felt uncomfortably like interrogations.
Through the next several tedious and tiring days, Holmes remained stonily silent
whenever possible. He would answer the Inspector's queries in a clipped and hurried
fashion, saying only as much as was necessary. It was as if he could hardly be
bothered to pause his own furious contemplations in order to fully address Lestrade's
inevitably ponderous lines of inquiry. I well recognized the signs by then: dull eyes,
perpetually furrowed brow, lanky form slouched uncomfortably in a chair, vacant gaze
directed for hours at some uninteresting inanimate object. To my momentary amusement,
I noticed that he'd even taken to contemplatively sucking on that silly pipe I'd been
forced to buy, though he did not try to smoke it just then. Clearly, Holmes was
systematically going over and over the events, clues, and nuances of the case,
silently frantic in his quest for any error, any decision he might have made
differently.
I came upon him once, two days after the close of the investigation. He was slouched
in a winged-back armchair in Elizabeth's old sitting room, having fallen into an
exhausted and restless slumber. I stood watching him for a moment, wondering what I
could possibly do to help this, my closest friend, when I noticed his eyelids
beginning to twitch rapidly. Before my eyes, his breath started to hitch painfully
in his chest, and strangled moans to pour from his mouth. I took a startled step
toward him, at first worried that he might be ill. I reached Holmes' side as he
clutched at his middle and was about to inquire after his health, when his moans
suddenly became coherent.
"No...Elizabeth!" he whimpered in obvious distress, tears squeezing from the corners
of his tightly closed eyes.
//A dream...// I realized belatedly, painfully torn between waking him from this new
horror and saving him the embarrassment of knowing I'd been witness to it. The former
quickly won out as Holmes began to sob in earnest, though quietly. I reached out to
grasp one quivering shoulder and shook him as gently as I could. "Holmes," I called
out in a normal tone of voice, hoping to startle him awake. "Holmes, come on then,
wake up."
Abruptly, Holmes started violently away from me, wrenching himself from my grasp.
For the briefest of moments, he stared at me, eyes wide with disorientation and, I
thought, a touch of fear. Then I watched as he visibly pulled himself together.
He produced his handkerchief, quite nonchalantly, and cleaned the tear tracks from his
thin cheeks. When he pulled the cloth away, I could no longer see any difference in
his visage from his normally cool and collected demeanor. He leaned forward, placing
elbows on knees, and drew in several deep, calming breaths before commenting, "So
sorry, Watson." His voice was tightly controlled, straining well beyond his usual
dulcet tones. More measured breathing, then, "I've been...dreaming often since...
since Elizabeth...." he trailed off, knowing that I well understood his meaning.
I once again wondered how I could possibly comfort my friend Holmes, who normally
seemed so completely self-sufficient, fully capable of handling any situation.
Ruthlessly pushing aside my own discomfort, I reached out once again and placed a
tentative hand on his wiry shoulder. I felt him tense momentarily, so unused was
he to such contact from me--or anyone save Elizabeth, I was certain. Soon,
however, he allowed himself to relax fractionally when he saw that I would not
unhand him unless he expressly wished it.
He sighed quietly, and then murmured, "This is intolerable, Watson!"
I was surprised, to say the least. He hadn't so much as spoken Elizabeth's name
to me since her untimely death. This blunt and unexpected confession revealed
more to me about his tortured state of mind than he'd meant it to, I'm sure.
We'd managed to solve the case through Holmes' leaps of deduction and a bit of
quick thinking at the end, but the cost to both Holmes and myself was tremendous.
For his part, no matter how agilely his mind had worked, he'd been unable to foresee
or prevent the tragic loss of the person dearest to him. That she had perished
from a bullet that was meant for Holmes could only have been like rubbing all of
the salt in the Dead Sea into an already festering wound. This bereavement had,
of course, effected me deeply as well, as I'd come to view Elizabeth as quite a
formidable ally, friend, and addition to our impromptu detection team.
On top of it all, the perpetrator of these countless heinous crimes had slipped
through our desperate fingers into the icy depths of the Thames, thus avoiding any
earthly punishment. His dastardly survival would remain unknown to us for many
years until he resurfaced, so to speak, to menace Holmes and myself once again.
But that story has been told elsewhere.
"I can think of nothing," Holmes continued, "nothing that could have prevented...it."
I could determine no way to respond that would not be scoffed at nor belittle what
he was feeling, so I simply stood, allowing him to voice his dispirited ruminations.
"If only she hadn't...." Holmes fell silent, grimacing horribly, and with a start I
remembered my original reason for searching him out.
"Holmes," I began slowly, steeling myself for his myriad possible reactions to my
news. He cocked his bent head slightly to the side to show his attention. "Holmes,
a messenger just came from Inspector Lestrade. The note was addressed to the both of us,
so I've opened it...." I trailed off, loath to even voice its contents.
Holmes pulled away from my hand, sitting up quickly. "Do get on with it, Watson,"
he exclaimed impatiently.
I began to fidget with the top button on my vest, unable to meet his piercing gaze.
"He said...he said that the morgue cannot find Elizabeth's body," I blurted out,
my eyes flying up to his face. I was not surprised to see the series of emotions
which played across it as he processed this new information. There first came
shock, followed quickly by a profound sorrow, his features finally settling into
no small amount of indignant anger.
"But, Watson," he began, leaping out of his chair to pace a tight circuit around
the room. "How can that be? Lestrade expressly promised me that only the best
people would handle her--" Holmes stopped short of actually referring to Elizabeth
as a mere body. "Incompetent fools," he muttered, still pacing furiously. "It's
certainly happened many times before, losing a body. But why would Elizabeth go
missing? Could Ehtar have.... No, that makes no sense." He came to rest abruptly
in front of me and took hold of my shoulders. "Watson, did the message give any
more information?" he asked urgently, looming over me.
Knowing that Holmes would never be satisfied by my own recitation, I reached into my
coat pocket and pulled out the hastily written message. It read:
Masters Holmes & Watson:
City Morgue reports body of Miss Elizabeth Hardy has gone
missing. Last seen by ambulance attendants and night nurse.
Please come by Yard to consult.
Inspector Lestrade
After reading the crumpled bit of paper, Holmes stood utterly still, his jaw muscles
working furiously. Then, much to my dismay, he leapt into action, grabbing up his
newly acquired inverness and deerstalker cap. "Come Watson! We must get to the Yard
as soon as possible, before the trail goes cold," he cried, bounding out of the room
and disappearing down the stairs before I could respond. Like a well-trained
bloodhound, Holmes was on the scent.
I had no other option but to follow him, so with a sigh, I quickly took up my own
garments and contented myself with keeping his lanky form and billowing overcoat
in view.
J. H. Watson
**********
A/N: Continued character exploration (you know how romantic Watson is!). Great scott,
will Holmes never have closure??
I've made it to the watermark of 10 reviews, happy days! Feedback spurs me on....
Paramount, though I have reason to believe that Holmes belongs solely to
himself....
A/N: Ah-hah! The plot begins to emerge....
**********
Further Adventures of the Young Sherlock Holmes
**********
London
Winter, 1871
At the close of the affair with Ehtar and his Egyptian cult, the turmoil that had
marked the preceding week simply refused to cease. Though Holmes and I were no
longer chasing all over London like men possessed, there remained many questions
that needed answering, and thus many interminable sessions with Inspector Lestrade.
At the time, they felt uncomfortably like interrogations.
Through the next several tedious and tiring days, Holmes remained stonily silent
whenever possible. He would answer the Inspector's queries in a clipped and hurried
fashion, saying only as much as was necessary. It was as if he could hardly be
bothered to pause his own furious contemplations in order to fully address Lestrade's
inevitably ponderous lines of inquiry. I well recognized the signs by then: dull eyes,
perpetually furrowed brow, lanky form slouched uncomfortably in a chair, vacant gaze
directed for hours at some uninteresting inanimate object. To my momentary amusement,
I noticed that he'd even taken to contemplatively sucking on that silly pipe I'd been
forced to buy, though he did not try to smoke it just then. Clearly, Holmes was
systematically going over and over the events, clues, and nuances of the case,
silently frantic in his quest for any error, any decision he might have made
differently.
I came upon him once, two days after the close of the investigation. He was slouched
in a winged-back armchair in Elizabeth's old sitting room, having fallen into an
exhausted and restless slumber. I stood watching him for a moment, wondering what I
could possibly do to help this, my closest friend, when I noticed his eyelids
beginning to twitch rapidly. Before my eyes, his breath started to hitch painfully
in his chest, and strangled moans to pour from his mouth. I took a startled step
toward him, at first worried that he might be ill. I reached Holmes' side as he
clutched at his middle and was about to inquire after his health, when his moans
suddenly became coherent.
"No...Elizabeth!" he whimpered in obvious distress, tears squeezing from the corners
of his tightly closed eyes.
//A dream...// I realized belatedly, painfully torn between waking him from this new
horror and saving him the embarrassment of knowing I'd been witness to it. The former
quickly won out as Holmes began to sob in earnest, though quietly. I reached out to
grasp one quivering shoulder and shook him as gently as I could. "Holmes," I called
out in a normal tone of voice, hoping to startle him awake. "Holmes, come on then,
wake up."
Abruptly, Holmes started violently away from me, wrenching himself from my grasp.
For the briefest of moments, he stared at me, eyes wide with disorientation and, I
thought, a touch of fear. Then I watched as he visibly pulled himself together.
He produced his handkerchief, quite nonchalantly, and cleaned the tear tracks from his
thin cheeks. When he pulled the cloth away, I could no longer see any difference in
his visage from his normally cool and collected demeanor. He leaned forward, placing
elbows on knees, and drew in several deep, calming breaths before commenting, "So
sorry, Watson." His voice was tightly controlled, straining well beyond his usual
dulcet tones. More measured breathing, then, "I've been...dreaming often since...
since Elizabeth...." he trailed off, knowing that I well understood his meaning.
I once again wondered how I could possibly comfort my friend Holmes, who normally
seemed so completely self-sufficient, fully capable of handling any situation.
Ruthlessly pushing aside my own discomfort, I reached out once again and placed a
tentative hand on his wiry shoulder. I felt him tense momentarily, so unused was
he to such contact from me--or anyone save Elizabeth, I was certain. Soon,
however, he allowed himself to relax fractionally when he saw that I would not
unhand him unless he expressly wished it.
He sighed quietly, and then murmured, "This is intolerable, Watson!"
I was surprised, to say the least. He hadn't so much as spoken Elizabeth's name
to me since her untimely death. This blunt and unexpected confession revealed
more to me about his tortured state of mind than he'd meant it to, I'm sure.
We'd managed to solve the case through Holmes' leaps of deduction and a bit of
quick thinking at the end, but the cost to both Holmes and myself was tremendous.
For his part, no matter how agilely his mind had worked, he'd been unable to foresee
or prevent the tragic loss of the person dearest to him. That she had perished
from a bullet that was meant for Holmes could only have been like rubbing all of
the salt in the Dead Sea into an already festering wound. This bereavement had,
of course, effected me deeply as well, as I'd come to view Elizabeth as quite a
formidable ally, friend, and addition to our impromptu detection team.
On top of it all, the perpetrator of these countless heinous crimes had slipped
through our desperate fingers into the icy depths of the Thames, thus avoiding any
earthly punishment. His dastardly survival would remain unknown to us for many
years until he resurfaced, so to speak, to menace Holmes and myself once again.
But that story has been told elsewhere.
"I can think of nothing," Holmes continued, "nothing that could have prevented...it."
I could determine no way to respond that would not be scoffed at nor belittle what
he was feeling, so I simply stood, allowing him to voice his dispirited ruminations.
"If only she hadn't...." Holmes fell silent, grimacing horribly, and with a start I
remembered my original reason for searching him out.
"Holmes," I began slowly, steeling myself for his myriad possible reactions to my
news. He cocked his bent head slightly to the side to show his attention. "Holmes,
a messenger just came from Inspector Lestrade. The note was addressed to the both of us,
so I've opened it...." I trailed off, loath to even voice its contents.
Holmes pulled away from my hand, sitting up quickly. "Do get on with it, Watson,"
he exclaimed impatiently.
I began to fidget with the top button on my vest, unable to meet his piercing gaze.
"He said...he said that the morgue cannot find Elizabeth's body," I blurted out,
my eyes flying up to his face. I was not surprised to see the series of emotions
which played across it as he processed this new information. There first came
shock, followed quickly by a profound sorrow, his features finally settling into
no small amount of indignant anger.
"But, Watson," he began, leaping out of his chair to pace a tight circuit around
the room. "How can that be? Lestrade expressly promised me that only the best
people would handle her--" Holmes stopped short of actually referring to Elizabeth
as a mere body. "Incompetent fools," he muttered, still pacing furiously. "It's
certainly happened many times before, losing a body. But why would Elizabeth go
missing? Could Ehtar have.... No, that makes no sense." He came to rest abruptly
in front of me and took hold of my shoulders. "Watson, did the message give any
more information?" he asked urgently, looming over me.
Knowing that Holmes would never be satisfied by my own recitation, I reached into my
coat pocket and pulled out the hastily written message. It read:
Masters Holmes & Watson:
City Morgue reports body of Miss Elizabeth Hardy has gone
missing. Last seen by ambulance attendants and night nurse.
Please come by Yard to consult.
Inspector Lestrade
After reading the crumpled bit of paper, Holmes stood utterly still, his jaw muscles
working furiously. Then, much to my dismay, he leapt into action, grabbing up his
newly acquired inverness and deerstalker cap. "Come Watson! We must get to the Yard
as soon as possible, before the trail goes cold," he cried, bounding out of the room
and disappearing down the stairs before I could respond. Like a well-trained
bloodhound, Holmes was on the scent.
I had no other option but to follow him, so with a sigh, I quickly took up my own
garments and contented myself with keeping his lanky form and billowing overcoat
in view.
J. H. Watson
**********
A/N: Continued character exploration (you know how romantic Watson is!). Great scott,
will Holmes never have closure??
I've made it to the watermark of 10 reviews, happy days! Feedback spurs me on....