Disclaimer: The events and characters recongnizable from YSH belong to
Paramount, though I have reason to believe that Holmes belongs solely to
himself....
A/N: Well, I've finally found time to crank out something non-school
related! The plot is beginning to take shape.....or at least be hinted
at.....a little..... ;-)
**********
Further Adventures of the Young Sherlock Holmes
**********
Metropolitan Police Headquarters
Great Scotland Yard, London
Winter, 1871
"Someone's probably snatched it to sell on the black market," Inspector
Lestrade said blandly, his expression verging on profound exasperation.
I winced at the man's callous comment and glanced surreptitiously at
Holmes. Anger flared briefly on his face, but was quickly doused by the
chilling glare that he fixed on the older man.
"I am *well* aware of the possible motives behind this incident," said
Holmes, his voice razor-sharp. "What I expect from you and your
department is a prompt and thorough investigation into the matter!
Though I cannot say I've been overly impressed by your efficiency thus
far," he added under his breath. The insult seemed to echo in the tiny
office.
Inspector Lestrade began to sputter indignantly, his round face flushing
crimson. I edged deliberately toward the rigid Holmes, deciding that I
might at least attempt to prevent their strangling one another. To my
decided relief, a burly P.C. chose that moment to poke his head 'round
the open door.
"Sorry to in'erupt you, Inspec'or Lestrade, but ye said you wan'ed those
reports from 'ospital straight away when they arrived," the young bobby
announced crisply, tucking his blue, domed helmet under his arm and
extending a thin dispatch envelope to the livid Inspector.
After drawing a deep and, hopefully, calming breath, Lestrade leaned
across his cluttered desk to snatch the sheaf of papers from the
constable and muttered a quick, "Well done, Hampton, you may go."
Nearly overcome by this minuscule compliment, P.C. Hampton snapped to
attention and did a smart about face before leaving Lestrade's office,
his hand stealing up to finger his sparse mustache in pleasure.
My momentary amusement at the man's officiousness was quickly squelched
by the grim look I saw on Lestrade's face as I turned my attention back
to him. He was scanning the few pages hurriedly, his brow furrowed in
consternation, but then he seemed to remember his audience and clapped
the folder quickly shut. The portly, newly-promoted Inspector looked
admirably calm as he made his pronouncement. "There is no record of a
Miss Elizabeth Hardy having been attended in *any* state of being at any
of the greater London hospitals. A thorough search has been made of the
hospital to which the ambulance delivered the body, and no trace can be
found. As I have said, her body has simply disappeared--no intrigue
involved!"
He said this last quite sharply, and I felt his words hit me like a
smart slap in the face. How dare he speak of the recently dead in such
a fashion, and to those closest to her in life, no less! This new
injustice on top of an already painful grief led me to seriously
contemplate turning on my heel and walking out of his infernal office
without another word. Needless to say, if the Inspector's words were
causing me such distress, I could only guess at what seething emotions
might be hidden beneath Holmes' icy facade.
Holmes held himself stiffly, his hands clasped tightly behind his back,
his voice carefully measured as he asked, "Did your constables use the
picture I lent you to check any unidentified bodies?" There was no
longer any hesitation in his reference to Elizabeth as simply a body,
though I suspected that this show of practiced professionalism was
mostly for Lestrade's benefit.
"Yes, Holmes!" Lestrade exclaimed, clearly fed up with the entire
situation. "We've followed every avenue available to try and locate the
girl's body, but it is simply not there for us to find."
"But, Inspector--"
"*No*, Mr. Holmes," he pronounced with a definite air of finality.
"There is not a thing left for us to investigate. Miss Hardy's body is
gone, and that is that. There will be no finding it, not by Scotland
Yard and certainly not by you!" He did not bother to hide the faint
trace of distaste in his tone as he said this.
I secretly hoped that he would feel some nasty consequences for this
blunder from his supervisor as soon as the new day dawned.
"Good day then, Inspector," Holmes bade him farewell with great
asperity, moving forward only as much as was necessary to retrieve the
small photograph of Elizabeth from atop a teetering stack of files, and
left the room without a second glance at either of us.
I moved to follow him, but was stopped short by a sudden, overwhelming
need to vent my reproach at the Inspector's uniformly roughshod
treatment of our feelings and of Elizabeth's memory. I puffed my chest
out a bit, looked the older man squarely in the eye, and said with
gravity, "I hope you're satisfied, Inspector Lestrade. Elizabeth was a
fine girl, and she certainly did not deserve to die so young or in such
a manner, still less to have you--supposedly a representative of
justice--relegating her to the status of a mere cadaver that might be
sold for organs." I felt the bile rise in my throat at the thought.
"Had you only chosen to believe us earlier, or at least to look into our
legitimate concerns, a dear friend of Holmes and myself would likely be
alive at this moment, instead of becoming a short footnote in your case
file." He had the decency to look chagrined, but as he seemed unable to
answer my charges, I quickly excused myself and left his office.
As I rounded the corner and stepped into the corridor, I spotted Holmes
pacing restlessly a little further on. I was grateful that he'd waited
for me, as I knew what it must have taken to restrain the kinetic desire
for knowledge that was, once again, building up in him. That glimpse of
him is forever etched in my memory: his shoulders hunched, one arm
crossed tightly over his chest, the other kneading his jaw in thought,
and mumbling quietly to himself. It was, however, the desperation in
his movements, tinged with a faint, almost nonexistent hope, that caused
a sudden gush of sadness to wash over me. Even now, after having
witnessed Elizabeth's death in his arms, Holmes was able to grasp the
unknown and make it into the shadow of a possibility. If he couldn't
see her empty eyes and feel her glacial skin for himself, there would
always be a doubt in his mind as to her fate.
Repressing a sigh, I fell into step beside him, and we made our weary
way out of the Yard building. Thinking him to have been utterly
preoccupied, I was surprised to feel the brief, warm clasp of his hand
on my shoulder. A glance at him showed no change in his concentrated
expression, but I knew that he must have heard what I'd said to the
Inspector and was thanking me. Even in the face of the biting winter
wind, it warmed me right through.
J. H. Watson
**********
A/N: Hmmmmm..... Students of the Holmsian method of detection might be
able to pick up on where this ride will be taking us. Just a note: the
Met Police commissioner had offices on a street known as "Great Scotland
Yard," but there was not an actual station there until 1875, so I have
had to house them anonymously. Nonetheless, since the Head Man was housed
on that street, the organization itself, regardless of location, was often
known as "Scotland Yard."Anyone have any more information?
--Kumiko: if you haven't noticed, as well adjusted as Holmes may be to
some things, he has something of a complex already in relation to "down time"...
...this is just a temporary, preliminary sort of complex
--maquena: I tried to explore dear Watson's feelings a bit more this time.
I have to say, though, that most of the time in the Cannon, he seemed to
love speculating effusively about Holmes more than anything....
Paramount, though I have reason to believe that Holmes belongs solely to
himself....
A/N: Well, I've finally found time to crank out something non-school
related! The plot is beginning to take shape.....or at least be hinted
at.....a little..... ;-)
**********
Further Adventures of the Young Sherlock Holmes
**********
Metropolitan Police Headquarters
Great Scotland Yard, London
Winter, 1871
"Someone's probably snatched it to sell on the black market," Inspector
Lestrade said blandly, his expression verging on profound exasperation.
I winced at the man's callous comment and glanced surreptitiously at
Holmes. Anger flared briefly on his face, but was quickly doused by the
chilling glare that he fixed on the older man.
"I am *well* aware of the possible motives behind this incident," said
Holmes, his voice razor-sharp. "What I expect from you and your
department is a prompt and thorough investigation into the matter!
Though I cannot say I've been overly impressed by your efficiency thus
far," he added under his breath. The insult seemed to echo in the tiny
office.
Inspector Lestrade began to sputter indignantly, his round face flushing
crimson. I edged deliberately toward the rigid Holmes, deciding that I
might at least attempt to prevent their strangling one another. To my
decided relief, a burly P.C. chose that moment to poke his head 'round
the open door.
"Sorry to in'erupt you, Inspec'or Lestrade, but ye said you wan'ed those
reports from 'ospital straight away when they arrived," the young bobby
announced crisply, tucking his blue, domed helmet under his arm and
extending a thin dispatch envelope to the livid Inspector.
After drawing a deep and, hopefully, calming breath, Lestrade leaned
across his cluttered desk to snatch the sheaf of papers from the
constable and muttered a quick, "Well done, Hampton, you may go."
Nearly overcome by this minuscule compliment, P.C. Hampton snapped to
attention and did a smart about face before leaving Lestrade's office,
his hand stealing up to finger his sparse mustache in pleasure.
My momentary amusement at the man's officiousness was quickly squelched
by the grim look I saw on Lestrade's face as I turned my attention back
to him. He was scanning the few pages hurriedly, his brow furrowed in
consternation, but then he seemed to remember his audience and clapped
the folder quickly shut. The portly, newly-promoted Inspector looked
admirably calm as he made his pronouncement. "There is no record of a
Miss Elizabeth Hardy having been attended in *any* state of being at any
of the greater London hospitals. A thorough search has been made of the
hospital to which the ambulance delivered the body, and no trace can be
found. As I have said, her body has simply disappeared--no intrigue
involved!"
He said this last quite sharply, and I felt his words hit me like a
smart slap in the face. How dare he speak of the recently dead in such
a fashion, and to those closest to her in life, no less! This new
injustice on top of an already painful grief led me to seriously
contemplate turning on my heel and walking out of his infernal office
without another word. Needless to say, if the Inspector's words were
causing me such distress, I could only guess at what seething emotions
might be hidden beneath Holmes' icy facade.
Holmes held himself stiffly, his hands clasped tightly behind his back,
his voice carefully measured as he asked, "Did your constables use the
picture I lent you to check any unidentified bodies?" There was no
longer any hesitation in his reference to Elizabeth as simply a body,
though I suspected that this show of practiced professionalism was
mostly for Lestrade's benefit.
"Yes, Holmes!" Lestrade exclaimed, clearly fed up with the entire
situation. "We've followed every avenue available to try and locate the
girl's body, but it is simply not there for us to find."
"But, Inspector--"
"*No*, Mr. Holmes," he pronounced with a definite air of finality.
"There is not a thing left for us to investigate. Miss Hardy's body is
gone, and that is that. There will be no finding it, not by Scotland
Yard and certainly not by you!" He did not bother to hide the faint
trace of distaste in his tone as he said this.
I secretly hoped that he would feel some nasty consequences for this
blunder from his supervisor as soon as the new day dawned.
"Good day then, Inspector," Holmes bade him farewell with great
asperity, moving forward only as much as was necessary to retrieve the
small photograph of Elizabeth from atop a teetering stack of files, and
left the room without a second glance at either of us.
I moved to follow him, but was stopped short by a sudden, overwhelming
need to vent my reproach at the Inspector's uniformly roughshod
treatment of our feelings and of Elizabeth's memory. I puffed my chest
out a bit, looked the older man squarely in the eye, and said with
gravity, "I hope you're satisfied, Inspector Lestrade. Elizabeth was a
fine girl, and she certainly did not deserve to die so young or in such
a manner, still less to have you--supposedly a representative of
justice--relegating her to the status of a mere cadaver that might be
sold for organs." I felt the bile rise in my throat at the thought.
"Had you only chosen to believe us earlier, or at least to look into our
legitimate concerns, a dear friend of Holmes and myself would likely be
alive at this moment, instead of becoming a short footnote in your case
file." He had the decency to look chagrined, but as he seemed unable to
answer my charges, I quickly excused myself and left his office.
As I rounded the corner and stepped into the corridor, I spotted Holmes
pacing restlessly a little further on. I was grateful that he'd waited
for me, as I knew what it must have taken to restrain the kinetic desire
for knowledge that was, once again, building up in him. That glimpse of
him is forever etched in my memory: his shoulders hunched, one arm
crossed tightly over his chest, the other kneading his jaw in thought,
and mumbling quietly to himself. It was, however, the desperation in
his movements, tinged with a faint, almost nonexistent hope, that caused
a sudden gush of sadness to wash over me. Even now, after having
witnessed Elizabeth's death in his arms, Holmes was able to grasp the
unknown and make it into the shadow of a possibility. If he couldn't
see her empty eyes and feel her glacial skin for himself, there would
always be a doubt in his mind as to her fate.
Repressing a sigh, I fell into step beside him, and we made our weary
way out of the Yard building. Thinking him to have been utterly
preoccupied, I was surprised to feel the brief, warm clasp of his hand
on my shoulder. A glance at him showed no change in his concentrated
expression, but I knew that he must have heard what I'd said to the
Inspector and was thanking me. Even in the face of the biting winter
wind, it warmed me right through.
J. H. Watson
**********
A/N: Hmmmmm..... Students of the Holmsian method of detection might be
able to pick up on where this ride will be taking us. Just a note: the
Met Police commissioner had offices on a street known as "Great Scotland
Yard," but there was not an actual station there until 1875, so I have
had to house them anonymously. Nonetheless, since the Head Man was housed
on that street, the organization itself, regardless of location, was often
known as "Scotland Yard."Anyone have any more information?
--Kumiko: if you haven't noticed, as well adjusted as Holmes may be to
some things, he has something of a complex already in relation to "down time"...
...this is just a temporary, preliminary sort of complex
--maquena: I tried to explore dear Watson's feelings a bit more this time.
I have to say, though, that most of the time in the Cannon, he seemed to
love speculating effusively about Holmes more than anything....