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, after much time and sporadic writing, I have
finally finished the next installment in this little saga.
This is where the real meat of the plot first becomes apparent,
so I hope y'all approve and enjoy it.
**********
Further Adventures of the Young Sherlock Holmes
**********
London
December, 1871
In spite of Lestrade's warning, Holmes immediately made his way to London's largest working
hospital, with my weary self trailing in his wake. He confronted each and every nurse,
doctor, and orderly in the receiving area, forgetting most of the time to be polite in his
questioning. This inevitably led to exasperation on the part of the hospital staff and our
eventual expulsion from the building.
I was secretly relieved to be away from the place; they hadn't been able to shed any light
on our problem, anyway. As Lestrade had so casually stated, there was no record of
Elizabeth's body by name or otherwise. No one could recall a young, dead girl having been
admitted into the hospital morgue on the night in question nor subsequently.
In short, the paltry trail was stone cold.
Holmes was quietly furious as we returned to sit in the old professor's study. "I'm missing
something, Watson!" Holmes exclaimed as he threw himself into his usual chair. "I must be.
There's foul play afoot here, I am certain of it, but...." He sighed in frustration.
I watched him for a moment, searching for any sign that he still harboured the preposterous
glimmer of hope I'd seen in his eyes after our meeting with Lestrade. It was still there, I
discovered, though considerably dampened by the utter lack of evidence in any direction.
"Holmes," I began slowly, "I must say that I am inclined to agree with the Inspector's
conclusions, now more than ever. Someone *must* have taken her body to be sold to a medical
college. It happens all too often, as I should well know."
He stared at me for a long while, and I did my best to meet his gaze with all the weight of
my conviction. I could fairly see the gears of his formidable mind whirring as he mentally
stepped back from his emotional involvement in the situation to analyze what scant data we
possessed. In the end, I watched with some private chagrin as that bare hope that had so
thoroughly gripped him flickered and died a lamentable death.
I hated that it was I who had killed it in him. At the same time, I was secretly awed that
he trusted and valued my judgment enough to allow me to do it.
With a resigned sigh, Holmes finally sank back into his chair, seeming to fold inward on
himself. After the day's short, but furious expenditure of energy, we both turned our minds
and our hearts back to the task of laying our friend to rest.
Though I knew rationally that we were in no way at fault for Elizabeth's heinous murder, the
part of myself that had come to love her so dearly ignored our successes and pointed
unwaveringly at our ultimate failure in the matter. Elizabeth was dead. We had failed
her--failed to protect her, failed to save her, and even failed to adequately avenge her.
I felt the despair of that very keenly for a long while, so I am sure that Holmes felt it
even more so.
In all of my long association with him, Holmes continually took even the most miniscule of
defeats deeply to heart. A case that ended in anything less than shining success would set
him quietly brooding over any fault he should happen to find in his own actions. And yet,
somehow Holmes was always able to come to terms with his doubts and lay them to rest in
favour of the next "pretty problem." The loss of Elizabeth was no exception. I like to
think that my carefully surreptitious encouragements in this direction helped him move
forward, but of course, he never commented on it to me.
All too quickly, in my thinking, the day came when I had to bid my friend Holmes farewell.
Elizabeth's funeral had been a small affair, as she had no more living family, with only
some members of the faculty and student body attending. The service was made all the more
painful for Holmes and myself, as we were the only ones present who knew that the coffin was
horribly empty.
Unlike myself, Holmes did not shed a single tear, though when I glanced at him toward the
end of the service, I could swear that his eyes were glittering suspiciously.
The boys at the school were sympathetic enough, in their own rough way; they had all liked
Elizabeth Hardy a great deal. As might be expected, once the nefarious deeds of the
inimitable "Rathe" had come to light, the school officials were only too happy to reinstate
Holmes and myself to full scholar status, though no apologies for our ill treatment were
forthcoming. We even learned from the maths professor that it had actually been Ehtar who
had insisted upon Holmes' summary expulsion, but that wasn't particularly surprising after
all that had come to pass.
When the time came, I helped Holmes pack once again, from the old professor's study this
time, and carried his violin down to the waiting carriage. I turned to him once I'd placed
his case into the hack, and had some trouble keeping a satisfied smile from taking over my
face. "Of course, you did forget one very important clue," I stated casually.
"Oh?" He looked taken aback. "Please enlighten me."
"Well, 'Rathe' is 'Ehtar' spelled backward," I declared, with no small amount of triumph.
His appreciative grin rewarded my efforts. "Very clever, Watson. Well, I'm certain I would
have arrived at that conclusion, sooner or later."
Any tendency on my part to feeling crestfallen was thwarted by the mischievous twinkle I
caught in his eyes. "Sooner or later," I agreed indulgently. "Are you coming back after
the holidays?"
"No," he said quickly, turning to glance at the second floor window we'd seen Elizabeth
standing at just days earlier. "There are too many memories here."
Desiring to put his mind at ease in some way, I exclaimed, "Holmes, you have your entire
life ahead of you!"
His gaze did not waver. "And I'll spend it alone," he pronounced firmly.
Seeing no use in contradicting him, I instead drew a hastily wrapped package from my coat
pocket. "Merry Christmas, Holmes."
I was a bit anxious about his reaction to my gift, remembering that he'd derided my choice
when I'd purchased it, but I needn't have worried. Holmes looked genuinely pleased to
receive the battered pipe, placing the stem in his mouth at a rakish angle. He'd taken to
wearing that infernal inverness overcoat of Ehtar's--a practice I thought rather morbid--and
together with the old professor's shapeless deer stalker cap and my gaudily curved antique
pipe, he cut quite a romantic figure standing in the new snow.
"I thought you might have more luck smoking it. It does seem to suit you...but that coat!
Why do you insist on wearing that *ridiculous* cloak of that *unspeakable* person?"
"Consider it a trophy, Watson. The skin of a leopard," he explained placidly.
"Indeed," said I, a bit grudgingly.
Suddenly, he stuck out his long, thin hand to me, and I clasped it. "I'm going to miss you,
Watson."
"I'm going to miss you, too," I replied in kind, and found that I truly meant it. "You
know," I added as emotion threatened to choke my voice, "you were right about something."
"About what?"
"It was a great adventure."
Holmes did not reply, only smiled a farewell and climbed into his cab, shutting the
windowless door with an air of finality.
Just as he was about to signal the driver, I remembered the epiphany I'd come to the night
before, and leapt forward to grasp the ledge. "Holmes, I know why the bear's white! The
only room with an all southern view is in the North Pole, it's a polar bear!"
He smiled again, approval alight in his expression, and said, "Bravo, Watson. You have the
makings of a great detective."
With that high praise ringing in my ears, I stepped back onto the kerb and watched his
four-wheeler drive away into the distance.
**********
London
January, 1872
With Holmes gone, the school felt deadly dull. The black coats of the student uniform and
the shadowy corridors created a thoroughly sombre atmosphere that served to dampen my mood
even further than I had thought possible. I had made a few casual friends among the boys in
my year, but no one had the crisp and bracingly logical energy that I'd come to appreciate
in Holmes.
It was several days before it dawned upon me that I actually missed his company, but as any
boy would, I made do. I received a telegram from him almost immediately after this
realization, saying that he'd arrived at his brother's safely and was deeply absorbed in
some mystery or another. I was glad that he had something to distract his mind from the all
too recent past. Confidentially, I was also slightly envious for the same reason.
His wit cheered me considerably, however, and caused me to belatedly realize that I'd not
written to my father in some time. I knew that he would be exceedingly worried and might
even come blustering down to London if I didn't remedy the situation soon. Still, I
hesitated as to how much of our adventure I should reveal to him. To be sure, he would be
appalled at how close I had come to losing my situation at Bromton, to say nothing of the
peril I'd faced to life and limb.
After much debate, I decided to spend most of my letter detailing the more innocuous
episodes of the case, while slipping in the information about the less savory aspects as
surreptitiously and briefly as possible. I'd never actually lied to my father before, by
omission or otherwise, and I wasn't about to start now.
Still, one shouldn't dwell on one's misfortunes.
Once I'd posted the letter, I didn't expect an answer for some days, as Her Majesty's mail
service in the north of England was decidedly less than efficient in those days. Needless
to say, I was unpleasantly surprised to receive a reply in little more than a week.
The tone of the missive was unequivocally stern and overwhelmingly reproving for my
"reckless" conduct and "disregard" for my schooling. I should have guessed that he would
immediately grasp the well hidden allusions in my letter. My father made it clear that he
expected a whole hearted return of focus to my studies, with my goal of a career in medicine
fixed firmly before me.
Smarting from the rebuke, I quickly put his letter away and turned my attention back to my
chemistry texts.
Consequently, it was some time before the remonstrative majority of his message faded enough
to let the words of his closing paragraph register in my mind. I had written to my father,
a gifted private physician in his own right, at length about the darts used by Ehtar's
religious followers to deliver the poison to their victims. I'd even been able to find out
the name of the substance, and had included it in my explanation of its effects.
Father had dutifully replied in kind--once he'd finished berating me, that is--detailing
everything that he could discover about that insidious drug. Of course, under the weight of
his prior tirade, I'd taken little notice of what he had to say on the matter, preferring to
simply rid myself of the letter altogether.
Several days later as I was studying my anatomy text, his clinical commentary came back to
me with an all-encompassing rush. Frowning, I rifled through my cluttered drawers, finally
locating the offending document and spreading its last page before me. It read:
"I found your reference to the nerve toxin quite intriguing, indeed.
The poison used on the darts is rather unusual, to say the least.
I've done a bit of in depth reading and questioned a colleague of mine
who worked for a time in the East Indies. Apart from its hallucinogenic
properties, the compound on your darts has a peculiar effect on the
recipient's circulatory system. Essentially, it causes the blood flow
to slow considerably, well below the level seen during sleep. In fact,
this friend of mine claims that several patients of his under the drug's
influence were thought to be quite dead for a short time before it had
worked itself out of their bodies...."
I sat at my desk for a full minute, too stunned to even analyze his words beyond the obvious
connotation. It was impossible, simply impossible! There was absolutely no way that such
an effect could have coincided with the tragic events that followed our escape. And even if
it were possible that a stray dart could have pierced Elizabeth's skin, I had checked her
pulse myself, seen her breathing stop, watched her limp form being spirited away in a
horse-drawn ambulance! There was simply no possibility of the outrageous things my
imagination was conjuring up. Certainly not.
Suddenly, my mind cleared and all I could think about was the minute flicker of the eyelids
that I myself had witnessed. Not a spasm of death, it seemed to me now, but a decided sign
of lingering life! Clearly, if my wild imaginings were even remotely correct and Elizabeth
had survived the gunshot, we had missed any sign of her at the hospital because our search
had been exclusively concerned with finding a corpse. No one had recalled her under Holmes
blistering questions because the very much alive girl would have been taken to an entirely
different section of the enormous building. Once the police had written her disappearance
off as a body snatching, not a soul had bothered to look any further, or (in Holmes and my
case) to look in a different direction.
As my incredulity battled with my sudden firm, propitious belief, I wondered what in the
world I could possibly do about it. My first impulse was, of course, to contact Sherlock
Holmes immediately, so that he, with his brilliant reasoning and succinct strategizing,
could tell me what to do. However, the fear that I was simply going mad stayed me just as
quickly, and the thought of giving Holmes another teasing hope to be crushed persuaded me to
leave him out of the matter for the moment.
My next thought was to make immediately for the hospital myself to prove or disprove my
tentative theories in comfortable anonymity. However, I could not very well go barging into
the surgery demanding to know if anyone had performed a near-miraculous and highly unlikely
operation on a young woman over a month earlier.
Abruptly, Holmes' measured tones sounded in my head: "The most effective way to get
information out of somebody is usually not by direct questioning. A round-about method
oftentimes yields better results."
With this advice in mind and feeling almost as if my friend were standing beside me, I
managed to restrain myself from leaping impatiently into action and put my mind to creating
a suitable ruse. I pondered the problem for quite some time, rejecting several
possibilities as too thin, before settling on the perfect story.
In preparation for my afternoon outing, since I would need to look the part of a
professional and rather older student, I donned my stiff school uniform with its jet waist
coat and crisply pressed trousers. I even attempted to tame my mop of unruly hair,
succeeding to some degree, and certainly well enough to fool my prey. Looking quite smart,
I caught a hansom cab (to emphasize my supposed status) and made for the city hospital.
Doing my utmost to imitate Holmes' impeccable posture, I strode confidently up to the
supervising nurse to state my case. "Pardon my intrusion, madam, but I have an important
problem to bring before you," I said crisply.
The good lady looked not at all impressed by my stately manner, asking flatly, "'Ow can oi
'elp you, sir?"
Undaunted, I pressed firmly onward, calling on what little dissimulation skill I possessed.
"Madame," I said gravely, trying to deepen my voice, "I am a medical student here in Town,
and have recently been tasked with a singular project. I am looking for information
regarding any cases of abdominal gunshot wounds within the last year, or so. As you surely
know, many advances have been made recently in treating such cases, and the probability of
survival has greatly increased."
I crossed my fingers discretely behind my back at this last, hoping that she would take me
at my word. Her expression had not softened in the least, so I thought to attempt a bit of
cajoling. "Have you been working at this hospital long, madam?"
"Goin' on twen'y year, now," she said, blushing a bit at the attention.
"A long and, no doubt, distinguished career, mum," I exclaimed, making my appreciation
plain. Her gaze dropped to her clasped hands, a bit demurely, and I was gratified to see a
pleased smile tugging at the hard line of her mouth. "I'm sure you must have seen all that
there is to see during your tenure here." I smiled solicitously, and that was all it took
to open her up. Clearly this woman was not often on the receiving end of even such a small
amount of praise.
"Aw, yessir, oi seen everyfing pass froo 'er, oi 'ave! Why, jus' t'other day, we 'ad a
bloke in oo'd 'ad 'is leg off in an 'ansom cab crash. 'Ow did tha' come 'bout, yeh might
ask...."
I waited as she regaled me with the gory details of several recent cases, ruthlessly
quelling my impatience with her long-winded monologue. In addition to this, we were often
interrupted by various persons checking in with complaints ranging from influenza to gout.
Finally, just as I was about to try and steer her back to my original query, she kindly
volunteered the information without further prodding.
"Now, sir, wha' you said when yeh firs' came in, now tha' reminds me of a slip of a girl we
'ad in, not two month ago."
Somehow, I refrained from leaping over the counter and demanding the information at once.
Affecting a mildly interested expression, I said, "Oh? Please, I am very interested."
She giggled, and my teeth ground together loudly. "Wew, this young lass were brought in wif
an 'ole frew 'er middle, way o'er on th' lef' side, if oi recollect rightly. Not a soul
knew 'ow she'd been shot, or wha' 'er name were, an' i' loo'ed real bad for 'er fer a long
while."
I swallowed convulsively. "She survived, then? How did that come about, if I may ask?"
"Aw, you'd 'ave ta ask Doc'er Fitzgerald fer 'ow it were done." The name imprinted itself
indelibly in my mind, though I made no comment. "All oi know is," she continued, "tha' poor
young thing 'ad an 'ole frew 'er stomach, bu' she weren't bleedin' like she should 'a' been.
Though' she were dead already when they brung 'er in, bu' th' good doc'er were able ta patch
'er up real good-like." She clucked her tongue sympathetically, failing to notice my hands
gripping her counter in white-knuckled tension.
"What happened to her, then?" I asked, a trifle more brusquely than was prudent.
"Aw, she were on th' edge fer many a day, sir. Oi fink she were 'ere fer more 'n free weeks
befo' fings loo'ed a bit brigh'er."
Keeping my excitement tightly reigned, I commented, "So, she's still alive then? That's
amazing!"
"Aw, yes, love, tha' i' t'is."
"This is just the sort of case I've been looking for. Would it be at all possible for me to
speak to--Dr. Fitzgerald, was it?" I asked, hoping against hope that the man himself could
give me more detail than this nurse possessed.
"One moment...." She trailed off as she scanned through several lists resting on her desk.
"Whoi, yes, love, th' doc'er is makin' 'is rounds just now. Oi'm sure 'e could spare a few
moments for yeh, lad. Sybil," she called, turning to a slip of a girl in a nurse's uniform
who was passing behind us. "Could you show this gen'lem'n ta Doc'er Fitzerald, please?"
"Yes, miss," she replied softly, giving me a little curtsey, and then turning to continue on
her way down the corridor.
I pasted an appreciative smile on my face and gave the matron a parting, "Thank you, madam,"
as I hurried off to follow the girl.
The young nurse was silent as she led me through endless hallways smelling of disinfectant
and human suffering. It reminded me, once again, of how fortunate I had been that my
father's practice was so small and unpretentious, rather than immense and impersonal as this
city hospital was. Various groans and wails greeted us as we passed by a seemingly endless
succession of sick wards, before finally turning into one populated by emaciated children.
A wave of compassion threatened to overwhelm me as I took in their pitiful little faces.
Part of me wished to weep at the sorrowful lives these younglings were doomed to lead, but I
instead let the sight firm my resolve to pursue my chosen career. What better way could I
find to help relieve such anguish?
A doctor was standing next to the door with a sheaf of charts in his hands, checking over
the vital signs of his small patients. The man was short, hardly taller than myself, in
fact. His graying blond hair was left unfashionably long, and hung down to cover his
spectacles as he read. His clothing, covered by his white medical smock, was well cut,
though not too expensive as to be impractical in his profession. He looked up as we
approached, and I was startled by the weariness that seemed to hang about him like a cloak.
Dismissing the nurse, the doctor gave me a tight smile and bade me to accompany him through
his rounds as I explained myself. "What is your name, my lad?" he asked with a somewhat
distracted air.
"John Watson, sir."
This seemed to startle him, for he stopped in his tracks and exclaimed, "Not Henry Watson's
boy?"
"The very same!" I could not keep my eyebrows from creeping up my forehead in astonishment.
"By George, my boy, I knew your father at university! We lived in the same lodgings, and went
through all the trials of medical school together." His face seemed transformed as he gave
a delighted bark of laughter and clapped me on the shoulder.
As I thought about it, I suddenly recalled my father speaking at length about his mates at
college, including one Liam Fitzgerald. What a stroke of luck! My father's relationship
with this man could be just the device I needed to obtain the ever-elusive information about
Elizabeth's fate.
I was an inch from revealing the entire truth to him without delay, thinking that surely the
good doctor would sympathize with my plight. In fact, my tongue was only halted by Holmes'
voice sounding once again in my mind:
"Use your brain, Watson! An effective disguise, no matter how trivial, must be carried out
to the letter if you wish to succeed. One misstep and all could be lost!"
Accordingly, I cleared my throat to cover my conspicuous pause, and tried to regain my air
of aspiring medical student as I repeated my story to Doctor Fitzgerald. To this day, I'm
sure that it was only his pleasure at meeting the son of an old schoolmate that distracted
him from any skepticism he might have felt.
Thankfully, Doctor Fitzgerald invited me back to his office in a genial manner to take tea
with him, perfectly willing to relate the entire uncommon case to my welcome ears. As I
sipped piping hot Earl Grey from a plain teacup, he thumbed through stack after stack of
patient files, finally happening upon that of the anonymous young woman in whom I had taken
such a professional interest.
"Let's see," he began, scanning over his notes to refresh himself of the details. "Yes,
that was quite a case, my boy, quite a case. That girl should have died, there's no
question about it. However, for some reason, her heart rate was so low at the time of the
wounding that her bleeding was kept to a minimum, far less than it should have been."
He paused, maddeningly, but I somehow managed to keep my hold on the delicate cup and
saucer.
"The wound," he continued, "was situated in the upper left portion of the abdomen, just shy
of the ribs. An inch to the right, and the aorta would have been perforated, not to
mention the stomach and liver. Amazingly, the bullet penetrated only about an inch and a
half into the abdomen, while I would have expected the wound to extend quite a bit deeper.
I speculated at the time that when the gun was fired, there was something amiss with it or
with the shell, probably too little powder. It made the shot fire weakly, and averted
considerable damage to her internal organs."
I abruptly realized that I was slack-jawed in my astonishment. Surely, such an
extraordinary combination of circumstances couldn't have conspired to thwart Ehtar and save
sweet Elizabeth! Surely it must be another girl! My mind reeled with the implications,
shuddered at the clear hand of Providence that must have been responsible for such an
outcome. Thankfully, Doctor Fitzgerald was too engrossed in his narrative to be bothered by
my quiet fit of apoplexy.
"It was really quite remarkable," said he. "We were in surgery for two hours trying to find
and remove the bullet, and another hour was spent repairing the damage to the spleen and
sewing up the wound itself. It was an exhaustive operation, and for quite a while, it
looked as if we'd laboured for naught." He sighed, sipping his tea contemplatively, and I
nearly tore out my hair in frustration.
"What happened to her then, if I may ask?" I said, my voice quaking slightly.
"Ah, laddie, the girl was comatose for nearly three weeks, though she did surface from time
to time--to cry out against some horrible night terror, I suppose. Also, she began to bleed
quite a bit a few hours after the surgery had been completed, and we had the devil of a time
getting it under control. However, the healing was coming along nicely, when she finally
awoke. The girl seemed quite disoriented, and my nurses had trouble getting her to answer
any questions. In fact, when I spoke with her, she said that she could only clearly
remember receiving the gunshot wound, and had no recollection of her own history. It was a
strange reaction, indeed, as amnesia usually comes about by a blow to the head. However, we
worked with her for another week, trying to coax some memory as she continued to heal, but
she could only seem to remember one word. What was it again?" Doctor Fitzgerald murmured
distractedly as he rifled through the small stack of yellowing papers in his lap, before
finally locating the information with a triumphant grin. "Yes, that was it. Her only firm
recollection was the word 'Rathe.'"
When he finally looked up at me, my face must have been as pale as a ghost, and he leapt to
his feet with concern written upon his features. "Here, now, laddie!" he exclaimed as I
swayed dizzily in the high-backed chair. My vision began to cloud around the edges, and I
am certain that I would have fallen into a dead faint had the good doctor not shoved my head
between my knees and ordered me to take deep breaths. Of course, I would have been much
embarrassed by my weakness had the confirmation of my dim hope not weighed so heavily on my
mind.
It was true, then. There could be no remaining doubt. Elizabeth was alive, recovering from
a miraculously slight gunshot wound, and most assuredly within my trembling grasp!
Once I had recovered some equilibrium, I could wait not a single moment longer before
blurting out, "She's here then, alive? I must see her!"
"Calm yourself, laddie," the doctor admonished, pushing another cup of tea into my hand and
reseating himself behind his desk. "What is your interest in this, John Watson, and I'll
have no more tales from you." His expression was stern, but the compassion in his eyes
assured me that it would be safe to confess my story, if only in part.
Choosing my words carefully, I explained, "I chose to pursue this topic for my anatomy
project because of a friend I had lost recently in that selfsame way, not two months ago.
No one could discover what had become of to her, and we were told that she was quite dead.
So you can understand my reaction when I heard this remarkable story, and the inclusion of
the word 'Rathe,' which is...her...her brother's name," I contrived hastily. Finding that I
needed to put the hypothesis to a final test, I reached into my coat pocket and produced a
photograph of Elizabeth which Holmes had given me. Holding it out for Doctor Fitzgerald to
see, I asked, "Is this the girl whom you have described?"
I waited with painfully bated breath as he scrutinized the small likeness briefly, before
smiling kindly at me. "Yes, dear boy, that is my patient."
I nearly collapsed with the relief of this confirmation, but it was not a moment before my
mind began to race with possibilities for my next plan of action. First things first, I
reminded myself. "I must see her, sir," I insisted, as politely as possible.
Doctor Fitzgerald frowned, and his brow furrowed so deeply that I experienced a horrible
rush of fear and doubt. "Lad, the girl was taken from this hospital almost two weeks ago by
her uncle. I call it very callous that he did not inform you of this occurrence," he
declared, and was obliged to rush to my side once again as the blood drained from my face.
"Come, lad, why do you not lie down--"
I cut him off hastily, forcing calm words past my swollen throat. "Doctor! Forgive me
again, but I am simply astounded that her...uncle did not tell me that she had lived. I am
not familiar with her extended family, so can you possibly tell me who he was and where he
has taken her."
Doctor Fitzgerald stared at my ashen face for a long moment, obviously puzzling over my
actions and trying to divine my intentions. Finally, much to my relief, he seemed to decide
me trustworthy, and consented to provide the precious information. "Of course, laddie,
don't you vex yourself any longer about your young lass," he intoned soothingly as he wrote
the name and address out on a slip of paper. "There you are, then. You'll be seeing the
lass soon enough."
My hand shook violently as I reached out to take the paper from him, thanked him, and left
with his admonition to "Give your father my regards, laddie." I was soon outside and
drawing in great lungfuls of crisp, winter air before I remembered that I hadn't even looked
at his information in my haste to depart the oppressive, antiseptic atmosphere.
My hands still trembled slightly as I unfolded the paper and read in the doctor's scrawling
copperplate:
Prof. Moriarty
The Kilns
Oxfordshire
The name meant nothing to me. I had reached the limit of my capabilities as a lone
investigator, not only because I could not suddenly leave school, but because I had no
notion of how to proceed against this obviously fictitious "uncle" who had spirited
Elizabeth away.
The time had finally come to contact Sherlock Holmes.
J. H. Watson
**********
A/N: Well, that's the longest chapter thus far; in fact, it more than doubles the entire
word count of the previous chapters combined. Don't I feel creative. Anyway, I hope you
enjoyed it. Of course, I had to make up some things to fit the plot, like the amnesia—I'm
not sure how that came about yet. Also, Moriarty's address is actually where C. S. Lewis
lived for 30 years, just outside of Oxford University. It seemed a good idea to have a
professor living near a university. "Henry Watson" came about from a question posed to a
Sherlockian discussion group, who pointed out that Watson had a brother named "Henry, Jr."
Therefore, their father must also be named "Henry."
Some will be happy that Watson had so much to do in this chapter, and some of you will cry
havoc for more Holmes. I miss him too, never fear. He'll be back soon enough.
I would like to thank those of you who have stuck with me so far, and have continued to
review even during this long drought period. To say that even one review brightens my day
would be an understatement.
Special thanks to Chelsea for pointing out my spelling mistake!
to Paramount, though I have reason to believe that Holmes belongs
solely to himself....
A/N: Well, after much time and sporadic writing, I have
finally finished the next installment in this little saga.
This is where the real meat of the plot first becomes apparent,
so I hope y'all approve and enjoy it.
**********
Further Adventures of the Young Sherlock Holmes
**********
London
December, 1871
In spite of Lestrade's warning, Holmes immediately made his way to London's largest working
hospital, with my weary self trailing in his wake. He confronted each and every nurse,
doctor, and orderly in the receiving area, forgetting most of the time to be polite in his
questioning. This inevitably led to exasperation on the part of the hospital staff and our
eventual expulsion from the building.
I was secretly relieved to be away from the place; they hadn't been able to shed any light
on our problem, anyway. As Lestrade had so casually stated, there was no record of
Elizabeth's body by name or otherwise. No one could recall a young, dead girl having been
admitted into the hospital morgue on the night in question nor subsequently.
In short, the paltry trail was stone cold.
Holmes was quietly furious as we returned to sit in the old professor's study. "I'm missing
something, Watson!" Holmes exclaimed as he threw himself into his usual chair. "I must be.
There's foul play afoot here, I am certain of it, but...." He sighed in frustration.
I watched him for a moment, searching for any sign that he still harboured the preposterous
glimmer of hope I'd seen in his eyes after our meeting with Lestrade. It was still there, I
discovered, though considerably dampened by the utter lack of evidence in any direction.
"Holmes," I began slowly, "I must say that I am inclined to agree with the Inspector's
conclusions, now more than ever. Someone *must* have taken her body to be sold to a medical
college. It happens all too often, as I should well know."
He stared at me for a long while, and I did my best to meet his gaze with all the weight of
my conviction. I could fairly see the gears of his formidable mind whirring as he mentally
stepped back from his emotional involvement in the situation to analyze what scant data we
possessed. In the end, I watched with some private chagrin as that bare hope that had so
thoroughly gripped him flickered and died a lamentable death.
I hated that it was I who had killed it in him. At the same time, I was secretly awed that
he trusted and valued my judgment enough to allow me to do it.
With a resigned sigh, Holmes finally sank back into his chair, seeming to fold inward on
himself. After the day's short, but furious expenditure of energy, we both turned our minds
and our hearts back to the task of laying our friend to rest.
Though I knew rationally that we were in no way at fault for Elizabeth's heinous murder, the
part of myself that had come to love her so dearly ignored our successes and pointed
unwaveringly at our ultimate failure in the matter. Elizabeth was dead. We had failed
her--failed to protect her, failed to save her, and even failed to adequately avenge her.
I felt the despair of that very keenly for a long while, so I am sure that Holmes felt it
even more so.
In all of my long association with him, Holmes continually took even the most miniscule of
defeats deeply to heart. A case that ended in anything less than shining success would set
him quietly brooding over any fault he should happen to find in his own actions. And yet,
somehow Holmes was always able to come to terms with his doubts and lay them to rest in
favour of the next "pretty problem." The loss of Elizabeth was no exception. I like to
think that my carefully surreptitious encouragements in this direction helped him move
forward, but of course, he never commented on it to me.
All too quickly, in my thinking, the day came when I had to bid my friend Holmes farewell.
Elizabeth's funeral had been a small affair, as she had no more living family, with only
some members of the faculty and student body attending. The service was made all the more
painful for Holmes and myself, as we were the only ones present who knew that the coffin was
horribly empty.
Unlike myself, Holmes did not shed a single tear, though when I glanced at him toward the
end of the service, I could swear that his eyes were glittering suspiciously.
The boys at the school were sympathetic enough, in their own rough way; they had all liked
Elizabeth Hardy a great deal. As might be expected, once the nefarious deeds of the
inimitable "Rathe" had come to light, the school officials were only too happy to reinstate
Holmes and myself to full scholar status, though no apologies for our ill treatment were
forthcoming. We even learned from the maths professor that it had actually been Ehtar who
had insisted upon Holmes' summary expulsion, but that wasn't particularly surprising after
all that had come to pass.
When the time came, I helped Holmes pack once again, from the old professor's study this
time, and carried his violin down to the waiting carriage. I turned to him once I'd placed
his case into the hack, and had some trouble keeping a satisfied smile from taking over my
face. "Of course, you did forget one very important clue," I stated casually.
"Oh?" He looked taken aback. "Please enlighten me."
"Well, 'Rathe' is 'Ehtar' spelled backward," I declared, with no small amount of triumph.
His appreciative grin rewarded my efforts. "Very clever, Watson. Well, I'm certain I would
have arrived at that conclusion, sooner or later."
Any tendency on my part to feeling crestfallen was thwarted by the mischievous twinkle I
caught in his eyes. "Sooner or later," I agreed indulgently. "Are you coming back after
the holidays?"
"No," he said quickly, turning to glance at the second floor window we'd seen Elizabeth
standing at just days earlier. "There are too many memories here."
Desiring to put his mind at ease in some way, I exclaimed, "Holmes, you have your entire
life ahead of you!"
His gaze did not waver. "And I'll spend it alone," he pronounced firmly.
Seeing no use in contradicting him, I instead drew a hastily wrapped package from my coat
pocket. "Merry Christmas, Holmes."
I was a bit anxious about his reaction to my gift, remembering that he'd derided my choice
when I'd purchased it, but I needn't have worried. Holmes looked genuinely pleased to
receive the battered pipe, placing the stem in his mouth at a rakish angle. He'd taken to
wearing that infernal inverness overcoat of Ehtar's--a practice I thought rather morbid--and
together with the old professor's shapeless deer stalker cap and my gaudily curved antique
pipe, he cut quite a romantic figure standing in the new snow.
"I thought you might have more luck smoking it. It does seem to suit you...but that coat!
Why do you insist on wearing that *ridiculous* cloak of that *unspeakable* person?"
"Consider it a trophy, Watson. The skin of a leopard," he explained placidly.
"Indeed," said I, a bit grudgingly.
Suddenly, he stuck out his long, thin hand to me, and I clasped it. "I'm going to miss you,
Watson."
"I'm going to miss you, too," I replied in kind, and found that I truly meant it. "You
know," I added as emotion threatened to choke my voice, "you were right about something."
"About what?"
"It was a great adventure."
Holmes did not reply, only smiled a farewell and climbed into his cab, shutting the
windowless door with an air of finality.
Just as he was about to signal the driver, I remembered the epiphany I'd come to the night
before, and leapt forward to grasp the ledge. "Holmes, I know why the bear's white! The
only room with an all southern view is in the North Pole, it's a polar bear!"
He smiled again, approval alight in his expression, and said, "Bravo, Watson. You have the
makings of a great detective."
With that high praise ringing in my ears, I stepped back onto the kerb and watched his
four-wheeler drive away into the distance.
**********
London
January, 1872
With Holmes gone, the school felt deadly dull. The black coats of the student uniform and
the shadowy corridors created a thoroughly sombre atmosphere that served to dampen my mood
even further than I had thought possible. I had made a few casual friends among the boys in
my year, but no one had the crisp and bracingly logical energy that I'd come to appreciate
in Holmes.
It was several days before it dawned upon me that I actually missed his company, but as any
boy would, I made do. I received a telegram from him almost immediately after this
realization, saying that he'd arrived at his brother's safely and was deeply absorbed in
some mystery or another. I was glad that he had something to distract his mind from the all
too recent past. Confidentially, I was also slightly envious for the same reason.
His wit cheered me considerably, however, and caused me to belatedly realize that I'd not
written to my father in some time. I knew that he would be exceedingly worried and might
even come blustering down to London if I didn't remedy the situation soon. Still, I
hesitated as to how much of our adventure I should reveal to him. To be sure, he would be
appalled at how close I had come to losing my situation at Bromton, to say nothing of the
peril I'd faced to life and limb.
After much debate, I decided to spend most of my letter detailing the more innocuous
episodes of the case, while slipping in the information about the less savory aspects as
surreptitiously and briefly as possible. I'd never actually lied to my father before, by
omission or otherwise, and I wasn't about to start now.
Still, one shouldn't dwell on one's misfortunes.
Once I'd posted the letter, I didn't expect an answer for some days, as Her Majesty's mail
service in the north of England was decidedly less than efficient in those days. Needless
to say, I was unpleasantly surprised to receive a reply in little more than a week.
The tone of the missive was unequivocally stern and overwhelmingly reproving for my
"reckless" conduct and "disregard" for my schooling. I should have guessed that he would
immediately grasp the well hidden allusions in my letter. My father made it clear that he
expected a whole hearted return of focus to my studies, with my goal of a career in medicine
fixed firmly before me.
Smarting from the rebuke, I quickly put his letter away and turned my attention back to my
chemistry texts.
Consequently, it was some time before the remonstrative majority of his message faded enough
to let the words of his closing paragraph register in my mind. I had written to my father,
a gifted private physician in his own right, at length about the darts used by Ehtar's
religious followers to deliver the poison to their victims. I'd even been able to find out
the name of the substance, and had included it in my explanation of its effects.
Father had dutifully replied in kind--once he'd finished berating me, that is--detailing
everything that he could discover about that insidious drug. Of course, under the weight of
his prior tirade, I'd taken little notice of what he had to say on the matter, preferring to
simply rid myself of the letter altogether.
Several days later as I was studying my anatomy text, his clinical commentary came back to
me with an all-encompassing rush. Frowning, I rifled through my cluttered drawers, finally
locating the offending document and spreading its last page before me. It read:
"I found your reference to the nerve toxin quite intriguing, indeed.
The poison used on the darts is rather unusual, to say the least.
I've done a bit of in depth reading and questioned a colleague of mine
who worked for a time in the East Indies. Apart from its hallucinogenic
properties, the compound on your darts has a peculiar effect on the
recipient's circulatory system. Essentially, it causes the blood flow
to slow considerably, well below the level seen during sleep. In fact,
this friend of mine claims that several patients of his under the drug's
influence were thought to be quite dead for a short time before it had
worked itself out of their bodies...."
I sat at my desk for a full minute, too stunned to even analyze his words beyond the obvious
connotation. It was impossible, simply impossible! There was absolutely no way that such
an effect could have coincided with the tragic events that followed our escape. And even if
it were possible that a stray dart could have pierced Elizabeth's skin, I had checked her
pulse myself, seen her breathing stop, watched her limp form being spirited away in a
horse-drawn ambulance! There was simply no possibility of the outrageous things my
imagination was conjuring up. Certainly not.
Suddenly, my mind cleared and all I could think about was the minute flicker of the eyelids
that I myself had witnessed. Not a spasm of death, it seemed to me now, but a decided sign
of lingering life! Clearly, if my wild imaginings were even remotely correct and Elizabeth
had survived the gunshot, we had missed any sign of her at the hospital because our search
had been exclusively concerned with finding a corpse. No one had recalled her under Holmes
blistering questions because the very much alive girl would have been taken to an entirely
different section of the enormous building. Once the police had written her disappearance
off as a body snatching, not a soul had bothered to look any further, or (in Holmes and my
case) to look in a different direction.
As my incredulity battled with my sudden firm, propitious belief, I wondered what in the
world I could possibly do about it. My first impulse was, of course, to contact Sherlock
Holmes immediately, so that he, with his brilliant reasoning and succinct strategizing,
could tell me what to do. However, the fear that I was simply going mad stayed me just as
quickly, and the thought of giving Holmes another teasing hope to be crushed persuaded me to
leave him out of the matter for the moment.
My next thought was to make immediately for the hospital myself to prove or disprove my
tentative theories in comfortable anonymity. However, I could not very well go barging into
the surgery demanding to know if anyone had performed a near-miraculous and highly unlikely
operation on a young woman over a month earlier.
Abruptly, Holmes' measured tones sounded in my head: "The most effective way to get
information out of somebody is usually not by direct questioning. A round-about method
oftentimes yields better results."
With this advice in mind and feeling almost as if my friend were standing beside me, I
managed to restrain myself from leaping impatiently into action and put my mind to creating
a suitable ruse. I pondered the problem for quite some time, rejecting several
possibilities as too thin, before settling on the perfect story.
In preparation for my afternoon outing, since I would need to look the part of a
professional and rather older student, I donned my stiff school uniform with its jet waist
coat and crisply pressed trousers. I even attempted to tame my mop of unruly hair,
succeeding to some degree, and certainly well enough to fool my prey. Looking quite smart,
I caught a hansom cab (to emphasize my supposed status) and made for the city hospital.
Doing my utmost to imitate Holmes' impeccable posture, I strode confidently up to the
supervising nurse to state my case. "Pardon my intrusion, madam, but I have an important
problem to bring before you," I said crisply.
The good lady looked not at all impressed by my stately manner, asking flatly, "'Ow can oi
'elp you, sir?"
Undaunted, I pressed firmly onward, calling on what little dissimulation skill I possessed.
"Madame," I said gravely, trying to deepen my voice, "I am a medical student here in Town,
and have recently been tasked with a singular project. I am looking for information
regarding any cases of abdominal gunshot wounds within the last year, or so. As you surely
know, many advances have been made recently in treating such cases, and the probability of
survival has greatly increased."
I crossed my fingers discretely behind my back at this last, hoping that she would take me
at my word. Her expression had not softened in the least, so I thought to attempt a bit of
cajoling. "Have you been working at this hospital long, madam?"
"Goin' on twen'y year, now," she said, blushing a bit at the attention.
"A long and, no doubt, distinguished career, mum," I exclaimed, making my appreciation
plain. Her gaze dropped to her clasped hands, a bit demurely, and I was gratified to see a
pleased smile tugging at the hard line of her mouth. "I'm sure you must have seen all that
there is to see during your tenure here." I smiled solicitously, and that was all it took
to open her up. Clearly this woman was not often on the receiving end of even such a small
amount of praise.
"Aw, yessir, oi seen everyfing pass froo 'er, oi 'ave! Why, jus' t'other day, we 'ad a
bloke in oo'd 'ad 'is leg off in an 'ansom cab crash. 'Ow did tha' come 'bout, yeh might
ask...."
I waited as she regaled me with the gory details of several recent cases, ruthlessly
quelling my impatience with her long-winded monologue. In addition to this, we were often
interrupted by various persons checking in with complaints ranging from influenza to gout.
Finally, just as I was about to try and steer her back to my original query, she kindly
volunteered the information without further prodding.
"Now, sir, wha' you said when yeh firs' came in, now tha' reminds me of a slip of a girl we
'ad in, not two month ago."
Somehow, I refrained from leaping over the counter and demanding the information at once.
Affecting a mildly interested expression, I said, "Oh? Please, I am very interested."
She giggled, and my teeth ground together loudly. "Wew, this young lass were brought in wif
an 'ole frew 'er middle, way o'er on th' lef' side, if oi recollect rightly. Not a soul
knew 'ow she'd been shot, or wha' 'er name were, an' i' loo'ed real bad for 'er fer a long
while."
I swallowed convulsively. "She survived, then? How did that come about, if I may ask?"
"Aw, you'd 'ave ta ask Doc'er Fitzgerald fer 'ow it were done." The name imprinted itself
indelibly in my mind, though I made no comment. "All oi know is," she continued, "tha' poor
young thing 'ad an 'ole frew 'er stomach, bu' she weren't bleedin' like she should 'a' been.
Though' she were dead already when they brung 'er in, bu' th' good doc'er were able ta patch
'er up real good-like." She clucked her tongue sympathetically, failing to notice my hands
gripping her counter in white-knuckled tension.
"What happened to her, then?" I asked, a trifle more brusquely than was prudent.
"Aw, she were on th' edge fer many a day, sir. Oi fink she were 'ere fer more 'n free weeks
befo' fings loo'ed a bit brigh'er."
Keeping my excitement tightly reigned, I commented, "So, she's still alive then? That's
amazing!"
"Aw, yes, love, tha' i' t'is."
"This is just the sort of case I've been looking for. Would it be at all possible for me to
speak to--Dr. Fitzgerald, was it?" I asked, hoping against hope that the man himself could
give me more detail than this nurse possessed.
"One moment...." She trailed off as she scanned through several lists resting on her desk.
"Whoi, yes, love, th' doc'er is makin' 'is rounds just now. Oi'm sure 'e could spare a few
moments for yeh, lad. Sybil," she called, turning to a slip of a girl in a nurse's uniform
who was passing behind us. "Could you show this gen'lem'n ta Doc'er Fitzerald, please?"
"Yes, miss," she replied softly, giving me a little curtsey, and then turning to continue on
her way down the corridor.
I pasted an appreciative smile on my face and gave the matron a parting, "Thank you, madam,"
as I hurried off to follow the girl.
The young nurse was silent as she led me through endless hallways smelling of disinfectant
and human suffering. It reminded me, once again, of how fortunate I had been that my
father's practice was so small and unpretentious, rather than immense and impersonal as this
city hospital was. Various groans and wails greeted us as we passed by a seemingly endless
succession of sick wards, before finally turning into one populated by emaciated children.
A wave of compassion threatened to overwhelm me as I took in their pitiful little faces.
Part of me wished to weep at the sorrowful lives these younglings were doomed to lead, but I
instead let the sight firm my resolve to pursue my chosen career. What better way could I
find to help relieve such anguish?
A doctor was standing next to the door with a sheaf of charts in his hands, checking over
the vital signs of his small patients. The man was short, hardly taller than myself, in
fact. His graying blond hair was left unfashionably long, and hung down to cover his
spectacles as he read. His clothing, covered by his white medical smock, was well cut,
though not too expensive as to be impractical in his profession. He looked up as we
approached, and I was startled by the weariness that seemed to hang about him like a cloak.
Dismissing the nurse, the doctor gave me a tight smile and bade me to accompany him through
his rounds as I explained myself. "What is your name, my lad?" he asked with a somewhat
distracted air.
"John Watson, sir."
This seemed to startle him, for he stopped in his tracks and exclaimed, "Not Henry Watson's
boy?"
"The very same!" I could not keep my eyebrows from creeping up my forehead in astonishment.
"By George, my boy, I knew your father at university! We lived in the same lodgings, and went
through all the trials of medical school together." His face seemed transformed as he gave
a delighted bark of laughter and clapped me on the shoulder.
As I thought about it, I suddenly recalled my father speaking at length about his mates at
college, including one Liam Fitzgerald. What a stroke of luck! My father's relationship
with this man could be just the device I needed to obtain the ever-elusive information about
Elizabeth's fate.
I was an inch from revealing the entire truth to him without delay, thinking that surely the
good doctor would sympathize with my plight. In fact, my tongue was only halted by Holmes'
voice sounding once again in my mind:
"Use your brain, Watson! An effective disguise, no matter how trivial, must be carried out
to the letter if you wish to succeed. One misstep and all could be lost!"
Accordingly, I cleared my throat to cover my conspicuous pause, and tried to regain my air
of aspiring medical student as I repeated my story to Doctor Fitzgerald. To this day, I'm
sure that it was only his pleasure at meeting the son of an old schoolmate that distracted
him from any skepticism he might have felt.
Thankfully, Doctor Fitzgerald invited me back to his office in a genial manner to take tea
with him, perfectly willing to relate the entire uncommon case to my welcome ears. As I
sipped piping hot Earl Grey from a plain teacup, he thumbed through stack after stack of
patient files, finally happening upon that of the anonymous young woman in whom I had taken
such a professional interest.
"Let's see," he began, scanning over his notes to refresh himself of the details. "Yes,
that was quite a case, my boy, quite a case. That girl should have died, there's no
question about it. However, for some reason, her heart rate was so low at the time of the
wounding that her bleeding was kept to a minimum, far less than it should have been."
He paused, maddeningly, but I somehow managed to keep my hold on the delicate cup and
saucer.
"The wound," he continued, "was situated in the upper left portion of the abdomen, just shy
of the ribs. An inch to the right, and the aorta would have been perforated, not to
mention the stomach and liver. Amazingly, the bullet penetrated only about an inch and a
half into the abdomen, while I would have expected the wound to extend quite a bit deeper.
I speculated at the time that when the gun was fired, there was something amiss with it or
with the shell, probably too little powder. It made the shot fire weakly, and averted
considerable damage to her internal organs."
I abruptly realized that I was slack-jawed in my astonishment. Surely, such an
extraordinary combination of circumstances couldn't have conspired to thwart Ehtar and save
sweet Elizabeth! Surely it must be another girl! My mind reeled with the implications,
shuddered at the clear hand of Providence that must have been responsible for such an
outcome. Thankfully, Doctor Fitzgerald was too engrossed in his narrative to be bothered by
my quiet fit of apoplexy.
"It was really quite remarkable," said he. "We were in surgery for two hours trying to find
and remove the bullet, and another hour was spent repairing the damage to the spleen and
sewing up the wound itself. It was an exhaustive operation, and for quite a while, it
looked as if we'd laboured for naught." He sighed, sipping his tea contemplatively, and I
nearly tore out my hair in frustration.
"What happened to her then, if I may ask?" I said, my voice quaking slightly.
"Ah, laddie, the girl was comatose for nearly three weeks, though she did surface from time
to time--to cry out against some horrible night terror, I suppose. Also, she began to bleed
quite a bit a few hours after the surgery had been completed, and we had the devil of a time
getting it under control. However, the healing was coming along nicely, when she finally
awoke. The girl seemed quite disoriented, and my nurses had trouble getting her to answer
any questions. In fact, when I spoke with her, she said that she could only clearly
remember receiving the gunshot wound, and had no recollection of her own history. It was a
strange reaction, indeed, as amnesia usually comes about by a blow to the head. However, we
worked with her for another week, trying to coax some memory as she continued to heal, but
she could only seem to remember one word. What was it again?" Doctor Fitzgerald murmured
distractedly as he rifled through the small stack of yellowing papers in his lap, before
finally locating the information with a triumphant grin. "Yes, that was it. Her only firm
recollection was the word 'Rathe.'"
When he finally looked up at me, my face must have been as pale as a ghost, and he leapt to
his feet with concern written upon his features. "Here, now, laddie!" he exclaimed as I
swayed dizzily in the high-backed chair. My vision began to cloud around the edges, and I
am certain that I would have fallen into a dead faint had the good doctor not shoved my head
between my knees and ordered me to take deep breaths. Of course, I would have been much
embarrassed by my weakness had the confirmation of my dim hope not weighed so heavily on my
mind.
It was true, then. There could be no remaining doubt. Elizabeth was alive, recovering from
a miraculously slight gunshot wound, and most assuredly within my trembling grasp!
Once I had recovered some equilibrium, I could wait not a single moment longer before
blurting out, "She's here then, alive? I must see her!"
"Calm yourself, laddie," the doctor admonished, pushing another cup of tea into my hand and
reseating himself behind his desk. "What is your interest in this, John Watson, and I'll
have no more tales from you." His expression was stern, but the compassion in his eyes
assured me that it would be safe to confess my story, if only in part.
Choosing my words carefully, I explained, "I chose to pursue this topic for my anatomy
project because of a friend I had lost recently in that selfsame way, not two months ago.
No one could discover what had become of to her, and we were told that she was quite dead.
So you can understand my reaction when I heard this remarkable story, and the inclusion of
the word 'Rathe,' which is...her...her brother's name," I contrived hastily. Finding that I
needed to put the hypothesis to a final test, I reached into my coat pocket and produced a
photograph of Elizabeth which Holmes had given me. Holding it out for Doctor Fitzgerald to
see, I asked, "Is this the girl whom you have described?"
I waited with painfully bated breath as he scrutinized the small likeness briefly, before
smiling kindly at me. "Yes, dear boy, that is my patient."
I nearly collapsed with the relief of this confirmation, but it was not a moment before my
mind began to race with possibilities for my next plan of action. First things first, I
reminded myself. "I must see her, sir," I insisted, as politely as possible.
Doctor Fitzgerald frowned, and his brow furrowed so deeply that I experienced a horrible
rush of fear and doubt. "Lad, the girl was taken from this hospital almost two weeks ago by
her uncle. I call it very callous that he did not inform you of this occurrence," he
declared, and was obliged to rush to my side once again as the blood drained from my face.
"Come, lad, why do you not lie down--"
I cut him off hastily, forcing calm words past my swollen throat. "Doctor! Forgive me
again, but I am simply astounded that her...uncle did not tell me that she had lived. I am
not familiar with her extended family, so can you possibly tell me who he was and where he
has taken her."
Doctor Fitzgerald stared at my ashen face for a long moment, obviously puzzling over my
actions and trying to divine my intentions. Finally, much to my relief, he seemed to decide
me trustworthy, and consented to provide the precious information. "Of course, laddie,
don't you vex yourself any longer about your young lass," he intoned soothingly as he wrote
the name and address out on a slip of paper. "There you are, then. You'll be seeing the
lass soon enough."
My hand shook violently as I reached out to take the paper from him, thanked him, and left
with his admonition to "Give your father my regards, laddie." I was soon outside and
drawing in great lungfuls of crisp, winter air before I remembered that I hadn't even looked
at his information in my haste to depart the oppressive, antiseptic atmosphere.
My hands still trembled slightly as I unfolded the paper and read in the doctor's scrawling
copperplate:
Prof. Moriarty
The Kilns
Oxfordshire
The name meant nothing to me. I had reached the limit of my capabilities as a lone
investigator, not only because I could not suddenly leave school, but because I had no
notion of how to proceed against this obviously fictitious "uncle" who had spirited
Elizabeth away.
The time had finally come to contact Sherlock Holmes.
J. H. Watson
**********
A/N: Well, that's the longest chapter thus far; in fact, it more than doubles the entire
word count of the previous chapters combined. Don't I feel creative. Anyway, I hope you
enjoyed it. Of course, I had to make up some things to fit the plot, like the amnesia—I'm
not sure how that came about yet. Also, Moriarty's address is actually where C. S. Lewis
lived for 30 years, just outside of Oxford University. It seemed a good idea to have a
professor living near a university. "Henry Watson" came about from a question posed to a
Sherlockian discussion group, who pointed out that Watson had a brother named "Henry, Jr."
Therefore, their father must also be named "Henry."
Some will be happy that Watson had so much to do in this chapter, and some of you will cry
havoc for more Holmes. I miss him too, never fear. He'll be back soon enough.
I would like to thank those of you who have stuck with me so far, and have continued to
review even during this long drought period. To say that even one review brightens my day
would be an understatement.
Special thanks to Chelsea for pointing out my spelling mistake!