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: Sorry for the delay....computer problems. Anyway, there is a
momentary change of point of view in this installment. I'm sure that
you can guess who it is.... Enjoy!
**********
Further Adventures of the Young Sherlock Holmes
**********
At this point in the narrative, I am obliged to rely upon the personal
account written by Miss Elizabeth Hardy during the time of her captivity
in order to convey her situation beyond my own purview. What follows is
a collection of diary entries which should adequately depict Elizabeth's
point of view, and I utilize them now with the gracious consent of the
author.
John H. Watson
**********
I feel so heavy. The wound in my middle burns and itches and aches
constantly. My only relief from the pain comes in a haze of morphia.
It sucks every coherent thought from my mind, leaves me listless and
careless.
So, for the moment, I choose to endure the unendurable so that I might
set my thoughts down on paper.
It has been two long weeks now since I was brought to this gloomy house.
The man who took me from the hospital, Professor James Moriarty, says
that he is my uncle and only living relative. I, however, see no
resemblance between us. Perhaps a bit about the nose....
Curse my memory! No one at the hospital seemed to understand how my
recollections could have been so affected by a simple gunshot wound. Of
course, no one there knew how I came by the wounding in the first place,
nor even what my own name is. As I could be no help in that area
either, it was something of a revelation when "Uncle James"--he insists
upon my calling him that--appeared at my bedside.
He had a haggard, sickly look about him, then and now, though I suppose I
have no room to point out weaknesses in others. Not in my present
condition.
Though I can recall no specifics, my litheness of body (despite such
long inactivity) indicates that I have led an active enough life. It is
understandable, then, that my confinement has frustrated me greatly.
During my brief stretches of lucidity, images and words surface in the
near-empty pool of my mind--all triggering a vague familiarity, but
nothing solid enough for me to grasp.
Images and words....
Of course, there was that first recollection, "Rathe." I know not if it
is a name or some other reference. It brought with it a rise of acid to
the back of my throat, but that might have been the acursed medicines I
must ingest.
It is in the drifting between sleep and wakefulness that those eyes come
to me. Gray eyes, in turns piercing and brilliant as a diamond, then
again soft and changing as the coat of a dappled mare.
But the peace and comfort I feel in those moments is oft disrupted by a
jarring blur of sensations and visions--the flashing of moonlight on a
steal-bladed rapier...an old man throwing dirt down upon me as I lie
screaming in a deep grave...that same old man seated in a winged
contraption and launching himself into space...a pudgy boy with glasses
speaking pointedly to a pastry....
The jumble of images is both terrifying and disheartening. How am I to
discern what is really a memory from what is merely the product of a
fevered nightmare?
There seems to be now hope of answers at present....
The pain becomes more than I can bear....the nurse approaches....
**********
There is no end to this discordant lifestyle in sight....
Professor Moriarty--I cannot bring myself to refer to him as "Uncle" in
the privacy of my own thoughts!--carries an air of intrigue and
desception about him like a cloak. Even as he assures me of my
continued recovery and of the identity he has given me, I can plainly
see the lie behind his simpering smile. And still the stupefying drugs
are administered.
It is because of my extreme distrust of that dark man that I have taken
to writing this diary of sorts in secret and concealing the papers in
the small space behind my headboard. Neither the nurse nor the
professor is yet the wiser to my actions. But I must continue with the
utmost caution.
Memory continues to elude me. The images in my lethargic dreams become
more numerous every-day, and yet they refuse to be organized into a
coherent whole, or even an incomplete framework. In the moments when
pain or drug does not cloud my mind, I have come to think that the
"medicines" might be aiding in my continued confusion. From what I
remember of the doctor's ramblings, I should be quite improved by now,
even be up and about. Yet the professor insists that it will be some
time before I am at all recovered.
The sickness I feel seems to stem from the drugs, however, and not from
the tear in my side. After many surreptitious examinations on my part,
I can see that the wound is healing quite adequately. The pain in
between injections of morphine has lessened considerably over the last
few days. I know not if I had any medical training in my former life,
but it looks to me as if I am being deliberately held in abeyance.
This conclusion only begs additional questions: why am I being made to
feel more ill than I am? Why does the professor lie so continually to
me? Is he really who he says he is? Has there been some great intrigue
behind my wounding and recovery that I cannot yet understand? Are my
true familiars even now convinced that I am missing, or even--God forbid
it--quite dead?
My speculations leave me sweating coldly, overwhelmed that such
intricate machinations have even occurred to me. Are these simply the
ravings of a delusional girl? Do I see shadows where none are extant?
I cannot know.
Again and again, I return to the memory--I am certain it must be
so!--the memory of those eyes. They haunt me in my times of doubt.
They seem to gaze with affirmation as I speculate upon the intrigue that
surrounds me. They caress and soothe me when the enormity of my
situation threatens to overwhelm me and maudlin tears pour forth.
It is to them that I must cling if I am ever to get through my recovery
and discover what black purpose has kept me--
**********
The professor walked in just now and very nearly discovered my hasty
scribblings. He seemed somewhat agitated, restless and snappish in the
early morning light. It was only by an obvious strength of will that he
was able to don his mask of familial benevolence.
And yet, I could see a subtle fear lurking in his black eyes. Oh, how I
pray that it could somehow work to my advantage....
The nurse....
***********
A/N: This chapter is rather shorter than the last, but I wanted to
convey the small stretches of time which Elizabeth has to write in
secret. I know she doesn't sound delirious, but it didn't seem logical
to have her go so far as to write down nonsensical ramblings. It is
only when she is not under the drug's influence that she can think
clearly. It reminds me of C. S. Lewis's "The Silver Chair" in the
Narnia chronicles, when Prince Rilian knows himself and his captivity
only for one hour a day.
Anyway, Holmes and Watson will return in the next chapter, which
hopefully will present itself to me soon.
Incidentally, why does Moriarty seem so fearful? Could our dynamic duo
be behind that?
I would like to thank those of you who have stuck with me so far, and
have continued to review even during another long drought period. To say
that even one review brightens my day would be a criminal understatement.
to Paramount, though I have reason to believe that Holmes belongs
solely to himself....
A/N: Sorry for the delay....computer problems. Anyway, there is a
momentary change of point of view in this installment. I'm sure that
you can guess who it is.... Enjoy!
**********
Further Adventures of the Young Sherlock Holmes
**********
At this point in the narrative, I am obliged to rely upon the personal
account written by Miss Elizabeth Hardy during the time of her captivity
in order to convey her situation beyond my own purview. What follows is
a collection of diary entries which should adequately depict Elizabeth's
point of view, and I utilize them now with the gracious consent of the
author.
John H. Watson
**********
I feel so heavy. The wound in my middle burns and itches and aches
constantly. My only relief from the pain comes in a haze of morphia.
It sucks every coherent thought from my mind, leaves me listless and
careless.
So, for the moment, I choose to endure the unendurable so that I might
set my thoughts down on paper.
It has been two long weeks now since I was brought to this gloomy house.
The man who took me from the hospital, Professor James Moriarty, says
that he is my uncle and only living relative. I, however, see no
resemblance between us. Perhaps a bit about the nose....
Curse my memory! No one at the hospital seemed to understand how my
recollections could have been so affected by a simple gunshot wound. Of
course, no one there knew how I came by the wounding in the first place,
nor even what my own name is. As I could be no help in that area
either, it was something of a revelation when "Uncle James"--he insists
upon my calling him that--appeared at my bedside.
He had a haggard, sickly look about him, then and now, though I suppose I
have no room to point out weaknesses in others. Not in my present
condition.
Though I can recall no specifics, my litheness of body (despite such
long inactivity) indicates that I have led an active enough life. It is
understandable, then, that my confinement has frustrated me greatly.
During my brief stretches of lucidity, images and words surface in the
near-empty pool of my mind--all triggering a vague familiarity, but
nothing solid enough for me to grasp.
Images and words....
Of course, there was that first recollection, "Rathe." I know not if it
is a name or some other reference. It brought with it a rise of acid to
the back of my throat, but that might have been the acursed medicines I
must ingest.
It is in the drifting between sleep and wakefulness that those eyes come
to me. Gray eyes, in turns piercing and brilliant as a diamond, then
again soft and changing as the coat of a dappled mare.
But the peace and comfort I feel in those moments is oft disrupted by a
jarring blur of sensations and visions--the flashing of moonlight on a
steal-bladed rapier...an old man throwing dirt down upon me as I lie
screaming in a deep grave...that same old man seated in a winged
contraption and launching himself into space...a pudgy boy with glasses
speaking pointedly to a pastry....
The jumble of images is both terrifying and disheartening. How am I to
discern what is really a memory from what is merely the product of a
fevered nightmare?
There seems to be now hope of answers at present....
The pain becomes more than I can bear....the nurse approaches....
**********
There is no end to this discordant lifestyle in sight....
Professor Moriarty--I cannot bring myself to refer to him as "Uncle" in
the privacy of my own thoughts!--carries an air of intrigue and
desception about him like a cloak. Even as he assures me of my
continued recovery and of the identity he has given me, I can plainly
see the lie behind his simpering smile. And still the stupefying drugs
are administered.
It is because of my extreme distrust of that dark man that I have taken
to writing this diary of sorts in secret and concealing the papers in
the small space behind my headboard. Neither the nurse nor the
professor is yet the wiser to my actions. But I must continue with the
utmost caution.
Memory continues to elude me. The images in my lethargic dreams become
more numerous every-day, and yet they refuse to be organized into a
coherent whole, or even an incomplete framework. In the moments when
pain or drug does not cloud my mind, I have come to think that the
"medicines" might be aiding in my continued confusion. From what I
remember of the doctor's ramblings, I should be quite improved by now,
even be up and about. Yet the professor insists that it will be some
time before I am at all recovered.
The sickness I feel seems to stem from the drugs, however, and not from
the tear in my side. After many surreptitious examinations on my part,
I can see that the wound is healing quite adequately. The pain in
between injections of morphine has lessened considerably over the last
few days. I know not if I had any medical training in my former life,
but it looks to me as if I am being deliberately held in abeyance.
This conclusion only begs additional questions: why am I being made to
feel more ill than I am? Why does the professor lie so continually to
me? Is he really who he says he is? Has there been some great intrigue
behind my wounding and recovery that I cannot yet understand? Are my
true familiars even now convinced that I am missing, or even--God forbid
it--quite dead?
My speculations leave me sweating coldly, overwhelmed that such
intricate machinations have even occurred to me. Are these simply the
ravings of a delusional girl? Do I see shadows where none are extant?
I cannot know.
Again and again, I return to the memory--I am certain it must be
so!--the memory of those eyes. They haunt me in my times of doubt.
They seem to gaze with affirmation as I speculate upon the intrigue that
surrounds me. They caress and soothe me when the enormity of my
situation threatens to overwhelm me and maudlin tears pour forth.
It is to them that I must cling if I am ever to get through my recovery
and discover what black purpose has kept me--
**********
The professor walked in just now and very nearly discovered my hasty
scribblings. He seemed somewhat agitated, restless and snappish in the
early morning light. It was only by an obvious strength of will that he
was able to don his mask of familial benevolence.
And yet, I could see a subtle fear lurking in his black eyes. Oh, how I
pray that it could somehow work to my advantage....
The nurse....
***********
A/N: This chapter is rather shorter than the last, but I wanted to
convey the small stretches of time which Elizabeth has to write in
secret. I know she doesn't sound delirious, but it didn't seem logical
to have her go so far as to write down nonsensical ramblings. It is
only when she is not under the drug's influence that she can think
clearly. It reminds me of C. S. Lewis's "The Silver Chair" in the
Narnia chronicles, when Prince Rilian knows himself and his captivity
only for one hour a day.
Anyway, Holmes and Watson will return in the next chapter, which
hopefully will present itself to me soon.
Incidentally, why does Moriarty seem so fearful? Could our dynamic duo
be behind that?
I would like to thank those of you who have stuck with me so far, and
have continued to review even during another long drought period. To say
that even one review brightens my day would be a criminal understatement.