Children's Whims (working title)

Chapter 5

By Imp

A/N: This has taken a bit longer. And it does not enumerate as much as I should like. (I fear I am rather too ambitious.) Blame Jeremy Brett, anyone who wished to read this sooner; it's his fault. He's been distracting me.

~

I woke the following morning somewhat earlier than was my wont, after surrendering to the inevitable fact of Holmes's inability to sleep – or lack of care for it. However, I was confident of finding him still in the sitting room, bending over some cryptic note, or detailed report from Scotland Yard – the ash of his pipe and the scattered papers of his toils strewn about him when I woke. I was feeling quite refreshed, and the darkness and obscurity of the evening had given way to the hope of the morning, and the rising rays of the early sun. The light seemed surely to be a certain sign of the clarity which would inevitably be infused into the wretched affair. However, when I entered the room, I found it empty, at least to the extent that empty implies the lack of an inhabitant. For in all other ways it was far from empty. Every sign of my companion's nocturnal labors were apparent. The table, which I had expected to be eating at presently, was absolutely filthy with pipe-ash and cigarette stubs, and was strewn with some documents from his numerous notebooks and files. The entire room was littered with other such papers. And the ever-present violin was leaning in a somewhat precarious position against armchair and coal-scuttle. Perched lightly upon the back of the chair facing my companion's, was the disfigured hat of his most recent adventure. It had, evidently, been the object of some minute examination, for the lens lay near at hand, but the reason for such an examination I could not fathom.

As I passed through the room, in some state of amazement at its utterly untidy transformation, I observed other such things as told of my companion's nighttime vigil. It was, all in all with decided certainty, the worst state I had ever witnessed in such a chamber, and it was done, as was Holmes's want, with the most precise attention to the completeness of the disorder. And yet his absence was all the more bewildering, for he had stated clearly the previous night that he might need my assistance in the morning.

With a sigh, I fell into a chair at the table. Any thought of tidying had quite left my mind, and I abandoned the room as a lost cause. I had some thoughts of regret, for I had been looking forward to a peaceful breakfast after the events of the past day. The probability however, of such a meal was now deplorably small, and I doubted greatly whether Mrs. Hudson would comply with setting out anything upon that sadly littered table. Dubious also, was my will to attempt breakfast in what had become an ashtray. Then added to these suddenly rather dim thoughts, was the question of Holmes's whereabouts, a question that caused me no little anxiety after his most recent outing.

My eye lighted upon the table as my thoughts wandered dissolutely, and I attempted a somewhat hasty clearing of its surface with a few swipes of my handkerchief. Glancing downwards, I found myself looking at a crumpled and spotted sheet of notepaper. It should have looked highly ordinary and singularly uninteresting, had it not been filled with my companion's close, neat script, somewhat unclear for the apparent haste in which it had been written. It had been hidden underneath a document printed entirely in foreign characters – and I should likely have tossed it to join the other papers and documents surrounding, but the finely printed heading arrested my gaze and movement. It was printed, which was highly unusual, however, more unusual still were the words. The Whims of Children it read; and as any one who may have read something of my poor records, Mr. Sherlock Holmes was hardly known for his dealings or thoughts concerning the youngest of the human race.

In both curiosity and some perplexity, I brushed the last remains of my companion's ubiquitous ash from that singular paper, bending more closely over it. Following that most peculiarly singular heading, were what must have been notes, and enumeration upon the present affair. I was at first, wary of making my examination too minute, for Holmes has never been the most open, or even the most courteous to those who show too much curiosity before he wishes to explain. Moreover, I doubted greatly whether the paper was even condoned in his own incisive mind, as reasonable. In spite of all this, I raised the thing, my curiosity getting the better of any other sense or urge I possessed.

It appeared at the first as something almost like a draft of one of those singular monographs which he was so fond of writing. My perplexity concerning the article increased however as I read. For the thing touched on the most abstruse subjects. Not only did it detail facts, but it went on to contemplate the most ineffable peculiarities; perception, madness – and some form of the most obscure religious heresy during the 13th century. Never the less – and perhaps to my surprise – the reasoning and form remained as lucid as the reasoner himself. But my confusion and bewilderment were yet made greater, for the page ended in a detailed discourse upon premonitions. Of all things, I could find little of which it seemed likely to have much less bearing upon the case.

From below came a sudden disturbance, and the sound of at least one raised voice. I spun about in my chair, wondering what in the world could cause such a commotion. There was the sound of muffled dialogue – sounding certainly rather insistent - and then a woman's shriek broke the morning tranquility, and steps echoed upon the stair.

A moment later, Holmes entered, pale and somewhat haggard, his face still marked by his adventures of the previous evening. With a brief, distracted apology to Mrs. Hudson, he shut the door firmly and turned.

"Watson!" he cried, eye lighting. "I had thought I would need to knock you up, but you woke early I see."

"Where in the world have you been?"

"Oh, many places," said he vaguely, "And as more than one person. Sadly, my efforts were late despite my swift start. All threads in London are broken. You haven't a match, have you? I seem to have lost mine, and I should like a cigarette before going."

I sat back down heavily. I had begun to hand him my box of matches, but his declaration of having to depart again quite startled me.

"Going?"

"Yes." He replied, sinking back into his chair without removing either his gloves or over coat. "You would not be averse to an excursion to the country, would you Watson?"

"Well, no."

"Excellent. Our train leaves in little less than an hour, I fancy, and you ought to have just enough time to get your things in order."

"Our train? My dear Holmes, you are unfathomable. What of Van Sarn, the children, this case!"

"Van Sarn," said Holmes, striking a match, "Has fled to Holland. I missed him by moments. Tallow has vanished with very little trace, and the confounded police force insist that he is in Kent, and has been since his release from prison. A release, which frankly, has neither sense nor reason behind it. And as for the children, you may see for yourself – I have had a wire from Lestrade."

He tossed a scrap of paper carelessly across, drawing the smoke of his cigarette in pensively. I unfolded the crumpled article, and it did well to clear my confusion, at least to some extent, over my companion's sudden wish to depart for the country. I have here set down a nearly precise facsimile of its contents.

Another child; broken neck; [it read] same family. If you care to investigate, come immediately – Mawdett Estate, Surrey.

-Lestrade

"Another!" I cried in dismay.

"Yes," said Holmes vaguely, gazing at the wall. "A rather opportune, though tragic event. Lestrade, I think, has finally realized what I have known for some time. He is quite out of his depth. And is it not an absurd coincidence for another child of the same household to so meet his end? It is highly suggestive, you will admit. And it also presents a most useful situation, for I will be able to investigate one of these doubtful 'accidents' first hand."

"Why have you not done so before hand?" I inquired, glancing up.

"Lestrade." responded my companion, as if this answered my question to the fullest extent.

"But surely –"

"Kindly pack your things," he interrupted, glancing suddenly with a piercing intent at the clock. "We have very little time for questions."

I have observed that Sherlock Holmes becomes most reticent when on a scent, and it was apparent that he had some new lead from his night's work and morning activities. Yet I questioned him no further. His aspect was grim, and what he would say he said with no prompting, and by no means would he enumerate more for being asked. What premonitions had to do with it, I could not guess, neither could I fathom any connection between heresies in the Roman Church and children's deaths. But I assumed faithfully, that all would be explained in time, and these deaths ended.

And so I found myself hurriedly shoving the few items I thought necessary for a country excursion into a carpet bag. And soon after dashing in pursuit of my nervously energetic companion, who hailed a hansom, I found myself careening off for Paddington Station.

~

A/N: I'm sorry I could not get to the country investigation. I have been having problems with what some call, 'writer's block' – a most irritating phenomena. Thank you reviewers, and kindly continue to give your thoughts – I assure you, you are not a nuisance. I can't recall what else I was going to write. If you have any questions, you may email me. (Thank you, Prismplay - my computer does not recognise wont, nor does it like British spellings. I suppose I missed correcting that correction.

Toodles - IMP