AN: Yes! I can finally see everyone's reviews! Turns out it wasn't my freaky computer, but ff.n's fault. I shall sleep easy. Anyway, just wanted to thank everyone for their support. Here's your new chapter!
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Chapter Three: Much to Ponder
"There is something about that man that puts my hair on end," I heard Watson say as I locked the door behind me as I entered. I turned slightly, watching him from the corner of my eye. He was pulling back the sheets on the bed. The singular bed. I winced slightly. Only one bed. Watson saw my odd look, and his own eyes fell to the bed. He made a small, "ah," noise, and made to offer me the bed, I shook my head.
"No, you are not at your best. You take the bed. I shall sleep in the chair."
"But Holmes-"
"But nothing, Watson. I need to ponder over some facts. You need your rest."
"Holmes, don't pretend that you are the only one of us who wants to ponder! I want to help! Don't think that I don't!"
I could have retaliated. But no words came. I just stood, open-mouthed, staring for another moment. Watson's dark brown eyes were clouded as he searched my face for any sort of answer. After a minute of searching for a comeback, and upon finding none, I nodded solemnly.
"I know you do," I said quietly. And it was true. I slumped down in the chair across from the bed where Watson was to lay. "So, you do not have to sleep, then. But if you intend to stay up, I believe it would be best if we were to ponder together." Watson's face immediately brightened. He slid himself under the comforter of the bed and reached for the bag nearest him. Out of it, he pulled his battered and bruised notebook. That dirty old thing had traveled every inch with us, and I feared that he would soon need a new book in which to catalogue our misadventures. From a side pocket, he pulled his short, yellow, wooden pencil. He gnawed shortly at the lead end to sharpen it quickly, then his bright eyes looked up to me. I cracked my knuckles and leaned forward with my elbows on my thighs.
"The day is March 15th, the year of 1943," I mused, letting Watson jot down the date. When I heard his pencil stop scratching, I continued. "Having stopped at the Ostendorf Inn of Ricketts by cause of ill traveling conditions, we have found ourselves in the bosom of an aged mystery. While my brain tells me that there is no case to be solved here, it is my heart and my soul that tell me to stay. I feel that the manager Ronald Warrick has not told us all that he knows, along with a strange attraction to the room of the forgotten murder. Watson," I said shortly, my eyes moving from his writing to his face, "why do you feel that this should be pondered upon?" He put the pencil's eraser to his lips in thought, then removed it quickly as a thought came to mind.
"It seems as if the War has not reached this far back into the country, and yet Mr. Warrick says that is the main cause of the lack of guests. He doesn't strike me as a superstitious man, but he most reverently believes that there is something that is scaring away the guests."
It felt as if Holmes had actually tapped me upon my shoulder. It was something he had never resorted to before, and I jumped slightly. His voice rasped quietly in my head.
'Did you observe the way Mr. Warrick conducted himself? You two are but children to his eyes, and yet he was quite formal upon your entry.' He paused for a moment. 'In fact, his respect seemed to lessen once he learned of the coincidence in the names Holmes and Watson.'
"Yes, but what does that have to do with anything?" I asked him. Watson had continued to write in his notebook, and I spoke in quiet undertones.
'Everything, dear boy!' Holmes cried. 'Observation is an art, and one that you must learn to master. Now, you must be taught. Your canvas is the room across the hall. In it, there are a number of possibilities, one of which you must find and apply. Now, what does the difference in Mr. Warrick's attitude toward you at your first meeting compared to the incident at the register mean on the whole, connected to your canvas?'
"He has something to hide," I muttered. Watson caught it with those acute ears of his, and he stared, wide-eyed.
"By Jove, I think you could have something there, Holmes. The fellow did seem rather jumpy when relating his story. Do you suppose he could be more connected than he lets on?"
"There are any number of ways to find out, my friend, but I believe we shall start at the source." I looked to where he sat in the bed, blankets pulled up to his chest, eyes red with sleep and pencil hanging loosely from his hand. "In the morning. Our senses will be more acute upon resting, and perhaps we would find something that a search tonight would not yield. Agreed?"
After slowly mulling it over in his head, Watson yawned widely and nodded, "Yes, that sounds good. Are you sure you do not want the bed?"
"No, I am quite all right. Good night, Watson," I said, snuggling myself deep into the cushion of the chair I was sitting in.
"Good night, Holmes," I heard him say back. He switched off his bedside lamp, and it was only five minutes past that I heard his slow, steady breathing. He was finally asleep. I tried to find a comfortable spot to rest my head, but, finding none, I resorted laying prostrate on the floor at the foot of Watson's bed. Once my eyes adjusted themselves to the darkness, I stared blankly up at the ceiling above me. I folded my hands upon my chest and thought. The sounds of the night crept into the room. The quiet hoo-hooing of an owl outside our window. Rain plinking on the rooftop and sloshing through the gutters. The springs in Watson's bed straining under his every breath.
'Jack... Listen,' Holmes said.
"I am listening," I whispered back.
'No, listen... Can't you hear that?'
Taking his advice, I strained my ears to drown out the background sound around me. And, just as I did, I heard it. It was quiet at first, but as I sat up, it grew louder. It was the quiet sobbing of a woman. Making as little noise as possible, I pushed myself up off the floor and moved toward our door. The lock clicked sharply as I unlocked it, and I turned to see Watson's reaction. He snorted and rolled over, but no more. I pulled the door open, and slid out into the hall. As I did, I felt a significant drop in temperature. I stopped dead in my tracks. The weeping was louder now, and my heart sunk upon discovering where the sound was emanating from. Room 13. Holmes forcefully moved me forward, and I struggled against his movements.
"I am not fond of dark, cold, spectral rooms in the dead of night!" I whispered harshly.
'Then you have much to learn, my boy. Why, I once spent an entire night in a pitch-dark room where certain death awaited its occupants, and yet I stayed for the sake of the mystery. Some sacrifices in comfort must be made,' he told me.
"Shh!" I hissed. "The crying has stopped." I stepped forward of my own accord, feeling the wood of the door against my palm. I could not help but think that this door had been open upon my last observation. Knowing I would most likely regret my decision later, I pushed the door open with a tiny squeal of the hinges. The interior was dark, save for a minimal amount of moonlight streaming through the open window. The white curtains billowed in the rain and wind, and a long roll of thunder echoed in the close quarters.
The room itself was almost exactly like the room Watson was soundly asleep in, save the tall elegant mirror that was propped up against the wall. It was easily the most expensive item in the room, seeing as the border looked like laced gold, where it was actually only gold-plated. For some inexplicable reason, I felt compelled to move toward the mirror, and it was as if my feet were filled with metal as I trudged to the article. I stopped once I was in full view of it, and stared at my reflection. There was nothing special about it. Just a disheveled-looking young man with wet black hair. Then came the lightning bolt.
The room was immediately lit up by the flash outside. I fell back in shock, seeing my reflection change to that of a tall man, somewhere in his forties. As I stumbled backwards, I fell onto the bed with a thump, and the wind began to howl. The crying of the woman suddenly started again, and I heard it coming at me from every tiny niche in the room. My eyes were locked on my reflection, which had turned into that of Sherlock Holmes. Invisible hands pressed my shoulders into the mattress, and I heard a faint, female voice whisper close to my hear.
"Help," was all I could hear. The sobbing grew in intensity, and I, feeling the pressure leave my shoulders, took that opportunity to run for my life. I jumped from the bed and dashed through the door, slamming it shut behind me. The rain outside slowed, and the furious weeping of a woman quieted into a sweet, gentile sobbing. I felt my heart beating away in my chest while I gasped to get my breath. I suddenly lost the ability to stand, and my knees gave out. I slid to the floor, leaning against the door to Room 13. The insane pace of my heart did not slow, and my breaths came faster. I clenched my fist to my chest as I heard feet dashing down the stairs and the door to our room bursting open.
"Watson," I breathed, seeing the boy kneel down to my level.
"Holmes!" He cried, though it sounded as if his voice was coming from miles away. I saw Mr. Warrick appear at my side, but it was then that I lost consciousness.
I was alone in a world of darkness. I was floating in a sea of shadows, with the world around me blanketed in eternal night. There was no light, and no sound save for my steady breathing. Then I sensed someone next to me. I turned my head ever so slightly, and I saw the illuminated form of Mr. Sherlock Holmes. His bright eyes were staring ahead into the abyss, his chin resting in his cupped hand. After a few moments to silence, he turned to me with a placid look on his face. He stared at me down his distinctive nose, and a rare smile graced his lips.
"Good evening, my dear boy," he told me in a soft voice. It was so strange to see him there, seeing his mouth forming the words that I had heard for so long in my mind. He looked so kind then, not like I had imagined him being. He looked away again, staring far ahead. "It seemed we had quite a fright there," he said quietly. I finally found my voice.
"What exactly happened?" I asked. Holmes' face contorted slightly, as if in disgust, and he tried to look everywhere but at me.
"I believe that a mystery lies before us that has not yet been solved." He faced me finally, and his eyes were shining, though his face was dark. "The occurrences we experienced in that room were not purely coincidence. Something lurks there, something with a past tainted with blood. And something of this magnitude cannot be ignored."
"But they found the man responsible!" I cried. "The mystery was solved long before we arrived." Holmes cuffed me lightly on the ear, and I could actually feel the rough fabric of his shirt against my skin.
"Just because a man was accused does not prove his guilt!"
"Well," I said, rubbing my ear, "it is too late to prove anything now. Both the victim and her accused killer are dead." Holmes was silent, once again pondering as he stared ahead of him. After a moment's thought, his eyes looked to me again.
"It is never too late to prove anything, my boy. Our only handicap is the age of the evidence and the loss of a human life."
"Two lives," I corrected, remembering the man that hung himself when incarcerated. Holmes' mouth twitched into a smile for only a moment, and he corrected himself.
"The loss of two human lives." He seemed to chuckle inwardly, then spoke once more. "You remember our encounter in Room 13, of course?" I shuddered, remembering the touch of invisible hands on my shoulders.
"How could one forget such a thing?"
"Can you explain it?" He asked. I paused, then shook my head. Holmes nodded, adding, "No, I didn't think you could..." I was taken aback and shut my mouth tightly in a thin line. "Do not think worse of me for saying so, Jack," he added in a lower tone. I kept my mouth shut. He paused, then looked away. "We must return to that room. I have... I have made an inference as to the source of the event. Yes, we must go back to that room." We sat in the darkness for what seemed like hours, but what must have been mere minutes. After a lifetime in darkness had passed, I heard the man beside me chuckle lightly. I turned to him.
"What is it?" I asked. He smiled.
"Your friend Watson is trying to wake you up."
Before I could say anything more, the darkness around me parted as my eyes opened to the world I had come from. Watson's blurry face was leaning over mine, his features strained in agony. I made a slight sigh, and Watson's face immediately changed. He smiled widely and patted my chest lightly.
"Thank goodness you're back, Holmes! You had Mr. Warrick and me worried so! I was afraid that something terrible had happened." His playful brown eyes searched for any sign of injury, and I gazed down at my feet at the foot of the bed.
"Something terrible did happen," I told him quietly. He moved his eyes back up to mine. He didn't need to ask, for the question was in those eyes. "I believe I was involved in a supernatural event." Watson was silent, and he stared at me intently. I knew at once that he didn't believe me. Desperately, I tried to convince him. "Didn't you hear the woman crying? Couldn't you hear...?" I knew by the look in his eyes that he thought I was crazy. Quickly, I shut my mouth.
Much to ponder indeed.
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Chapter Three: Much to Ponder
"There is something about that man that puts my hair on end," I heard Watson say as I locked the door behind me as I entered. I turned slightly, watching him from the corner of my eye. He was pulling back the sheets on the bed. The singular bed. I winced slightly. Only one bed. Watson saw my odd look, and his own eyes fell to the bed. He made a small, "ah," noise, and made to offer me the bed, I shook my head.
"No, you are not at your best. You take the bed. I shall sleep in the chair."
"But Holmes-"
"But nothing, Watson. I need to ponder over some facts. You need your rest."
"Holmes, don't pretend that you are the only one of us who wants to ponder! I want to help! Don't think that I don't!"
I could have retaliated. But no words came. I just stood, open-mouthed, staring for another moment. Watson's dark brown eyes were clouded as he searched my face for any sort of answer. After a minute of searching for a comeback, and upon finding none, I nodded solemnly.
"I know you do," I said quietly. And it was true. I slumped down in the chair across from the bed where Watson was to lay. "So, you do not have to sleep, then. But if you intend to stay up, I believe it would be best if we were to ponder together." Watson's face immediately brightened. He slid himself under the comforter of the bed and reached for the bag nearest him. Out of it, he pulled his battered and bruised notebook. That dirty old thing had traveled every inch with us, and I feared that he would soon need a new book in which to catalogue our misadventures. From a side pocket, he pulled his short, yellow, wooden pencil. He gnawed shortly at the lead end to sharpen it quickly, then his bright eyes looked up to me. I cracked my knuckles and leaned forward with my elbows on my thighs.
"The day is March 15th, the year of 1943," I mused, letting Watson jot down the date. When I heard his pencil stop scratching, I continued. "Having stopped at the Ostendorf Inn of Ricketts by cause of ill traveling conditions, we have found ourselves in the bosom of an aged mystery. While my brain tells me that there is no case to be solved here, it is my heart and my soul that tell me to stay. I feel that the manager Ronald Warrick has not told us all that he knows, along with a strange attraction to the room of the forgotten murder. Watson," I said shortly, my eyes moving from his writing to his face, "why do you feel that this should be pondered upon?" He put the pencil's eraser to his lips in thought, then removed it quickly as a thought came to mind.
"It seems as if the War has not reached this far back into the country, and yet Mr. Warrick says that is the main cause of the lack of guests. He doesn't strike me as a superstitious man, but he most reverently believes that there is something that is scaring away the guests."
It felt as if Holmes had actually tapped me upon my shoulder. It was something he had never resorted to before, and I jumped slightly. His voice rasped quietly in my head.
'Did you observe the way Mr. Warrick conducted himself? You two are but children to his eyes, and yet he was quite formal upon your entry.' He paused for a moment. 'In fact, his respect seemed to lessen once he learned of the coincidence in the names Holmes and Watson.'
"Yes, but what does that have to do with anything?" I asked him. Watson had continued to write in his notebook, and I spoke in quiet undertones.
'Everything, dear boy!' Holmes cried. 'Observation is an art, and one that you must learn to master. Now, you must be taught. Your canvas is the room across the hall. In it, there are a number of possibilities, one of which you must find and apply. Now, what does the difference in Mr. Warrick's attitude toward you at your first meeting compared to the incident at the register mean on the whole, connected to your canvas?'
"He has something to hide," I muttered. Watson caught it with those acute ears of his, and he stared, wide-eyed.
"By Jove, I think you could have something there, Holmes. The fellow did seem rather jumpy when relating his story. Do you suppose he could be more connected than he lets on?"
"There are any number of ways to find out, my friend, but I believe we shall start at the source." I looked to where he sat in the bed, blankets pulled up to his chest, eyes red with sleep and pencil hanging loosely from his hand. "In the morning. Our senses will be more acute upon resting, and perhaps we would find something that a search tonight would not yield. Agreed?"
After slowly mulling it over in his head, Watson yawned widely and nodded, "Yes, that sounds good. Are you sure you do not want the bed?"
"No, I am quite all right. Good night, Watson," I said, snuggling myself deep into the cushion of the chair I was sitting in.
"Good night, Holmes," I heard him say back. He switched off his bedside lamp, and it was only five minutes past that I heard his slow, steady breathing. He was finally asleep. I tried to find a comfortable spot to rest my head, but, finding none, I resorted laying prostrate on the floor at the foot of Watson's bed. Once my eyes adjusted themselves to the darkness, I stared blankly up at the ceiling above me. I folded my hands upon my chest and thought. The sounds of the night crept into the room. The quiet hoo-hooing of an owl outside our window. Rain plinking on the rooftop and sloshing through the gutters. The springs in Watson's bed straining under his every breath.
'Jack... Listen,' Holmes said.
"I am listening," I whispered back.
'No, listen... Can't you hear that?'
Taking his advice, I strained my ears to drown out the background sound around me. And, just as I did, I heard it. It was quiet at first, but as I sat up, it grew louder. It was the quiet sobbing of a woman. Making as little noise as possible, I pushed myself up off the floor and moved toward our door. The lock clicked sharply as I unlocked it, and I turned to see Watson's reaction. He snorted and rolled over, but no more. I pulled the door open, and slid out into the hall. As I did, I felt a significant drop in temperature. I stopped dead in my tracks. The weeping was louder now, and my heart sunk upon discovering where the sound was emanating from. Room 13. Holmes forcefully moved me forward, and I struggled against his movements.
"I am not fond of dark, cold, spectral rooms in the dead of night!" I whispered harshly.
'Then you have much to learn, my boy. Why, I once spent an entire night in a pitch-dark room where certain death awaited its occupants, and yet I stayed for the sake of the mystery. Some sacrifices in comfort must be made,' he told me.
"Shh!" I hissed. "The crying has stopped." I stepped forward of my own accord, feeling the wood of the door against my palm. I could not help but think that this door had been open upon my last observation. Knowing I would most likely regret my decision later, I pushed the door open with a tiny squeal of the hinges. The interior was dark, save for a minimal amount of moonlight streaming through the open window. The white curtains billowed in the rain and wind, and a long roll of thunder echoed in the close quarters.
The room itself was almost exactly like the room Watson was soundly asleep in, save the tall elegant mirror that was propped up against the wall. It was easily the most expensive item in the room, seeing as the border looked like laced gold, where it was actually only gold-plated. For some inexplicable reason, I felt compelled to move toward the mirror, and it was as if my feet were filled with metal as I trudged to the article. I stopped once I was in full view of it, and stared at my reflection. There was nothing special about it. Just a disheveled-looking young man with wet black hair. Then came the lightning bolt.
The room was immediately lit up by the flash outside. I fell back in shock, seeing my reflection change to that of a tall man, somewhere in his forties. As I stumbled backwards, I fell onto the bed with a thump, and the wind began to howl. The crying of the woman suddenly started again, and I heard it coming at me from every tiny niche in the room. My eyes were locked on my reflection, which had turned into that of Sherlock Holmes. Invisible hands pressed my shoulders into the mattress, and I heard a faint, female voice whisper close to my hear.
"Help," was all I could hear. The sobbing grew in intensity, and I, feeling the pressure leave my shoulders, took that opportunity to run for my life. I jumped from the bed and dashed through the door, slamming it shut behind me. The rain outside slowed, and the furious weeping of a woman quieted into a sweet, gentile sobbing. I felt my heart beating away in my chest while I gasped to get my breath. I suddenly lost the ability to stand, and my knees gave out. I slid to the floor, leaning against the door to Room 13. The insane pace of my heart did not slow, and my breaths came faster. I clenched my fist to my chest as I heard feet dashing down the stairs and the door to our room bursting open.
"Watson," I breathed, seeing the boy kneel down to my level.
"Holmes!" He cried, though it sounded as if his voice was coming from miles away. I saw Mr. Warrick appear at my side, but it was then that I lost consciousness.
I was alone in a world of darkness. I was floating in a sea of shadows, with the world around me blanketed in eternal night. There was no light, and no sound save for my steady breathing. Then I sensed someone next to me. I turned my head ever so slightly, and I saw the illuminated form of Mr. Sherlock Holmes. His bright eyes were staring ahead into the abyss, his chin resting in his cupped hand. After a few moments to silence, he turned to me with a placid look on his face. He stared at me down his distinctive nose, and a rare smile graced his lips.
"Good evening, my dear boy," he told me in a soft voice. It was so strange to see him there, seeing his mouth forming the words that I had heard for so long in my mind. He looked so kind then, not like I had imagined him being. He looked away again, staring far ahead. "It seemed we had quite a fright there," he said quietly. I finally found my voice.
"What exactly happened?" I asked. Holmes' face contorted slightly, as if in disgust, and he tried to look everywhere but at me.
"I believe that a mystery lies before us that has not yet been solved." He faced me finally, and his eyes were shining, though his face was dark. "The occurrences we experienced in that room were not purely coincidence. Something lurks there, something with a past tainted with blood. And something of this magnitude cannot be ignored."
"But they found the man responsible!" I cried. "The mystery was solved long before we arrived." Holmes cuffed me lightly on the ear, and I could actually feel the rough fabric of his shirt against my skin.
"Just because a man was accused does not prove his guilt!"
"Well," I said, rubbing my ear, "it is too late to prove anything now. Both the victim and her accused killer are dead." Holmes was silent, once again pondering as he stared ahead of him. After a moment's thought, his eyes looked to me again.
"It is never too late to prove anything, my boy. Our only handicap is the age of the evidence and the loss of a human life."
"Two lives," I corrected, remembering the man that hung himself when incarcerated. Holmes' mouth twitched into a smile for only a moment, and he corrected himself.
"The loss of two human lives." He seemed to chuckle inwardly, then spoke once more. "You remember our encounter in Room 13, of course?" I shuddered, remembering the touch of invisible hands on my shoulders.
"How could one forget such a thing?"
"Can you explain it?" He asked. I paused, then shook my head. Holmes nodded, adding, "No, I didn't think you could..." I was taken aback and shut my mouth tightly in a thin line. "Do not think worse of me for saying so, Jack," he added in a lower tone. I kept my mouth shut. He paused, then looked away. "We must return to that room. I have... I have made an inference as to the source of the event. Yes, we must go back to that room." We sat in the darkness for what seemed like hours, but what must have been mere minutes. After a lifetime in darkness had passed, I heard the man beside me chuckle lightly. I turned to him.
"What is it?" I asked. He smiled.
"Your friend Watson is trying to wake you up."
Before I could say anything more, the darkness around me parted as my eyes opened to the world I had come from. Watson's blurry face was leaning over mine, his features strained in agony. I made a slight sigh, and Watson's face immediately changed. He smiled widely and patted my chest lightly.
"Thank goodness you're back, Holmes! You had Mr. Warrick and me worried so! I was afraid that something terrible had happened." His playful brown eyes searched for any sign of injury, and I gazed down at my feet at the foot of the bed.
"Something terrible did happen," I told him quietly. He moved his eyes back up to mine. He didn't need to ask, for the question was in those eyes. "I believe I was involved in a supernatural event." Watson was silent, and he stared at me intently. I knew at once that he didn't believe me. Desperately, I tried to convince him. "Didn't you hear the woman crying? Couldn't you hear...?" I knew by the look in his eyes that he thought I was crazy. Quickly, I shut my mouth.
Much to ponder indeed.