More Story! Thanks to all of you who reviewed! I might actually finish this one!
With the dawn came a new day's light and boughs of disappointment. I was woken up to the wood splintering bangs of Mycroft's heavy hand upon my door. "Doctor? John?" his voice sounded subdued and demure, "there has been a new development in this ludicrous farce we have set ourselves upon. There is something you will be needing to look at." The lack of emotion in Mycroft's voice was a testament to how physically and mentally exhausted he really was.
Unsteadily padding through the dark to the source of the ruckus, I successfully located the knob on the second attempt I wretched the door open. The Hall lights happily assaulted my unaccustomed retinas. On the other side of the open door, I stood face to chest with Mycroft.
"Well now. For a moment I began to think that you too, might be dead."
My mind, far too sleep-muddled to fully comprehend the sarcastic remark, lagged a full three beats behind. For by the time I asked who had died, my only response was the accountant's broad back turning around the corner. Gathering myself into a dressing robe and cramming feet into slippers, I clumsily made my way to the elder Holmes' quarters.
Once in his rooms he explained what this "new development" entailed.
"Kelly, William James Kelly. The man who we were to question, He has been found dead in a flat near the edge of the town. A friend of mine, the constable, is allowing us until nine o'clock to become "better acquainted" with Mr. Kelly. And you, Watson, we need you to tell us how he perished. It seems highly unfortunate for us, not to mention Mr. Kelly, that within twenty four hours of our arrival, he is no longer among the world of the living."
William Kelly. What a small world we live in indeed! To say the least I was caught off guard to see the fellow who lay upon the cold table. He was none other than a suspected henchman of Moriarty's. Though he was never officially convicted, local police speculated that he laid in wait near the falls incase things did not turn out like Moriarty had planned. As it would seem, no man's plans bore fruit that day.
As I am a gentleman, I will not go into the gruesome business of autopsies. But, I was able to find the culprit, so to speak. Cyanide. The suspect, in all likelihood, dissolved the deadly powder into Kelly's grog, which liberal amounts he partook in.
Now the true question lies in why Kelly never finished his job while Holmes was incapacitated, and why had he chosen now to send word of Holmes? Who had thought it necessary to do away with him? Was the Napoleon of crime still alive?
Over tea that morning, after taking proper sanitary steps of course, I enlightened the Holmes brothers to my discoveries. I went further, explaining probable reasons for Kelly's involvement and murder. Finally I shared my deduction that if it were possible for Sherlock to survive, then why not Moriarty as well; and if not the man himself perhaps an imposter after his former power as King of crime.
Sherlock discretely read the folded newspaper on the table in font of him while I reported my findings. He would occasionally glance up, a queer expression painted on his angled features; one might describe it as a proud or smug. To me its significance was lost.
That afternoon Holmes suggested we visit the falls in hopes that he might find something familiar or remember his last visit there. Dutifully following our guide we trekked through the wilderness until we came to a clearing. The sound of the falls persistently in the back ground, Holmes and I ventured closer to the precipice.
"Holmes," no response. Stifling a growl of frustration I continued, "James, is any of this familiar? Had you come up here to this area while you lived in the village? Have you no sense of déjà vu? James? " Still no response, I followed his gaze down the cliff. An angry frothy mix of water and mist rose above the roaring falls. The mess those poor women found upon discovering Holmes must have been a sight.
Out of my pocket I retrieved a silver cigarette case-the very case he left three years ago upon the large rock to my left. I had given up. My friend may indeed be alive but he is lost to me, his brother, and to himself. Placing the rolled paper limply between my lips I causally offered one to the familiar stranger next to me. He reached for one but halted to inspect the case, cocking his head to the right. Nostrils flare as the aroma of the cloves waft to his nose as he handled the case. A small smile appeared on his face and for a mere fraction of a moment I saw Sherlock in those piercing grey eyes. As sudden as it came, his attention was drawn away from the metallic case as a feminine voice was in the background.
Again, mimicking his actions, I glance away to see a young woman walking up the steep path from the village. She calls out to Holmes.
"James! You have returned! I heard that you had come back, and I just had to find you." The youthful blonde stood tall, no more than 3 inches shy of six feet. Hands dirty from scaling the path and brow damp with exertion, the woman approached and embraced Holmes. The looks of shock upon Mycroft's and my face were identical.
More to come soon I promise! Nite