John Hamish Watson was shockingly aware of when the murders began. A week after his 31st birthday, Farmer Anderson's sheep were found mutilated in his fields. Four days after his birthday, Governor Lestrade's daughter was found at the edge of town, her throat torn open and her intestines spilling from a large gash in her stomach. The next day, Watson's own sister...
John swallowed, shutting his eyes tight at the memory. He knew that he had never been close to her, especially once she took to frequenting the local pub, but that didn't mean that he loved her any less. Now that she was gone, John felt a ball of guilt settle permanently inside him. All those laughs, those moments, those hugs they could have shared, gone forever.
"Dr. Watson, we have another attack victim." John looked up, shooting a sympathetic smile to his assistant. Molly Hooper was too young to be seeing such violence, such gore, but John was always surprised when she braced her shoulders and dug into her work. Being only 25 years old, she had more guts than John did, and he had seen the horrors of a battlefield.
"If you could just lay them out for me, that would be fantastic."
"If you don't mind, I'd prefer to be seen standing, not lying down like a slab of meat." John's eyes shot up as Molly was pushed aside by a tall, lanky figure. He knew it was somewhat rude of him, but John couldn't help but let his eyes move over every small detail. The man was certainly tall, at least 6 foot, topped with a head of thick, curling onyx-black hair. His skin was a creamy white, like fresh buttermilk, but his eyes were a icy blue-gray color. John felt sure that he could cut himself on those cheekbones, highlighted by the turned-up collar of his Belstaff coat. The man's cupid-bow lips were pressed into a line of indignation and John felt heat wash over him as those sharp eyes did their own analysis. John felt stripped bare, and it made him shiver.
"Napoleonic or Russo-Persian?"
"E-excuse me?"
The man huffed, rubbing an irritated hand over his eyes. "Did you fight in the Napoleonic wars or the Russo-Persian war?"
"I-I...Napoleonic. But how…?"
"You have a tan, a much deeper one for someone that has lived in England all their lives. Your tan lines are in a place indicating a uniform of some kind, and the tan is of a deeper hue, indicating that you were either out in the sun much, or have been a soldier for many years. Based on the wrinkles near your eyes and the amount of gray hairs on your head, you can't be older than 35, so you have not been a soldier for too long. This means you were out in the sun for long periods of time. Your stance is one often used by seafaring men, so you must have been on a ship, explaining the exposure to sunlight. You stared me down, or at least attempted to, meaning that you were in a position of power, a captain perhaps? No, definitely a captain. You are an only child to older parents, so they expected much from you, leading to a career as a captain and then the town's only doctor."
"You are…" John looked at the man with wide eyes. "...amazing."
"I know." The man walked further into the room, plopping himself down gracefully onto the only seat in the room. "I am also bleeding."
"Oh! Yes...of course." John nodded to Molly, giving her a chance to escape from a man that clearly made her uncomfortable. She gave him a grateful smile, scurrying from the room. John, meanwhile, brought his supplies closer and looked at the other man with a clinical eye. "I need to see the injury."
The man shrugged out of his coat, rolling up his shirt sleeve to reveal a large bite covering the milky white skin of a thin forearm. "It's merely a scratch. My transport has faced worse."
"Your transport?" John quirked an eyebrow in curiosity, pouring a small amount of hydrogen peroxide on a cloth.
The man spared a brief glance to look down. "Indeed. It can be quite a problem. My transport is so easily damaged."
"You mean your body, don't you?" John smiled slightly when the man glared up at him. "And you got something wrong."
"What?" The man's eyes moved back and forth, the cogs clearly turning in his head. "I always get something wrong. What did I miss?"
"I'm not an only child. I have a sister. Harriet."
"And yet you only have a portrait of your mother and father. You do not have a good relationship with your sister."
"That is true, but I did have one of her. I put it away when I found her torn to pieces." John cleared his throat, threading a black thread through the needle and slowly pulling it through the smooth skin, pulling the frayed edges together.
"A victim of this Hound that everyone's been talking about?" John nodded. "Impossible. The Hound doesn't exist. I saw the cadavers. All the marks were done with a blade wielded by an unprofessional. He did not know what he was doing, so he made a messy job of it. There are no signs of an attack done by Versipellis, or Lupus. They were killed by a human, not a figment of everyone's imagination.
"Shut up." John pulled the needle through, tying it off at the end and cutting the excess off. "I don't care if the Hound or some psychopath killed her. All I know is that my sister is dead...and whoever killed her is still out there."
"That's why I'm here. Governor Lestrade sent for me from London to come down and prove the existence of the Hound. I intend to show him, you, and every other superstitious person here that there is no such thing."
"Good luck with that. I've lived here my entire life and I remember hearing about the Hound since before I can remember."
"So you know the area well? You know everyone?"
"I do. It's gotten better since I became the only doctor in town."
The man stood up quickly, causing John to jump back in surprise. "Come, John. The game is on!" He rolled his sleeve back down and tugged his coat on, sweeping towards the door like a black hurricane.
"I-I have no idea what you're talking about. And how do you know my name?" John looked after him with wide eyes, his body leaning forward with just a hint of excitement.
"Please do try and keep up. If I knew all that about you, your name is the easy part. That, and your name is carved onto the door." The man pulled the door open, pointing a long finger to where John's name was carved into the dark wood.
"Who are you?"
The man put one hand on the door, looking back with a coy smile. "The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is room 221B, at the Baker Street Inn." John flushed a deep pink when Sherlock saucily winked at him and closed the door behind him. Now that he was alone and free of that burning gaze, John was free to admit to himself that this man was going to be trouble and more disconcerting was that John was pretty sure he would find himself at the door of room 221B at the Baker Street Inn.