Disclaimer: Sadly, I do not own Sherlock Holmes or Watson.

It was mid-morning when I found Holmes looking out the window.

"Holmes?" I asked. "What are you doing?"

He didn't look at me but continued looking out the window. Police constables and inspectors were outside a house down the road. Hayes was out there also, talking as an inspector took down his words.

"I told you Watson! A suspected murder!" Holmes chuckled.

"That doesn't necessarily mean murder, Holmes."

"Watson, observe the inspectors. As you can see, they checked the house for anything or anyone who may still be there."

"How do you know that?"

"By the cuffs of their sleeves."

"You can't see their shirt cuffs from here."

"Yes, but when one is talking to them you can observe every speck of dirt and dust that was hiding in the closet or on dressers."

"Why were you talking to them?" I asked already knowing where this was going.

"They asked for my input."

"Of course," I said with a roll of the eyes and sarcasm.

"No, really, they did," Holmes nodded. "I know it was murder. Illness doesn't kill that fast."

We turned our attention back to the inspectors. I watched for only a few minutes but found it uninteresting and picked up the newspaper. It took another 45 minutes for Hayes to return; when he did he nodded at Holmes.

"Watson," he said, smiling. "May I have permission from my doctor to work on a case?"

I sighed and gave it some thought.

"Don't overwork yourself and make sure you eat and rest."

Holmes's eyes resumed the brightness they had before his weakness. His smile broadened and he placed a hand on my shoulder.

"I thank you." I raised an eyebrow.

"You would have worked on that case even if I said no, wouldn't you?"

"Quite right – now, Hayes, I assume Watson and I are eligible to take a look at the scene."

"Yes, the inspectors are waiting for you," Hayes said rather gloomily.

"Come, Watson," Holmes ordered.

He walked at a quick pace, his eyes focused on the house. I struggled to keep up with him but Holmes never slowed down. It did not take long to reach the house, upon where the inspectors greeted us kindly, excited to meet the great Sherlock Holmes. As soon as we made it inside Holmes began interrogating Timothy Wellman, a young boy around the age of fifteen. The poor lad looked on the verge of tears but he kept a stiff upper lip.

"My uncle was paralyzed, sir," he said. "He was crippled by his illness. It took months for him to overcome his pride and accept he had to be carried around the house."

"He wasn't a heavy man, I take it," Holmes said.

"No, sir, he was rather small. He was only 5'6" and about 10 stone. He was fairly easy to carry even though he had been re-learning how to walk these past weeks."

"And – if I am I correct – without the help of medication."

"Yes, sir, that's just the thing. He hadn't been taking it – refused to – but when insisted on it last night, his health started to decline rapidly. H–he said he saw my mother – his sister. I found him calling out for her, his arms reaching out in front of him…but, my mother is dead Mr. Holmes. She died years ago!" Timothy had tears running down his cheeks. "The same way my uncle did!"

"Your mother was murdered?"

"No!" Timothy said angrily. "The illness was genetic, they both had it."

"Timothy, please, you must understand that your uncle was most likely murdered."

"No he wasn't!"

"I know that it's hard to accept but –"

"There isn't anything to accept! He wasn't murdered!"

With his head resting upon the table, Timothy sobbed. Holmes put his arms around the young boy in the comforting way I have seldom seen him do. The sympathetic hug lasted for lasted for some minutes before Timothy could continue.

"I'm sorry. I didn't sleep last night and I haven't been able to think straight," said Timothy.

"But you are alright talking about last night?" I asked.

"Yes, as I was saying, my mother died when I was young. My father had left and my uncle took care of me. A few years ago Dr. Hayes diagnosed him with Neurofibromatosis, saying it was genetic. I had already recognized it, but it wasn't until later in the year when I witnessed what it could do to a person. Finally, he became better and this last month he could have been mistaken for a healthy man at first glance.

"I went to his room the other night and he was laying there, pale, his eyes glassy, and he was mumbling deliriously to my mother. A friend and I stayed with him all night and by morning I went to bed with my friend watching him. When I woke up my uncle's condition had worsened, and it was only a few hours later that he told me to get Dr. Hayes and to hurry. I left quickly and you probably heard me pounding on the door at the late hour – I apologize for that. Dr. Hayes came with me but he couldn't do anything. My uncle died at about 3 o'clock in the morning. He was calling out for "Sel." I don't know who Sel is," Timothy finished with a shaky sigh and tears in his eyes.

Holmes held his hand and asked, "The friend that stayed with your uncle, what was his name?"

"His name is Seth Remington. He was friends with my parents but I hadn't met him until my uncle's illness."

Holmes nodded. Timothy saw something in his eyes and shook his head. "Mr. Holmes, Seth didn't kill anyone."

"I never said he did." Holmes gave a quick smile.

"How did your uncle die exactly? Did he have a seizure or fall into cardiac arrest?"

"Cardiac arrest, sir."

"Did your uncle see anyone that day?"

"No, no one besides Dr. Hayes, Seth and I. That's what I find so unsettling, sir."

"Very well, my friend and I will talk to the inspectors; we will also need to speak with the Remington fellow. Where can we find him?"

"He'll be here later in the day."

"Thank you."

With that he stood up and left to room with me following – most likely resembling a lost puppy. Holmes talked to the inspectors. They told the same story and said the body was at the morgue. An autopsy was being conducted at that moment.

Back at the house, Holmes let Hayes know that he would do all in his power to find out exactly who had killed Mr. Wellman. Later that afternoon Holmes popped his head into the sitting room with the cheeriness he usually displayed when on a case, cane and hat in hand.

"Are you ready?" he asked.

"For what?" I asked.

"To visit the morgue, of course!"

To be continued…