Author's Note: Finally I can get up another update! Okay, a chapter which is much longer but has a more Sherlock Holmes feel to it, given the whole story-telling that's gonna take place. Thanks for all the interest you're showing, guys, it's really appreciated^^ Any typos in the chapter, name them. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: Apply the usual here; copyright goes to Disney/Eve Titus.

II

Here's The Story

Never in my life had I been so frightened by such a scene. I had seen many of my friends and colleagues mutilated and killed by Jezail bullets and other weapons of the sort, and I had hardened my heart enough to treat the wounded and state my companions' deaths with nerves of steel. That was what allowed me to carry on until I myself was wounded and sent back home.

But now, in the middle of the street and with somebody else in similar conditions, I was at a loss of words.

Basil was the first to react and hurried towards the victim. I was horrified when he turned her over and revealed her face. She had been badly beaten and was, rather thankfully, unconscious. Cuts and bruises adorned her pale face, her hair had been dishevelled and cut irregularly, she had a broken lip, and I noticed some fingers of her right hand were positioned in a dreadful way. As Basil gently lifted her up, I saw he had been moved as I, his eyes gleaming with fierce emotion.

"Hurry, doctor, no time to lose!"

We stormed inside our home and went straight for my bedroom, where I kept my medical supplies. Basil settled the young lady on my bed, who stirred as he hovered beside her. Once I had readied what I would need, I examined the lady's injuries. Her state was dismal. Aside from all the cuts and bruises on her features, I took notice of her dislocated fingers and the gash on her forearm, which was still bleeding. The injuries were recent, that much was obvious, since the blood had not yet coagulated. I asked Basil to jot down the time, then cut the lady's sleeve open. The gash was messy, to say the least. All of a sudden, her eyes flung open. Basil was at my side in a flash, quick as mercury.

The young woman shielded her face from view, yelping out in horror rather than pain. "Leave me alone! Don't hurt me anymore, I beg you!"

Basil and I looked at each other with our mouths half-open, both with the intention of arguing with each other about who should reply, until my friend finally gave in with that ghost of a smile I had so become used to. He gestured with his hand as a go-ahead and disappeared through the door. I turned my attention back to our newcomer, who was shaking like a leaf and whose form was racked with sobs. I gently tapped her shoulder, and childish fearful grey eyes met mine.

"No need to worry," I told her as reassuringly as I could. She eventually lowered her hand but not her gaze. "I'm not going to hurt you; in fact, I was about to tend to your wounds when you awoke."

She looked around in all directions, raising her knees to her chest. Good, at least her legs were still healthy. "Wh-where am I?"

"A safe place, young one," said Basil as he stepped inside with a large bowl of Mrs. Judson's full of hot water and a cloth swung over his shoulder. "Rest assured, we mean you no harm. My friend here is a doctor, rather out of the sort due to his efficiency. We shall do all that is possible to help you make a fast recovery."

The young lady nodded, calmer now after seeing it was not only me who held the white flag. She stole nervous glances at Basil from time to time like one who expects the unexpected. I administrated a small dose of morphine to numb most of the pain, and the lady's breathing quickened when she saw her injured hand.

"Goodness gracious, I can't believe that's my hand," she exclaimed with a nervous chuckle.

"In an awful state it is, my dear," I replied, compassionate yet steel-hearted as the situation required it. "I will have to set your fingers back into place."

"Oh my..." she breathed out, shaking her head. "Do what you must, doctor, for I cannot risk remaining crippled for life."

Basil gave an encouraging nod and searched for a splint and bandage inside my bag. Doing that which I had so many times done during my army days (and had already done a few others now in my clinic) wasn't too kind on my mind despite I should've become used to it. Our newcomer, obviously not unfeeling, was quick to give vent to her pain with a yell through half-gritted teeth; then Basil helped me apply the splint and bandage. I also had to give a couple of stitches to the gash on her forearm. The injuries on her face were easy to tend to and as I cleaned the blood off her features, I was confused, surprised and disgusted at the same time.

Our visitor was young, probably no older than thirty, and was beautiful in spite of her wounds. Her clothes were in tatters; men's clothes, to be exact, and her hair had cleanly been snipped off.

I could only wonder who this lady was and how she had ended up in such a state; more importantly, and what disgusted me, was how could somebody be able of committing such atrocities. A woman of her age, beaten up as though a rascal? By her mannerisms, I knew she was of middle- to high-class education (Basil had rather nicely taught me to study body language), a fact which only added more to my confusion. I knew her story would captivate Basil's attention as much as mine.

Basil took a chair next to our visitor, examining her with a quick up-and-down glance. She didn't notice him, for she was fixing her hair as well as possible. "I'm most grateful for your help, gentlemen, I... I don't know what could've happened had I spent the night out there."

"Really?"

I pretended to have ignored Basil's sarcasm, and our visitor grimaced at such remark.

"Your legs are still healthy, aren't they?" I asked so as to change topics. She flinched involuntarily, drawing back her left ankle. "I figured as much."

"I-it's nothing; it's just a very light sprain, that's all," she stammered, flushing red to the roots of her hair. Basil smiled amusedly and said,

"I would recommend having that ankle examined. The tiniest of things tend to be the most bothersome, I can assure you." As she gave in to our request, Basil asked, "May we have your name, miss?"

"Frightfully sorry!" she exclaimed, apparently having forgotten my presence. That was much better: the less tension, the less strain to her already weak body. "My name is Elene Hardwicke, and-" She hissed as I squeezed the joint slightly; to her fortune, she was right: it was no serious sprain. " -and I'm pleased to meet you. You have all the thanks I could ever give."

In that moment, Mrs. Judson poked her head around the door with a concerned expression. "Is the young lady all right?"

"Yes, Mrs. Judson, thank you," Basil said, standing up to meet her. "If you would kindly prepare some supper for the three of us, we'll gladly take care of the rest." With a hasty nod, Mrs. Judson left downstairs, leaving us both alone with Miss Hardwicke once again. "Too many people in the same small room is unthinkable," he remarked, laconic, taking his seat again. "Now, I think introductions on our part are yet due: this is my colleague, Doctor David Dawson, and- well, I should think there is no further doubt as to who I am."

Miss Hardwicke's features lit up with a broad smile. "To have been assisted by such peculiar gentlemen... Thank you so much, Mr. Dawson, Mr. Basil." With that, she flung her legs over the bed and sat up, keeping a close eye on both of us. I found impassiveness written all over Basil's features, in contrast to his polite and respectful tone: he was still examining her, even beyond what he'd already collected from a first glance. I tried doing the same, but I could find no relevant information amongst the chaos of dirt and blood her clothes and body were.

"I don't mean to impose, Mr. Basil, but-"

"I am fully aware that I should not interrupt you," Basil said, lifting a thin finger, "but were you about to suggest that you should take your leave?" Miss Hardwicke's breath hitched, a fleeting moment of confusion passing through her features. Basil cocked his head. "I did assume as much. Where would you go from here, if I may ask?"

"I don't live far from here. It's just taking Paddington Street down to Weymouth, but..." Miss Hardwicke cleared her throat, looking away from Basil, who said,

"If you are in favour of leaving, then please do ask Mrs. Judson to help you out." Miss Hardwicke blanched and I glared daggers at him at the same time he added, "If, however, you'd rather follow our advice, then your best choice would be to stay here for the night."

Before she could protest, Miss Hardwicke was overcome by a fierce headache and was forced to agree. Basil left her with Mrs. Judson and dispatched the latter to fetch our newcomer some fresh clothes and with that, we retired to the parlour. I was vexed at Basil's behaviour towards Miss Hardwicke, something I did not remark about until he flopped down on his armchair and lit his pipe.

"My dear doctor, it's best to keep things simple," he told me when I expounded the matter. "She was more than aware those injuries would only get her nowhere or perhaps even further trouble." He sighed, letting out a large puff of smoke. "This is the reason why I say modesty, and not only yours, is a double-edged blade, and it would've brought negative consequences this one time. Leaving that aside, I find her to be rather interesting... and she still has her story to tell."

"Indeed," I agreed, turning my gaze toward the fire that had been freshly lit. "Why would she be dressed in a man's attire? So far, we've only come across actresses."

Basil chuckled. "Oh, those which are the most intriguing cases... I find nothing more amusing than discovering one's true identity aside from solving the mystery itself. To the matter at hand, though: yes, she was wearing a man's attire, which she most likely made up herself. Not only that, but with good-quality fabric."

"I follow closely, but I fail to see how her clothes were made up on her own," I remarked. "I did notice the fabric's quality when I cut her sleeve open."

"Elementary: under the light, I could see distinctive needle marks on her fingertips, which told me not only that she sews without a thimble, but that she started at a young age. The marks seemed to be old. I suppose that, whilst some must've disappeared with time, others must've remained due to poking the needle into a certain spot of close to it more than twice in a row. Also," He made a pause, during which he bit on the mouthpiece of his pipe, "she does prefer to work without a sewing machine, but that is just superfluous. Then there is the stitch on her left cuff. Remember how I first saw the Lembert stitch on your shirt, Dawson?"

"How could I forget that?" I inquired, rolling my eyes. Basil released a bark of laughter.

"Then it's just that simple proceeding, my chap, only that she is no surgeon and that she did not have to deal with any gastrointestinal matters," he said, smiling broadly, "so you merely have to compare the stitch of a sewing machine and the stitch of a hand itself. You know it is out of chaos that I establish order, but I have not acquired any other piece of information, so you may sit at ease, doctor."

"I am quite at ease, Basil," said I, smiling. "But, in fact, most of the time I was not examining her, but you."

Without looking at me, he smirked. "And why would that be? You know better than to distract yourself."

"On the contrary," I argued, firm, "I was starting to think I'd have two patients' health in my hands instead of only one's." I sighed. "You look dismal, chap, worse than I've seen you in a while."

Basil shrugged. "I'm of no weak complexion, and neither do I feel tired nor generally unwell," said he, rubbing his eyes, "but I suppose this has just betrayed my statement. In all honesty, Dawson, I'd rather you keep a closer eye on Miss Hardwicke than on me, just in case. When this matter is over and done with, I'll take the necessary measures."

"I am holding you to that, Basil."

We remained in silence for the next half an hour, seeking comfort beside the fire. I made a mental review on Miss Hardwicke's injuries: her fingers would take no more than three days to heal, perhaps even less if she was careful, and the smallest cuts would be almost closed by the next day. Mrs. Judson came by to let us know she'd be coming down soon, to which I replied in both my place and Basil's, since he'd withdrawn from reality like he did some other time. Dinner was served quickly during that lapse of time, and Basil finally stiffened when steps were heard coming down the stairs.

"Ah, here she comes!" he suddenly cried, springing to his feet.

Miss Hardwicke appeared before us dressed in a most familiar fashion. Her attire was similar to the tattered one she'd left behind, but both Basil and I recognised whose trousers she had been given: a pair of Basil's. Not to mention her (or his, rather) black waistcoat, which had a silver chain hanging from one of the buttons. Though her countenance was calm, Miss Hardwicke was still beset by unrest, not palliated at all due to Basil's intent stare. He cocked an eyebrow, his lips pressing tightly on his pipe, which made our visitor avert her gaze.

"Mrs. Judson's orders, I assume?" Basil sighed, leaving his pipe upon the mantel. "Oh, no matter; to be frank, I cannot picture you with a dress, regardless of etiquette."

I feared Miss Hardwicke's reaction, but it was an affable smile. "You're one in a million, so am I," said she, dipping her head slightly. "You can see I can't boast of... ahem, attributes, so even that I use in my favour."

I heard Basil click his tongue. "Dawson, do remind me never to question a woman's sense of practicality."

Miss Hardwicke couldn't hold back a hearty laugh, a sound that lifted my spirits in times of so mysterious an aura. "Like I said, I am not like most of the refined ladies you will see in the streets. You see, I grew up in the country for most of my life, and my behaviour has not changed a bit. I am what we English would call a tomboy?"

"Quite the catch, then," said Basil as we took a seat at the table. "But tell me, where and when did you learn to sew?"

Miss Hardwicke looked bewildered. "But how'd you know that?"

Basil smiled. "It is my business to know, Miss Hardwicke, and no: I do not make wild guesses. I base my deductions on observation, not on the side the coin falls on. Like I told the doctor whilst we waited for you, I had examined your hands while he was tending to your wounds. You have a few marks on your fingertips, and their number and thinness point at those of a needle. You started as a young woman, didn't you?"

"Indeed I did! Right on both aspects!" cried Miss Hardwicke, bewilderment morphing into delight.

"Now," said Basil, "you have quite the tale to narrate if we want to clear things up, but it wouldn't make good table conversation. Bon appétit, then."

Whilst we dined, we entertained ourselves with topics straying from Miss Hardwicke's predicament thanks to Basil's manner of speech and the pride with which he recalled his experiences. At our visitor's request, Basil narrated some of the cases he'd solved in the past until my coming along, including the case of the disappearance of Lord Upton Trupshaw, to which she and I listened with great interest. Miss Hardwicke was thoroughly surprised and intrigued by his tale; so was I, since I had never seen him make any mention of the case that had been in every paper. Eventually, we sat in front of the fire, like my friend and I used to do almost every day of the week.

Basil once more slouched on his armchair, languid, hands together on his lap. "Right then, miss, if you'd be so kind to narrate the events which led up to this situation?"

Despite his position, my companion was somehow stiff, his eyes glimmering with emotion he kept at bay. I can't compare him with nobody else than Toby when the hound is hot on a scent: Miss Hardwicke had not even begun explaining when Basil's 'transformation' had reached its end. And there he was, cold and calculating as always. Miss Hardwicke fidgeted with her hair again.

"I say, why so nervous?" Basil inquired, turning kind eyes to her. "We don't have the misfortune of being vipers."

"It's quite alright; I'm sorry," said she, shaking her head. "I was just thinking of going to the Yard after this, or perhaps even now, but you'd all be against it."

"And on both accounts, miss," said Basil, stern. "Those idiots could get lost in Hampstead and not find their way back to the Yard!" He chuckled in a noiseless fashion. "Some are indeed at their best, but they lack –how can I say it- imagination! But please, pray begin your tale."

"My story's rather simple, really, but I won't omit any details. We are from East Sussex, born in a middle-class country family. My father started as the physician of our borough, then he was employed to be Mrs. Annabel Vaughan's. She was wealthy, having come from an aristocratic family herself, and had a keen eye to choose those who would make up her circle. Sadly, she had been a widow for quite some time. He and my brother led a good life, and he could sustain me without problems; my mum had passed away during my birth, God have her in His glory. I've known how to sew since I was six. Back in '81, when I was nine, we moved out of Sussex with a little economic help from Mrs. Vaughan and we settled here in Marylebone. God bless her, Mrs. Vaughan did not ask to be repaid. 'You have done more than money can possibly pay,' she told my dad.

"Since we weren't many people in the family, we rented a flat in Weymouth Street and there was where dad set his clinic. Our new home was spacious enough, so he could tend to his patients there more than a few times; others, he would go out himself. We were finally settled by '83. I wasn't going to follow my father's steps, but he nevertheless taught me all he knew aside from what I was learning from my governess; Amelia, her name was. I am good with numbers and I have a basic knowledge of anatomy. To get some money of my own, I learnt how to use a typewriter and was employed at a nearby tailor's, which is where I perfected my skills by sewing hats and all kinds of garments, whilst my brother got a position among the Yarders."

"Oh, a Yarder then?"

"Yes, sir," answered our visitor. "My brother is quite smart and can be observant enough when the situation requires it, hence the praise he gets from his colleagues. Despite that," (she chuckled), "he tends to jump to conclusions rather harshly."

Basil hmmed. "I wonder if he has that imagination about which I speak. He does not seem exactly your nowadays model of a Yarder; he's certainly from another kettle. One more question: how old is he, Miss Hardwicke?"

"Ten years my senior."

"Pray continue."

"That is how we continued our life for a few more years: my father with his patients, I with my sewing, and my brother with the Yarders. We lived fairly well, really. One day, he came home accompanied by a certain gentleman, well-dressed and soft-spoken, who claimed to come in behalf of a family interested in my father's talents and that wished to employ him. We were surprised to discover that this man was Mrs. Vaughan's son, Andrew, who, like his father before him had taken up a position as a physician, though poor Mr. Vaughan was wounded and killed in Afghanistan. Mr. Andrew referred to the Sherringfords, a middle- to high-class family of Richmond, who were willing to pay nicely for dad's services. You must know that we were baffled, all of us, since we realised our wealth would increase."

"Yes, fancy that," Basil remarked, smiling briefly. "I can assume your father accepted the offer?"

"Actually, dad negotiated with Mr. Andrew that he would kindly attend the Sherringfords in times of need, but since one of the conditions was that we moved a bit closer to the family's location, dad said he could not leave the business unattended, not to mention close it," said Miss Hardwicke, past indignation blooming and drawn over her features. "Thankfully, Mr. Andrew was happy with the negotiation as long as my dad was employed by the aforementioned family. And here is where the real story begins.

"Two months after Mr. Andrew's visit-"

"Excuse me if I interrupt," Basil interjected, "but do you remember the month and year of said visit?"

"Hm... it was on September, two years ago."

"Oh, back in '96!" Basil exclaimed. "September, a month during which the Yard was incredibly busy, if I remember correctly. What news came from your brother?"

"He told me of a series of murders that had taken place in Mayfair, Richmond and here, Marylebone. All the criminals were caught on the scene in every crime, so the case was soon closed with all those scoundrels behind bars. In fact, he partook of the action in both Mayfair and here, so he could tell me a few more details about them."

"Oh, I remember those quite well," remarked my friend. "I was almost involved in those. What-?" The pause came unexpectedly, and Basil's eyes widened. Miss Hardwicke gasped. "Is it what I think it is, Miss Hardwicke?"

"What am I missing?" intervened I for the first time in the whole conversation. Basil fixed a grim look upon me.

"If I am on the right track, Miss Hardwicke is making reference to the Black Murders that took place two years ago," he explained. "And also like she's said, the scoundrels were caught in the crime scenes. Inspector Kent paid me a visit personally to report such a queer situation. He mentioned that the criminals acted as though they'd wanted to get caught; quoting him, 'They hadn't even tried to escape'. These murders were the doing of a 'Black League' of some sort, hence the name of the case."

"That's correct, sir," Miss Hardwicke intervened, her breathing quickening, "but that's not the whole of it. My dad was a man of ironically fragile health, suffering from tuberculosis himself, and his state ended up worsening as '96 drew to an end. Dad fought against his illness with herculean conviction, and do excuse my vehemence but I find no other way to describe it. I will always remember this day: May the sixth, year '97. Brother found dad dead in our home that day. Poor man could hold on no longer and he passed away. He was declared dead by a colleague of his, Dr. Matthews of Westminster."

Basil's eyes met in a deep frown, his eyes ablaze with interest. "It's been two years since that event, and it had been five months since the Black Murders..."

"Dr. Matthews was dead a week later."

Both Basil and I stared at Miss Hardwicke in shock, caught unawares by her statement.

"My brother accompanied Inspector Kent on the investigation but unlike they expected, Dr. Matthews' dead was not caused by any natural circumstance. He was found with a nasty stab on his right side and a harsh blow on his left parietal. On the wall, the initials 'B.L.' had been carved with a knife."

"Strange I received no notice of this," Basil mused before shrugging nonchalantly. "Well, back at that time I was head over heels submersed in the Ratigan case; besides, I'm sure the detectives wanted to prove I was not their only card in times of emergency." He stood up, paced briskly in front of the fireplace.

"Obvious enough, it was the Black League behind that murder... You say this Dr. Matthews was dead within so short a span of time since your father's passing?" Miss Hardwicke nodded. "What do you know? Somebody was in a hurry."

"You're not implying they fled from jail?" I inquired, observing how Miss Hardwicke blanched. Basil hastily shook his head.

"No, not at all. What I am implying and what is in fact obvious is that the Black League has been re-founded, with different members that were aware of the original league's motivations. I am sure that they were hanged for their crimes, as much as I am sure that I will bring these blackguards to justice." His tone was vehement and determined, a passion in it I had not yet felt. "And then there is your case. There were no incidents since Dr. Matthews' death, weren't there?"

"Not that my brother and I know of. Inspector Kent kept him up to date, considering he and I had been the closest to him. Mr. Andrew Vaughan sent his condolences on a heartfelt telegram, and so did Mrs. Annabel and the Sherringfords. We had to sell father's business and return to our own jobs. After Mr. Smyth, the tailor, fell ill and passed away, I was left in charge of his shop, which is what I have continued doing all this time: taking care of it."

"Any other strange happenings from '97 to this day?" Basil asked, crossing his arms. Miss Hardwicke shook her head.

"None that I recall. It was an uneventful period of time, to be honest. This year came with no news of anybody, save for a wire from Mr. Andrew telling me I was more than welcome to return to Sussex, since Mrs. Vaughan had passed away from old age. I believe he's still in town; he hasn't left London save for, I assume, Mrs. Vaughan's funeral last January."

"And now, to the heart of the matter: what happened to you?"

"I was on my way back home from the tailor's in Oxford Street. I usually went past Portman Square garden. That day, I suddenly felt as if being followed, which turned out to be the case," said she, looking away from Basil.

"Did you recognise anybody?"

"No, it was too dark and I was too afraid to notice. I was just nearing your home, having come from the southern side of the street, when I was surrounded by... I think they were at least five people. I tried to scream for help, but I suddenly passed out. Before I did though, I remember one of them saying: 'A pity you suffer the consequences', and then they left me in the state you found me in."

"Hum! They used chloroform, no doubt…" Basil shot a fierce look at me. "And I suppose you came from Camden Town, coursed along the west side of Regent's Park and then came in through Baker Street with Rossmore Court Road?"

I nodded at his assumption. Miss Hardwicke was quick to intervene. "He wouldn't have seen me too well: the street wasn't that well lit, and I was lying in a rather dark spot of the pavement." She sighed at last. "I'm afraid I have nothing else to tell. What I fear is that this Black League may be after me."

"A queer and not so queer coincidence that both this league and the previous one are composed of exactly five individuals," Basil remarked, chuckling. "They will attempt to terrorise the public, I'm sure, going as far as to even do it in the middle of the street. It's to my dismay that I say this, Miss Hardwicke, but I believe that beating might have been a warning."

All colour disappeared from Miss Hardwicke's cheeks.

"A... a warning?"

A/N: So, story so far: this Black League has got a grudge on the Hardwicke family... or perhaps not. We shall see how it all develops. After proof-reading, I realized I have made a reference to "Sign of Four"; if you look out (dialogue or story) for it, you will find it. I may have made a few others I haven't found, and I won't because I'm that clumsy xD.