Mr. Sherlock Holmes may be thin as a cricket wicket, but he weighs a sight more than I would have expected. I barely kept hold of him as he pitched forward, his face whiter than his collar, and apparently tried his best to crack his head open on my cabinet.
"Cummings, you idiot!" I snapped, hefting the limp amateur into my chair. I retrieved my pocket-flask and unscrewed the cap, as the constable blinked cow-eyed.
"What's wrong with him?"
"What in blazes do you think, Constable!" I knelt, forced a swallow of the brandy between Mr. Holmes's teeth, and received a weak sputter in response. "You just burst in here and informed us you'd found a corpse, you dolt!"
"But…ohhhh! But it's just some chap we fished out of the Thames, he had the Doctor's wallet in his pocket! I thought…" Thought, indeed. That boy would be lucky to ever get his sergeant's stripes.
"Mr. Holmes, can you hear me?" I asked hesitantly, for though his eyes had flicked open at my voice I could not tell whether they were semi-conscious, or simply stunned from grief.
"Lestrade?" he asked faintly, but quite lucidly. "What…"
"It's not the Doctor, Mr. Holmes," I stated immediately, and saw some colour return to his face, his grip slowly loosening as he drew a shaky breath.
I forgot to say in the last chapter that Police Constable Randall Cummings belongs to me (he is mentioned in a few of my fics, including With Friends Like These). He and Alfie may be used with permission.