Sherlock Holmes continues to offer solace to the unfortunate and badly done by, as the city is plagued by a veritable crime wave, but who is to offer solace to him in return? It is, perhaps, time for Doctor Watson to embark upon a little investigation of his own... whatever has happened to Miss Molly Hooper?
The next few months blurred by in a spinning zoetrope of mysterious deeds and criminal acts. As distressing as this must have been for the general populace, I was strangely pleased my dear friend had much to distract him. Missing husbands, extorted lovers, forged family treasures and once, a deadly, stinging jellyfish as murderer. It quite appeared as if the casebook of Sherlock Holmes had been expanded exponentially until bursting at the seams, not to mention the poor, overworked devils at Scotland Yard, who could barely keep one misdemeanour out of the papers before another reared its ugly head.
Indeed, wedding planning with Mary would often degenerate into discussion of the latest scandal, robbery, or disappearance.
"Our city has quite gone to the dogs," she commented one evening, whilst folding napkins under our landlady's expert tutelage. "I almost fear for the young couple attempting to begin their married life in such a den of iniquity."
Since my case notes from the last four of Holmes` cases were spread across the turkish rug beneath our feet, I could hardly be in disaccord.
"The elections next week should be more than interesting," I murmured, contemplating the conflagration at my feet.
"Quite the poisoned chalice for the fellow elected Mayor, I would imagine," added she.
Thus, I would oft times find myself across from client after client whose troubles had not come in single spies, but in battalions.
"'Murder, murder, you cruel beast, you monster.'" Sherlock Holmes solemnly repeated the words, verbatim, yet devoid of even a modicum of expression. "You are quite sure your lodger would shout these exact words regularly, Mrs Merrilow?"
"Most nights, sir, most nights. Shouting, almost screaming she is, and as if that poor, torn up face of `ers weren't enough!"
What Mrs Merrilow`s description of her tenant`s disfigurement lacked in adjectives had more than been compensated for in hyperbole and wide-eyed horror.
"I ain't ever hoping to see that again, either on earth or in the hereafter, Mr Holmes, sir."
Holmes was leaning, arms folded, against the door jam, both listening and half-listening, as only I could recognise.
"Anything else?" he murmured, eyes unfocused into the middle distance - across the room and out of the window to goodness knows where.
"Mrs Ronder, my tenant - she knows I'm here today (she welcomed it, I must confess) and she says to tell you," (here she removed a grubby, crumpled piece of paper, the size of a bus ticket, from her coat pocket) "`Abbas Parva`. Says you`d understand."
And, miraculously, the dulled eyes were instantly clear and focus as my friend sprung to life and into the direct eyeline of our client.
"Abbas Parva! Oh excellent, Watson! Quite before your time, too. The circus lion and that terrible accident. Please, madam, continue in your most interesting narrative, and leave nothing out, nothing at all."
Days would pass in this way.
Distrait and abstracted one moment, wildly energised and focused the next. Lengthy evenings of pacing, smoking, violin-playing, then more pacing, followed by hours and hours of sleeping, yet waking as exhausted in appearance as ever before, until the next case, and the cycle would begin again.
"I liked him better happy," whispered Mary one evening, as I walked her home, and I could do nothing but concur, bothered by the unshiftable weight in my heart.
~x~
"I rather think, Sherlock, you are dissipating. The Parentals should visit soon, before you evanesce entirely."
My brother has insisted on seeing me regarding a letter discovered in a strong box, purporting to belong to Arthur Cadogan West, a clerk at the Royal Arsenal. Some nonsense involving a submersible ship of some kind. I have lately become more than a little tired of ships and, as it has become clear, of my brother.
"I have no interest in the carelessness of government officials, Mycroft, but I thank you for your concern for my health and take care on your way out as Billy has recently oiled the stoop."
He contemplates me with an almost hesitant intent before nodding slightly and grasping at his cane to rise from Watson`s chair. The slightest whiff of embrocation and delicacy of positioning informs me of a recent knee injury, and the new key on his fob tells of him utilising the side entrance of the Diogenes club rather than risk the roadworks at the front. So simple it is to slip and fall quite heavily. One can only hope there were witnesses.
"My knee is recovering well, Sherlock, thank you for not asking."
I return his nod. Our solicitations (as much so these interactions are) being over, I step over to the door, throwing it open with a reassuring smile to send him on his way.
"Good day, Mycroft."
It is only as he dons his top hat and adjusts his gloves at the top of the stair do I suspect he might linger. I note with growing horror that the sardonic quirk of his brow and barely repressed disdain is gone, and in its place- - ?
"Sherlock-"
My heart races inexplicably and my face grows heated, my throat taught and aching… no!
"I am sorry-"
No. Do not speak her name. Do not be sorry. No, no, no!
I look to the ground, still holding the door handle, and I wonder if I will ever take an unconscious breath again without the taste of her name upon my lips, and I breathe in once, and out once… and then once again.
When I look up, he is gone.
~x~
Midnight
The Milverton Road
Number 15
As I slam the door inwards with heartier vigour than the action necessitates, I realise the empty house is substantially more dilapidated than it appears from the outside. Piles of rubble, holes showing wooden slats, paper peeling and a hollow dripping emanating from the upstairs. Boarded windows have been breached in several places by migrants, whether they be miscellaneous birds, beasts or those shreds of humanity a place such as this could offer shelter to.
The chase had been lengthy and protracted, and I find myself staggering slightly, nearly felled by the sudden force of entry and abrupt cessation of my energies. I fear I have lost Watson some streets back, but am certain Jabez Wilson, arsonist and unreliable stockbroker is considerably nearer - just a floor or so upwards, in actual fact.
Recently disrupted dust lies white and obvious across earlier deposits, and I find myself following the pretty little trail left by Mr Wilson along the corridor, past what remained of the kitchen, and up the back stairs. Being mindful to step over missing stairs, I am alerted on the first landing by a creaking to the right, then as I turn on my right again, then-
Molly Hooper`s voice, light and carefree with the promise of a smile in every syllable infiltrates my head:
"Two wrongs do not make a right, Sherlock, but three rights do make a left …"
And my certainty fails me, as I momentarily waver, standing in the limbo of remembrance…
And that is when the wooden bar crashes hard across my temple, and rough hands shove me harder from behind (two of them? How?), sending me dazed and sprawling across the filthy floor of the empty house.
~x~
Sawdust and bone meal, dry and stale and brought in from shoes worn at Billingsgate fish market.
Obvious.
I know my fingers are broken by the emergent and searing pain shooting from the second, third and fourth proximal phalanges to the carpus of my wrist in pulsing bursts, but am unable to visually assess the appalling angle of my hand as the crack to my skull has created significant disturbance to my eyesight. One must hope the blurring and obfuscation is merely a temporary (yet singularly inconvenient) setback.
As I attempt to lift my left arm in some bleary pantomime of getting to my feet, a firm hand across my shoulders pushes me back down into the sawdust, brick dust and derelict grime, and a breath-taking pain radiates through my chest in a vicious slice, almost forcing me to lose my tenuous grip on consciousness. Voices seem muffled, far away, subterranean; I am both in and outside of my own head simultaneously.
I swim nearer the surface.
" …awake. I do not quite wish to end him."
A loquacious voice- sing song and occasionally pitched beyond my current auditory abilities. A leather glove touches my cheek; the hide is new and tainted with another agent (polish? wax? varnish?) and I wonder how such a gentle touch could so juxtapose my current predicament.
"Mr Holmes."
My name swims up and finds me, and I flinch, as breathing saws my ribs in two.
"You must always feel the pain," comes the lilting words, washing down, down…
"but you don't have to fear it."
I try so hard to focus, but I only see dark and light in the gloom of the landing; dark hair, white skin, and that leather fingertip, tracing my lower then upper lip as I try again to identify that scent…
"I am sorry, Mr Holmes, but I don`t make the rules… what am I about? Of course I make the rules! And break them. It appears I may have broken you, Sherlock. Alas, that is such a pity, but it is much like the children at play- you take my best boat and I take your favourite doll - and I did, you know."
I am moving my mouth, but it appears unusually unco-operative.
"Goodness, no. It's my turn now, Sherlock. Things shall be different now. You`ve been rushing around, making all sorts of messes for me to clear up, and I`m a little tired of it. I`ve been around for a-a-ages, you see, doing as I do; my works of art if you prefer - my projects. Only, you didn't know, did you? Oh, you must not be contrite, no-one knows, since I am quite the specialist you see. The frailty of genius though, my dear, is that it needs an audience, and that is why everything is changing. You're beginning to see it already, aren't you, Sherlock? You`ve noticed- clever boy!"
I almost lose consciousness again as they lift me to a sitting position, so agonising is it, but the leather glove finds my face again and holds it (gently) until there is an infinitesimal ebbing of the pain.
"Sorry for this - indignity, Sherlock Holmes, but after all the trouble you have caused me, I did owe you a fall, did I not?"
As he leaves go, I find myself slumping heavily against the crumbling plasterwork and a trace of him is left behind in the air. I hear steps (three sets of feet, two heavy set men, one slighter. One with flat feet and one with an untreated clubfoot) and attempt to take in air, in short, stabbing breaths.
"I - I - "
I hear the footsteps halt as my poor attempts at orthoepy filter through the night.
"I shall find you." (the merest, gasping whisper)
A minute's cessation, then a sing-song riposte:
"No, you shall not."
I close my eyes and I have it.
Apple blossom.
~x~
Two weeks later
Baker Street
Dr John H Watson takes a libation
My mother would never consider residing in the same premises as a man who was the worse for drink. If a fellow could not contain his liquor, she would leave the establishment immediately, regardless of the placatory words of her hostess, or other members of the party. My own sister`s devastating descent, therefore, came as a terrible affliction upon the family; a drunken man was intolerable, whilst a drunken woman was almost inconceivable, and thus poor Harriet was spoken of in the hushed tones my mother employed for her most unpalatable topics (an extremely long list).
I therefore considered her opinion of her only son upon the night preceding his long awaited nuptials to Miss Mary Morstan, when it appeared that he was a little more inebriated than was usual. I considered it, and I dismissed it.
Mr Michael Stamford, a respected and genial colleague from my days at Bart's had insisted I required `a few medicinal libations` prior to entering into the state of holy matrimony, and persuaded Lestrade and his new assistant, Donovan, as well as a few other medical types, to occupy a table at Simpsons for some fine cold cuts and one or two glasses of champagne.
Mr Sherlock Holmes was, sadly, unable to join us. Since the attempt upon his life, he had been recuperating slowly, unable to write, eat very much, or even shift across the sofa without atrocious and debilitating pain. I had originally begged him to be my best man, since there was no-one I would rather have beside me on such a day, thus, doctors from all quarters (and even his capricious brother) had advised Holmes to conserve his energies so that he could fulfil his duties on the day of the wedding. Consequently, as I shuffled off my greatcoat and (eventually) stowed my stick in the hall, I decided I would chance a word or two with my dear friend and flatmate, since our final night under the same roof was abruptly upon us. It was becoming increasingly obvious that, unbeknownst to myself, Mrs Hudson had recently oiled the bannister up to 221B, since I found I was strangely unable to form too strong a purchase upon its familiar oaken surface. Eventually, I tumbled, replete and happy, into our snug chamber, which had now seemingly evolved into a sylvan bower of fragrant flowers.
Everywhere there were sprigs of tree blossom, their scent distilling wonderfully into the evening air and permeating every musty corner, extolling a freshness there never before witnessed. In the midst of such a fragrantly efflorescent diorama, wrapped in scarlet dressing gown and wielding both pipette and microscope slide, sat Sherlock Holmes, his dishevelled hair and sea-green eyes giving him the air of an overgrown Puck, distilling potions for his mistress.
"Holmes, this is indeed wondrous, but we do have a florist for tomorrow; Mary favours tea roses, if you are interested."
I slump rather heavily into the nearest armchair and decide I shall pluck the nearest branch from its receptacle and inhale its pungent scent.
His eyes roll over me, assessing and assimilating, deducing and deciding. He lowers the pipette and slide, raises himself (gingerly) to his feet and moves towards the tantalus where two glasses of whisky are already poured.
"Probably not be needing that," I murmur, enjoying the sight of my friend, the scent of the room, the promise of the morrow.
"Perhaps, but I most certainly shall," remarks he, holding his ribs assiduously as he retrieves the glasses.
"Congratulation, Watson, on your soon to be perfect state. You have chosen well and I am exceptionally happy for you both."
We raise our crystal, we drink, and we smile.
As I lower my glass, I am assaulted by a sudden and unexpected melancholy, which affords me a moment to set it down and lean forward, into the close proximity of my friend. I glance hazily into his familiar features and I am astounded to feel tears pricking my eyes.
"A toast," I manage. "To changing times, and to familiar times."
"Plus les choses changent, plus elles restent les mêmes," replies Sherlock Holmes, and he clinks my glass and smiles a genuine smile amongst the blossoms. I am a little drunk, but I genuinely feel as though my heart may be breaking for him at that moment.
"Your evening was- pleasant?" His eyes search mine, which perhaps is less than useful just then.
I can do nought but stare into his bright, searching gaze.
"Sergeant Donovan does not appear to like you."
At this he smiles.
"Obviously."
"Lestrade is engaged." I add, randomly.
"Commendable."
"Yes."
We drink a little more, and I do not reprimand his refilling of our glasses.
"The flowers? I must ask, but I fully expect receipt of an indefatigable answer."
Holmes tilts his head and swirls the amber liquid slowly around his glass, as if testing further distillations.
"A little research into blossom. Varieties of apple can vary greatly from place to place, as can their scents."
"Excellent. Good work. Keep it up, old man." My eyes feels slightly heavy as I lean into my own hand.
From the corner of my eye, I am suddenly aware of his close scrutiny once more, and he hesitates slightly before speaking, as if weighing up an opening gambit.
"I recently encountered a man whom I have never met, but known for a long time. Does this make a modicum of sense, Watson?"
"Always."
"He has invited me into a world I knew I was destined for, yet had no interest inhabiting."
"Wonderful."
"I know. It is a little like Christmas."
We both laugh long and hard about this, but we both know bravado when we see it.
"I know who he is, Watson."
"Naturally."
There is a pause where we both drink, and I am of the opinion that it is now, or never.
"I shall miss you, Watson," he says, splaying long legs and crimson silk across his chair.
I take a second to contemplate before replying, then say:
"Last week, against all your wishes, I made a decision…"
He rears up, shaking his head, but I press on.
"I went to see Molly Hooper."
And at that, he must listen.
~x~
In truth, the time at my practise should have resulted in all too frequent chances to encounter the lady in question had her medical studies not evolved and resulted in her spending more and more time at Bart's, away from the Marylebone Dispensary, and away from myself. I was partially grateful for this, since Holmes had ordered me to "leave well alone" and I had chosen to honour the wishes of a man who now seemed so much less than his former self. At this juncture, I had been furnished with no other information regarding causation of Miss Hooper's decision, but would do all I could to support my friend. All the same, I did miss our regular pre-surgery chats, and the disappearance of her smile and sweet disposition left a significant hole in my own world.
As the weeks progressed, I found myself tempted to enter the mortuary entrance at Bart's on more than one occasion, but loyalty and a sense of respect for my friend had always held me back.
Until someone decided to hurt him.
It was almost a week after the attack on Holmes at Milverton Street, and several days since the election of the new lord mayor of London. Flags and bunting still fluttered in the breeze from the campaign victory as I walked along Giltspur Street, noting the large stone edifice of the hospital rising up above me and contemplating my internal squabble as to whether this was the time I truly should visit. She should surely wish to know of his condition? Her feelings for him, whether now extinguished or not, had been real and (as far as I was able to note) strong. How can a person snuff out their affection for another in a single act? Certainly, a protracted and gradual decline was more the usual. However, if their parting had been truly acrimonious, would Holmes welcome her pity, since her true feelings must have been ones of indifference? It was an impossible decision to make, and I found myself vacillating upon the pavement outside the church of St. Sepulchre-Without-Newgate as a person scampered down the steps directly in front of me, narrowly avoiding a collision.
"Goodness," remarked Miss Molly Hooper, gathering herself and her coat around her.
"Does the Lord not always work in mysterious ways?"
~x~
We take an awkward cup of tea in a small cafe on the corner of Giltspur Street and it soon appears that Miss Molly Hooper is not at all surprised to learn of Holmes`s ambush and subsequent ill-health. My astonishment at her apparent indifference does not go un-noticed (Holmes informs me I am a `facial telegrapher', whatever that may mean) and she lowers her eyes, unable to meet my gaze.
"I cannot discuss such things with you, Doctor."
"Miss Hooper - Molly - he suffered a punctured lung and severe concussion. We still do not know how his violin playing shall be affected by his broken hand."
Her eyes remain lowered, and I imagine her to small shoulders to be shivering with the cold, but I am angry.
"At this moment he is confined to bed and is even unable to sit without assist - "
"No more!"
And as I look again upon her shaking shoulders I realise she is crying, and I reach across the table to grasp her hand.
"They promised me he would not be hurt. Not so much."
In her distress, she had confused her tenses.
She obviously meant they had promised he had not been hurt too much.
Clearly, that was the case.
Indeed.
She looks up, eyes red-rimmed and wide with fear, hand gripping mine so tight I cannot flex it, and it is then I understand.
"You knew this was to happen. You are being blackmailed. You left him to protect him."
"Yes," she says sadly, simply.
~x~
Molly Hooper had been the reluctant recipient of thirteen anonymous letters, instructing her that Sherlock Holmes was a man who would invite great suffering, for both his reputation as a criminologist and detective, as well as his personal well-being. The writer of the letters intimated great power and influence, and had promised to refrain from harm, so long as she deserted him, with no explanation and no further contact.
I stare, bold and uncomprehending, into her soft brown eyes, as if understanding could be found within their depths.
"But … why?"
"To cause him emotional pain- to torture him. Doctor Watson, there is a person in this world who wishes to cause harm to Sherlock, but not merely in a brutal bludgeoning, or a cudgel to the temple. This person is so clever, you must understand, clever in the way that Sherlock is. They began so softly with the letters; was I not worried that my trouble with Mr Robert Collins and his poor, dead wife would reflect badly upon Sherlock? Was I not worried such shocking behaviour would tarnish his golden eminence in society? They knew also of the troubles regarding Mr Mycroft Holmes and Sir James Prendergast in the Aldgate archaeological dig, and threatened to expose all of that. These were troubles, you see, that I had brought to his door. My father was named as an anarchist and a radical, when all he campaigned for was more funding for hospital treatment for the poor-"
"My goodness! How can such diverse and private information be so publically known?"
Miss Hooper wraps and re-wraps a tear-stained kerchief repeatedly round her finger, worrying at the cloth, stretching it, pulling at its straining threads.
"He is is clever, this person, this magpie- he knows so much, and things no one person should ever be privy to. He has picked apart my life, Doctor, and delved inside, probing into things that he has no cause to touch, no reason to know."
"But Holmes was hurt."
She looks stricken, and I know I have stated a most painful and appalling fact which gained nought for being said again.
"This was my fault also. I had begun to rail against demands to stay away from Sherlock. I was considering sharing everything, since I could not bear for him to think- to think, for one more moment-"
Her voice had become increasingly hushed, as if words had become such a heavy burden, they could scarcely be shifted into place. I leant forward over the table to hear her.
"For one more second-"
She looks up, directly into my eyes, bold and resolute.
"That I did not love him."
We both pause for a moment as I allow the knowledge to drift down and settle into my consciousness. I knew. Of course I did. I always had.
I take her hand.
"They knew, somehow, of my intent and they issued me a warning of what would happen if I shared anything with him. They said- they promised- he would not be hurt, just jostled, startled." She shakes her head, as if to dislodge the appalling images that dwelled there.
"Doctor Watson, I am so very sorry."
"He must know!" I am all energy, reaching for my cane, almost hailing a cab from our table in my rush to share this with my friend.
"No."
She is so quiet and so very restrained, but the single word acts as a giant boulder rolled across the cave entrance and all I can do is sit back down, reflecting on the unfathomable strength shown in that single utterance.
"No. If I breach this command, they will kill him. You must promise me, if you love Sherlock Holmes, please do not speak of this. I shall willingly live the rest of my life in the same city as he without passing his door, or even saying his name if his safety is assured. He shall live his life and follow the path he is intended for."
"And you, Molly? What of yourself?"
"I shall take solace where I may; knowing he is safe, knowing he is happy."
I have not enough remaining in my heart to counter her premise, since she has precious little comfort to take, but I am personally quite assured that happiness is a ship that has long since set sail.
~x~
6 o`clock in the morning
Dr John H Watson`s wedding day
Baker Street
It is the most important day of my life and I have not slept one wink in the night preceding it.
I could not tell him the whole truth.
He is my friend; the best and wisest man I had ever known, but I could not betray the trust and desperate hopes of Miss Margaret Hooper as she so believes her selfless act is maintaining his safety. I knew how Holmes detested blackmailers above all other criminals and how he would raise his broken body and pursue this nameless, malevolent creature that wished to manipulate and harm him.
Since speaking with Molly Hooper four days ago, I have been vacillating, wild with confusion and inner incertitude. I have made promises to people I care for which place me in an impossible and intolerable situation, and today, on the day I am to make the most significant promise of all to the woman who is to be my wife, I find myself adrift from reason.
Last evening, I regained my sobriety in an instant as Holmes stood over me, questioning, inferring and finally berating my obvious interference. His eyes flashed with an avidity I could not recognise and I knew I must keep my counsel regarding Miss Hooper`s `Magpie`, at least until a time of greater equanimity. My friend needed time to heal, both physically and mentally from recent aberrations, and what if she was right? What if this powerful adversary had the power to murder whomsoever he pleased? With Holmes in such a weakened state, I felt it would have been more than imprudent to trouble him with a dilemma of any description, thus, I spoke only of taking tea with Miss Hooper subsequent to an unplanned meeting (at least, partially true) and Holmes bore acceptance as ungraciously as he could, but yet quite fairly considering the circumstances.
"Watson, I shall bid you goodnight, considering you have a most important day ahead of you tomorrow." His eyes ran across my person with a look that bordered on the disparaging, and I found myself cut to the quick by it.
"Holmes, I have apologised. It was the briefest of meetings-"
Yet he turned upon his heel and disappeared into his bedroom in a billowing flash of crimson silk and there was no degree of self-justification I could resort to, since I was both stung and aggrieved at my own duplicity.
You see, one cannot risk a lie to a man like Sherlock Holmes without taking a gamble upon the loss of his trust, and such a loss can be very hard to bear.
~x~
Ten minutes past six in the morning
Baker Street
Dr John H Watson`s wedding day
I hear Watson clattering cups and saucers on the sideboard, hoping no doubt that the strong, black coffee Mrs Hudson has sent forth with Billy will revive his battered head into a semblance of matrimonial anticipation.
I distinctly doubt it.
Clink, chink, pour, stir, a pause, then a sonorous shuffle past my room towards the bathroom. I feel him hesitate, infinitesimally, outside my own door, then resume his doleful pace, clearly thinking better of it. It is true that I allowed emotional weakness in order to admonish him last night, and for this I am not proud. I am not overly burdened with friendships and John Watson is a man I hold in the very highest esteem. I know he is lying to me, but considering the huge strains he has been placed under (on the eve of his own wedding, no less) I do not lay blame for his actions upon him; he is attempting the impossible - protecting everyone whilst offending no-one. Quite the ridiculous arrangement, since offending people is often the most effective way of reaching the truth.
The facts are these:
I have an adversary who has chosen to reveal himself to me in a rather dramatic (and painful) manner in order to throw down the gauntlet. He is quite the master criminal, who has defied the law at every juncture and has maintained his anonymity via the most intricate of webs, as thin as gossamer yet as finely calibrated as the E string upon my Stradivarius (a perfect fifth above the A). This creature may pull upon a thousand threads simultaneously, sending a tremor beyond a thousand seas, where all may feel his influence but none may know his name. He carries out the criminal undertakings others may only dream of, and is quite safe in doing so, since no thread shall lead back to him. He is the cleverest of adversaries, with the imagination to do untold damage beyond nations. He enjoys wealth, but does not hanker and clamour for it in the undignified ways that others do; such misdeeds and `projects` are undertaken merely because they interest him, alleviating the crushing boredom that is so feared by the genius mind. He has unlimited ideas and imagination, since without imagination there is no horror. Ordinary brains, with their torpid and intolerably ponderous machinations, are so slow to him. He only accepts challenges that intrigue and entice, and recently these have been thin upon the ground; recently he has become… bored. Mediocrity knows nothing higher than itself, but talent instantly recognises genius, and here is a genius who would like to be recognised, to capture my attention in the most delightfully cruel and debilitating ways possible. I was too near when I chanced upon the SS Appledore (thanks to the innocent curiosity of Miss Molly Hooper and her gift of a rat`s belly). The idiot husband of Miss Irene Adler proved to be the weakest of links, but my interference allowed him to escape to the furthest reaches of the globe to escape his fate. My adversary was not happy with this and set about devising my punishment, for which I must offer him the heartiest of congratulations, since its effectiveness has given me more pain than a dozen beatings could ever engender.
Thus, where do we now stand on this, my dear friend Watson`s wedding day?
The lady, the criminal, the detective and his loyal friend. All pitched in different stances, all placed like chess pieces, unable to move without influence of each other; a stalemate rather than a checkmate, a stand-off, teetering upon the brink of some precipice-
Waiting to fall.
~x~