Sherlock Holmes And The Paradise Horror

by GWBear

In 1920, Dr. John Watson breaks his long silence on the darkest, most difficult case - actually a series of related cases which Holmes pursued for many months - that Sherlock Holmes ever worked on. Holmes believes it's his greatest failure, but Watson thinks very differently. He believes the cases showed Holmes at his very best.

13. Chapter 12: Delays and Troubling Stories

Author's Note: I apologize for the delay in publishing this chapter. Unfortunately, Fan Fiction suddenly developed linkage problems again, and broke the daisy chain between Chapters 10 and 11, which made "Three Violent Lunatics" unfindable. I tried various ways of fixing it, but ultimately had to delete the chapter, wait a couple of day, repost it, and hope for the best. Any reviews posted against that chapter were lost. Again, my apologies.

I am hoping that this new chapter doesn't get lost in the fog. I have a few others to post, which I would like to publish soon, but I first must ensure that this latest chapter doesn't disappear…

As always, reviews are most welcome!

Chapter 12: Dead Ends, Delays, and Troubling Stories

The following day was Friday, a day I fully expected would be very busy with patients coming in before the weekend. I intended to put in a half day on Saturday, but still patients were arriving steadily, to ensure they would not miss out. Fortunately, I did not hear from anyone at Scotland Yard or from Doctor Hill, so there were no interruptions. It wasn't until after 8:30 PM that evening that I made it back to Baker Street, feeling fully spent. After a long day, most of it spent on my feet, I wanted nothing but a good dinner, a pipe or two, and the calm ritual of the evening papers. Mrs. Hudson greeted me warmly, told me that some trout and chipped beef would be up soon, and that a telegram had come late in the afternoon for me. It was from Doctor Hill, advising me that he intended to stop by briefly at 9:30 PM with an update on his postmortem investigation into Kevin Stall's death. I advised Mrs. Hudson that I was expecting a late evening visitor and started in on my supper. She took the news in stride and told me she would be able to make my guest a light meal if needed, as seeing that he was a doctor, he might not have eaten already. A blueberry tart was on offer for dessert, and she said she would happily hold off on it until Fred Hill arrived, so she could serve it to both of us. The good woman was never happier than when she got an opportunity to show off her cooking and baking to new or unexpected visitors.

The doorbell rang promptly at 9:30, and soon Mrs. Hudson was ushering an obviously weary Fred Hill into our sitting room. She offered sandwiches, a generous piece of the tart, and some coffee or tea. Hill said he had already had a light meal, but that tea and the tart as a late dessert would be most appreciated. Mrs. Hudson bustled off leaving the two of us alone to discuss Stalls' postmortem.

"Well John, first off, thanks for your offer of help. Fortunately, it was not a particularly backed up day, so I was able to get to Stalls right away. It's bad business, John - As bad as the two we looked at on Saturday. Considering that he's part of the trio of arguing men, I can't help but feel this case, all those deaths, are related in some way - to the madness and violence displayed anyway. It makes no damn sense, but there must be a connection somehow!"

"What were you able to find out, Fred?" I asked.

"Nothing to explain the lunacy or the level of violence of all this anyway, although the cause of death was clear enough. A 38-caliber bullet from the constable's revolver, square in the chest, point blank range. Almost hit the heart. The man died within moments of the shot - nothing could have saved him. I understand the poor constable is rather cut up about it, as he's never shot his revolver on the job before, let alone killed anyone. Nobody is blaming him of course - saved a man's life he did."

"As for Stalls himself, he was fit, healthy, well nourished, and with no obvious signs of infirmity. His body showed no signs of previous injuries, no scars, no physical abnormalities to either his body or his brain. There's plenty of scrapes, bruises, contusions, and all the usual expected signs of trauma from his last violent minutes of life, including badly bruised knuckles, a broken middle phalanx on his right forefinger, two cracked ribs and a rather severe cut on the left side of his face. He took a hard beating from the crowd, right enough, but it clearly did little to stop him. I am sure you already know of the injuries he inflicted and the mayhem he caused. All indications are that only a severe knockout blow, or a bullet, was going to stop him, whatever ailed him, it wasn't going to stop with simple persuasion. It's gone, whatever it was, whatever drove him. He took it to his grave - barring a miracle of deduction or insight on your end. Maybe your friend Sherlock could figure this, but I can't."

"Any signs of gross intoxication or poisons, Fred?"

"None that I can find. He ate what appears to be just a large roast beef sandwich not too long before his death, and not more than a quart of beer - considerably less than a quart is more likely. His stomach contents have gone off to the lab for additional analysis. As for other indications of drug use, or abuse, I found nothing. No needle marks, punctures, or signs of injections, old or recent. No skin indicators of chemicals absorbed through the skin. Perhaps our friend Bradstreet will find something when he digs further and interviews the man's colleagues and friends. The answer isn't written large on the man's body anyway."

"This is definitely a mystery Holmes would appreciate," I said. "It's been a while, so I'm hoping he'll be back soon. I'll lay the story before him – the Plinkin and Adders cases too. It certainly seems like there's a possible connection there. "The Three Violent Lunatics" would make a case study for The Strand at any rate, if Holmes ever gets hold of it and solves it well enough."

We chatted for a while longer. I always enjoyed the younger doctor's company, and would have been pleased to keep him longer, but he was clearly fading, and I still had a half day of service scheduled for the morning. We agreed to keep in touch and called it an evening well spent. I bid him a good evening and sent him on his way home at last.

I didn't hear anything else about the case the next day or early the following week. I completed my contracted time at Doctor Nickson's practice with no problems and lots of praise from both patients and a refreshed and grateful Nickson. Wednesday afternoon saw me back on my regular ward at Barts, where all greeted me warmly, lamented my absence, and made it clear they were pleased to see me again. I was once again minded that I was indeed a fortunate man, as I had multiple rewarding places to practice my profession among good, talented colleagues who were pleasant to work with and pleased with my company. My life included recognition and respect in my profession, considerable fame and success as a writer, good friends, and as long as Holmes stayed actively engaged in London, plenty of excitement as well. I had lost my dear wife Mary, which still weighed heavily upon me, but life went on and was still good to me. While I grieved for Mary and missed her terribly, I also knew that she above all would be happy for me in my current circumstances, knowing I still carried on with a well-earned and established level of success in my life.

Dodging a sudden rainstorm, I arrived home at 221B Baker Street just before 7:00 PM on Thursday evening, the nineteenth, and immediately knew that Holmes was back at last. His walking stick, coat, and hat were downstairs in the hallway, and his bags were upstairs in the sitting room. Upstairs, I met a bustling Mrs. Hudson who was quickly moving around our room, cleaning and subtly rearranging now that Holmes was back at last. "He's only been back less than an hour," she whispered. "He's exhausted, the poor man. He's taking a bit of a nap before dinner. Wants some good English beef, he does, some young potatoes, and some veg: good English food after being away for so long. Dinner will be a bit late - after 8:00 PM, if you can wait. I'll bring you up a pot of tea and a few biscuits to take the edge off while you wait. He didn't touch the evening papers, so they're all here waiting for you."

I assured Mrs. Hudson that hot tea, papers, and a dinner delay were just fine with me. I settled myself down with The Times and a good Darjeeling, content to wait on Holmes. I was eager to catch up with him, to hear how he had spent his time (if he could tell me) and to tell him about the three mysterious violent deaths that the metropolitan force had been stumped by while he was adventuring elsewhere. Just after 8:00 PM, Holmes emerged from his room, looking tired, worn and for lack of any other way to put it, well used. He was casually dressed and wearing his favorite mouse colored dressing gown. Even though he looked like he could easily use an additional eight hours of sleep, he was still alert, happy enough, with that unmistakable air which indicated that whatever he had been engaged in, he had emerged successful - if not the victor.

"Welcome home, Holmes!" I said warmly, getting up and shaking his hand. "It's good to see you, old man. It's been a long trip this time!"

"Good evening, Watson! It's indeed good to be back. I missed home, hearth, friends, and Mrs. Hudson's solid home cooking. Why others outside the United Kingdom can't make a quality cup of tea is beyond me! Or good beef!"

"But you were successful I see," I said.

Holmes smiled and laughed, giving a sigh of satisfaction as he sank into his accustomed chair. "Who's the detective now, Watson? Is it that obvious? I suppose it is really. I am feeling a bit smug, or at least well satisfied with the results of all my hard labors."

"Is it something you can talk about, or am I doomed to endless silence and perpetual mystery? And yes, your satisfaction is obvious!"

"Sorry Watson, but I must keep most of this little adventure to myself for at least a few months, possibly longer. I promise that if circumstances change, I will tell you about it in great detail. Perhaps by late winter, it's too soon to tell. It will make a fine story over a Scotch, good cigars, and a roaring fire on a cold night someday to be sure."

He paused, considering. "I suppose I can tell you that I was led on a merry chase, conducting the Queen's business. Four countries- well five really, if you count the four hours and forty-three minutes I spent in Poland."

I couldn't help bursting out laughing. "Seriously Holmes? Four hours and forty-three minutes, exactly?"

Holmes leaned back in his chair and let out a roar of laughter such as I rarely heard from him. "Exactly Watson down to the forty-three minutes. Not forty-four! I know it to the minute, because it marked one of the highlights of my grand adventure. It was then that I knew I had finally figured out my quarry and knew I would be able to catch up with him at last. He was a wildly scoundrel he was! A worthy opponent indeed! I wish I could tell you more but that will have to be it for now. The rest will have to keep for a later date."

Mrs. Hudson chose that moment to start upstairs with a hearty dinner, which I got up to help her with. "I've brought you what you asked for Mr. Holmes - and you'll eat all of it! You've lost weight, you have and look like you haven't had a decent meal in weeks. It's barley soup, roast beef, the potatoes you asked for, peas, carrots, and a good claret. While you tuck into this, I'll be pulling an apple pie out of the oven for you. It's good to have you back, sir!"

"Ah, Mrs. Hudson, you are indeed the very best of women, a national treasure all your own!" said Holmes. He spoke with a real warmth and passion that was rare for him. He clearly meant every word, and Mrs. Hudson knew it, as she blushed under his praise. I seconded his sentiments. "We are both the luckiest of men. I hope you know how appreciated you are, now and always!"

"Get along, the two of you!" She responded. "It's no trouble at all. At least most days." She gave us a sly grin. "I'd best be seeing to that pie. It's close to ready I'd wager."

She left us to our meal, which we got down to with great satisfaction. When there was significant eating to do it was our custom to avoid talking about serious matters unless the need was pressing. Holmes talked idly of the weather and scenery he had seen along the way. Apparently, he had spent time in France, Germany, Italy, and Austria. "Poland is pretty this time of year, although you would not easily tell it from Germany by landscape alone," he said with a smile. "Perhaps I should visit it someday." He cocked an eyebrow at me, and we both burst into laughter. "Care to join me on a jaunt someday, Watson?"

"Why certainly Holmes. I think I could spare Poland at least a day, perhaps more. Certainly, more than five hours!"

"Ah it's good to be back, Watson." Holmes said, laughing again. "I can tell that you have a lot to tell me about the doings of things going on since I left. Don't be giving me that shocked and surprised look, old boy. You know my methods. It's easy enough."

"I suppose, it is," I said, after a moment of thought. "It's my pile of case notes out on the table over there."

"Well done, Watson. It is indeed. When I see your case notes all neatly tucked up on the shelf, I know you have a bit of something for your publisher. However, a stack out on the corner like that tells me you have been busy gathering data and have an interesting story to tell."

"I do indeed, Holmes, but it will keep until after we eat. This one is a bit of high drama and will require both of us at full attention. You for the listening and me for the telling."

It wasn't until Mrs. Hudson's excellent blackberry pie was done, and Holmes and I were sitting with glasses of brandy, that I gathered up my notes (and my narrative skills) to give Holmes the details of the three violent lunatics as I was now calling the two separate instances. I also included copies of the autopsy reports, and the meager results so far of the analysis of the men's stomach contents. Holmes said little while I went through my lengthy recitation. He asked a few questions about the specifics of Kevin Stalls' injuries, but that was it. I finished my narrative with, "the rest of it will have to come from Roger Bradstreet."

Home sat quietly smoking his pipe for a few minutes after I was done. For myself, I felt a sense of relief. I had taken great care to put together the most detailed report I could, with all my well-considered opinions, but without undue speculations. At last Holmes looked up from the medical report he was reading, and said, "Well done, Watson. A fine, well-considered summary. I only wish I had been here to see it all firsthand. Any additional details, especially from 'The Pheasant and Quail' are long gone, unfortunately." He paused and thought for a moment more, then said, "I am most interested in what Mr. Martin Bay has to say for himself."

"That was Bradstreet's number one priority, the last I heard. It's been a few days since I heard from him. I assured him I would give you all the fine details as soon as I could, then send you his way."

"Consider your duty to friend Bradstreet done, and well done," Holmes said warmly. "I will send a boy off with a message to Bradstreet first thing in the morning. Unfortunately, I can't focus on this right away, as I must see Mycroft first thing in the morning. I expect that our discussion will lead to several others, and multiple other meetings throughout the day. It may not be until late in the day, or even a few days from now than I can get to Bradstreet. I would like a word with Fred Hill too, I think. He's a good man, Hill is. Between the two of you, at least I know that solid, thorough medical work was done. A talk with Mercer is in order too." He sighed, then gave me a grin. "Now I know I'm back, as my life and work are already catching up with me!"

"Is there anything I can do, Holmes?" I asked.

"No, my friend, you have done enough for now - more than enough. You carried the torch for me, and the Yard too, while I was absent. I expect this wasn't the only case that came knocking on your door, compliments of the good inspectors." To my grin and shake of the head, he replied, "Well no matter. I will get all the other details later if the cases are still unsolved and important enough, but I'll get them from the inspectors themselves. If it's pressing enough, they will hunt me down. It's getting late, and I still need some sleep. But first, I am being pestered by that nagging pile of correspondence on my desk. My bills are waiting, and so is a backlog of client hopefuls no doubt. I'm going to take a first look at it all, with your indulgence, my friend. I'll need the rest of the evening I think."

With that, Holmes poured both of us a brandy refill, and he got to work. I busied myself with the evening papers, my drink, and a pipe. As I read, Holmes made himself four piles: bills, priority requests in need of a quick reply, others that could wait a while, and things to discard. Every now and then, he would murmur either a sound of satisfaction, a noise of disappointment, or most often, of frustration.

After almost ninety minutes he gathered up the wastepaper and tossed it into the fire. He was clearly frustrated with the results of his efforts. "I have spent the lion's share of my summer on Mycroft's affairs, and now summer ends in a few days. As has happened so often before I have let my own business suffer on behalf of Microsoft. Yes, his cases are important, I'll grant that, but he has resources aplenty to call on while I run a one-man operation, with help provided by a loyal doctor friend with business of his own to attend to. I am going to be weeks digging out of this hole - yet again. This is on top of cases I never got to earlier in the year, due to our poison pills cases. Truly my friend, my affairs are in a most deplorable condition!"

"I'm here to help as always, Holmes," I ventured.

"Oh, my friend, you are the best of men!" Holmes replied warmly. "But I can't keep forever relying on you. Even Mycroft has come to depend on you for too much. Whether it's as my companion and good right hand overseas on the Queen's business, as the one who helps me clear my case load faster, or even just holding down the fort here at Baker Street, he counts on you almost as much as I do. I really need to stay home for a while and clean up my own business. Mycroft is by no means the only one making urgent demands on my time."

Grimacing, he reached over to the 'priority pile,' shuffled through it, and pulled one out from close to the bottom. "Take this for example," he said, tossing me a letter on some obviously expensive paper. "It's from Thomas Eddings, the tea merchant making a big name for himself in Edinburgh. He's being blackmailed. Sounds serious."

"As I quickly read through the letter, Holmes turned back to the pile. "I have lords and ladies aplenty in this pile, entreaties by the handful. Others too, enough for my own private agony column. It's all too much!"

"It sounds like you have to set some different expectations with Mycroft," I said. "He takes advantage of his position as your brother."

"I have tried – and it's older brother, Watson. Always older!" said Holmes with some thinly veiled bitterness. "He never fails to remind me. I am forty-one years old not fourteen! It is a pathetic argument, but he never fails to reach for it. If he can't persuade me, he taps some cabinet minister or other or someone from the PM's office to appeal to my patriotic sensibilities regarding Queen and country. They all collectively forget that I don't work for him, the civil service, or the government. I am happy to help as my time allows but really, it's just been too much."

He paused for a moment to consider. "It's ironic, and quite unfortunate. As you know, at multiple points throughout the year, I have discussed our ongoing series of cases with Mycroft, hoping to gain some insight or wisdom the rest of us lack. Perhaps even some resources from his deep well of contacts and agents. He's listened well enough, but he always comes back with vague platitudes, or rather banal insights that the rest of us considered long ago. He's just never cared enough to even appear to care. Yet, when it comes to his affairs…"

Holmes grumbled a bit longer, then realizing that it was late, settled down, writing a few quick responses to the highest priorities. I bid him a good night and went to bed, knowing that he would be up at least another hour, even though he desperately needed sleep and recovery time.

I rose early the following morning, but early as I was, Holmes was at the breakfast table before me. Mrs. Hudson had laid on a good spread, knowing that Holmes needed the food and almost certainly would not eat again until dinner. The disarray of morning papers told me that Holmes had been hard at it for a while, trying to catch up with the doings around the city and the country.

"Good morning, Watson. The coffee is hot, and the eggs should still be as well. I sent a few telegrams and some post off already with the boy. I hope to get some telegrams back by this evening, perhaps before dinner time. I expect Lestrade, Gregson, Thomas, Radisson, and James will try to get some time from me as well. I'm off to Whitehall first thing. My message to Mycroft requested that he arrange for joint conferences rather than individual meetings with the ministerial mob that no doubt wants hours of my time. Mycroft is at least sensitive to time efficiency. Appealing for the best use of time might provide some advantage."

"It's a good start on gaining control of your time," I said. "I will be at Barts today as my locum assignment is done. If you need me, a message from Scotland Yard runner, or a telegram should reach me readily enough."

"Thank you, my friend. I expect that today will be all about reporting, both giving and receiving. It's not likely that I will need to interrupt your day, barring the highly unusual or extraordinary. Mrs. Hudson already knows to hold dinner until 8:00 PM. I hope that will not be too inconvenient."

I assured him it wouldn't be, and that Friday was often a late day anyway. I started in on eggs, bacon, sausage, toast, and strong coffee, leaving Holmes in peace to finish eating and devouring the morning papers. It was good to see that he was eating considerably more than usual. Mrs. Hudson was right that Holmes had lost weight and needed to replenish his reserves. Fortunately, I would not need to push him on the point – not this time anyway.

Holmes left soon thereafter, leaving me to eat, and reassemble the carnage he left behind as a pile of scattered papers. Some things never changed.

My day at Barts went as expected, with the usual Friday afternoon rush. That evening Holmes came home in a rush, making it in the door at 8:15 PM. "So sorry I am late, Watson. My day was something of a nightmare. The meetings with Mycroft, and with others went well enough, but they dragged on, and there were just so many of them! Unfortunately, I am not done yet. I sent a note to the Yard, and let Lestrade know that I was back, but that they would not be able to get much of my time for a few days at least, maybe not even until mid-week. This will set them off, no doubt, but it can't be helped. I have a few more meetings tomorrow regarding the same case I was working on, a report to write – and a very sensitive private case to work on from an 'esteemed personage' who was so intent on getting my time that he sent several telegrams to Mycroft in my absence! Let's just say that Mycroft wants me to make the man go away."

I gave a short laugh. "Well, that's one way to make it to the top of your priority pile!"

"Indeed, it is, Watson. In hindsight, I have wonder why using Mycroft to get to me faster isn't tried more often. It happens every now and then as you know, but not that frequently. One of the priority letters in my desk is from the man's private secretary. It would seem that some people can't take 'not available' as an answer. When I am done with brother Mycroft and his colleagues, this case will have to be my priority. I expect that some of our friends at the Yard will come to complain personally, likely directly to you of I am out of town again."

We ate well in companionable conversation, as two friends catching up on the banter which both of us clearly missed. Holmes regaled me with assorted anecdotes about his time in Paris, and in various cities across Germany, especially regarding the difficulties which comes from walking around major cities which are awash in expansion and new building projects. It was a welcome reminder that Holmes had a dry and rather wicked sense of humor when he chose to use it, especially regarding his observations of his surroundings, as well as the human condition. After a delectable tart with vanilla ice cream, Holmes busied himself at his desk well into the night writing a lengthy report for the following day's meetings.

I didn't see Holmes at all at breakfast the following morning, as he had left before I even arose. I spent the day writing up a few of Holmes' case notes, then writing some recommendations to be added to the medical notes of some of my Friday patients. I dropped the medical notes off at Barts before going on to my club for a late afternoon meeting with friends, which stretched on into the evening. When I got home after 9:00 PM, Mrs. Hudson informed me that Holmes had come and gone already after eating hurriedly. He packed a quick bag after dinner, in response to a telegram, and informed Mrs. Hudson he would not be back for a few days. Apparently, his mysterious esteemed client truly could no longer wait.

"Lord, Doctor, he just got home – and now he's gone again!" Mrs. Hudson wailed, her frustration clear in every note and gesture. "He'll work himself into an early grave he will. The man needs rest, a few days off at least. Well you know it sir, being a doctor and his friend. Can't he get a few days peace?"

"You know he won't take a rest, even at the best of times," I said. "Unfortunately, he's far behind with some rather important clients. His regular clients pile up, even when he's off doing work for his brother, and some of them simply can't – or won't wait. He's going to be scrambling to catch up for a while, and that's with no emergency interruptions from Scotland Yard, or his brother."

"There were two messages waiting for him from Scotland Yard – both delivered by Yard Runners," she said. "That's before the telegram that sent him packing and running out of here. He said he would stop off at a telegram office on his way out of town." She paused, obviously wanting to rant more, but realizing how fruitless it would be. "I hope that wherever he is going, they feed him well!"

Neither Mrs. Hudson nor I heard from Holmes for a couple of days. My shift at Barts went on as usual on Monday, and I made it back home to Baker Street for a fine mutton stew with potatoes from Mrs. Hudson. My perusal of the usual evening paper pile was interrupted by a visit from Lestrade and Bradstreet. A visit from two inspectors at the same time spoke volumes about the level of frustration and urgency at Scotland Yard. I patiently heard them out as they vented their frustration – both their own, and on behalf of the others waiting for a bit of Holmes' deductive talents. "It's not like we're asking for much, doctor," said Bradstreet plaintively. "Lord knows, we've been patient enough. We know we need his help – and the lot of us, we're long past the times like we were in the past when we held back our appreciation or resented his expertise. We damn well know better, and there's too much history by now."

"Do you have any idea about when he will be back?" Lestrade asked hopefully.

"I don't really know, but I believe it will only be a few days, at least I hope so. He was due to give a report back to Whitehall, and then immediately follow up with all of you. The case he is working on intervened – inserted by circumstances, and the influence of his brother, I'm afraid. I gave him an extensive report on our three violent lunatics, and a bit of information on a few of the other cases I know you have waiting for him. He's now more up to speed than you might think, considering how of touch he has been."

"it's a wonder he's got a private consulting practice left at all," grumbled Bradstreet.

I burst out laughing, earning myself glares of disapproval from both inspectors. "Sorry my friends. I really do appreciate your position, as does Holmes. In fact, he's more than a little aware – and he's aggravated by the current situation. He will not tell you personally, but he's not particularly fond of running off as Whitehall's last resort, especially at a moment's notice. He's got his own affairs, and yes, he's got hobbies and personal interests aplenty that he likes to pursue, as I am sure you have come to learn over the years."

"Music, chemical tinkering, linguistics, history, architecture…." said Lestrade thoughtfully.

"And Archeology: Norman, Celtic, and Roman ruins," added Bradstreet. "It's true that we often forget that underneath all that crime solving genius is a mind that roves across a very broad landscape."

"Just remember, when he's off chasing blackmailers, jewel thieves, counterfeiters and murderers, he's leaving everything else behind," I said, gently reminding them that Holmes had a life, a complex one, that ultimately belonged to him alone.

Lestrade sighed. "Let's agree that he's had a hard year, with the Metropolitan Force, Her Majesty's government, and the poor railway women left broken and bleeding on the tracks. When I step back and look at it, it's obvious he hasn't had a day to himself for months. That being said…"

"You desperately need a bit of his time, maybe more than a bit," I finished for him.

"Truth be told, it's not just our personal interests in play here," said Bradstreet, running his hand through his hair. "We're catching it from on high. The unsolved cases from earlier in the year, multiple important backlogged cases, and now these three loonies. The top brass is juggling constant requests for answers from the Press, the families of the three men, and then of course there's the added complication of their employers. All three men were respected men in their fields, working in visible positions for flagship institutions. There's a lot of questions flying about, and a lot of reputations that need salvaging. People want answers far beyond 'three friends went off the rails! See the details in The Times!' We at the Yard are rather looking like idiots right now."

The conversation went on for a while. I let the two men vent their frustrations, assuring them that I would bring their concerns to Holmes' attention as soon as he came home. Eventually they left, thankful for my time, and the friendship and support it implied. Ultimately, they knew I could do little but commiserate and listen. I gave them the best I had, and they knew it. Mrs. Hudson came upstairs to sympathize after she had shown them out. "You're catching it from all sides again, doctor," she said mournfully. "Holmes will appreciate it, I'm sure. He just needs to come home and stay a while."

"Tell that to his brother Mycroft!" I said.

Tuesday was cool and rainy, with a hint in the air of colder weather to come. My shift at Barts was almost identical to the day before, which was just as well, as I was more than a little distracted by the backlog of cases, dead ends, and nagging issues that were waiting for Holmes' attention. I was cheered by a long telegram from Holmes waiting for me when I arrived home. It announced that he would be back in London by Thursday evening, or sometime on Friday at the latest, and that he had assurances from his brother that he would not be sent out of town again soon – 'except if at the uttermost point of need.'

I informed Mrs. Hudson – who sniffed and only replied, "Well, we'll see about that!"

Thursday came and went without hearing from or seeing Holmes. It would have to be Friday then.

My Friday shift at Barts saw the usual swell of cases from people who hoped to be treated before the weekend, or who were vainly trying to avoid being admitted on Saturday or Sunday, as staffing was somewhat reduced on those two days. All was normal, until just before 5 PM. I received a notice that I had a visitor in the doctor's lounge. To my surprise, it was my friend and colleague, Dr. Charles Sears. "Grins!" I exclaimed happily. "What brings you to my humble hospital?"

He laughed at the idea of Barts ever being a humble institution of anything. "Writer Boy!" he responded. "I come bearing news – news and a mystery. It's a bit of a corker too! Our mutual patient, Annie Kendell, is back as a patient, and this time she's telling tales."

I expressed dismay that she was back to her state of mental imbalance, but Sears held up his hand to stop me. "No so fast old boy. It's not like that at all. Perhaps you should let your colleagues back on your ward know that you've been pulled in for a consultation on a previous Barts patient as you're going to want to be sitting down for this one."

I went off to find a runner to send a message back to my ward supervisor as to where I was, who I was consulting with, and where to find me. I then went back to Sears, who had taken the opportunity to grab two cups of tea and a corner table. I settled myself in, and said, "I'm all ears. What's the mystery?"

"Best to start at the beginning on this," he said. I was contacted on Sunday to treat Annie Kendell at the Horton's house by Mrs. Horton herself. This being a Sunday was highly unusual. Any standard malady could be handled by a more local physician such as their neighbor, Dr. Hancock. However, I was assured the circumstances warranted my involvement, so off I went. It appears Mrs. Kendell had gone out to dinner the night before and had gotten herself a rather nasty case of some type of food poisoning. Pain, distress, fever, vomiting, the whole barrel of symptoms. Saturday night into Sunday was bad in all the usual ways. But, it was what happened while Annie was fevered and distressed that was of particular interest. While in that state, a big piece of forgotten, missing information about her odd episode of mania all came back to her. It appears her altered state brought back her memory of the early stages of her event. What she had completely forgotten was that she took a 'special pill' before bed, a small, pink, round ball. It had been given to her by a friend, one Mrs. Alice Roundtree. It seems Mrs. Roundtree was suffering from insomnia herself, and had gone to a chemist, who had given her a few pills to try as a possible treatment. She had not tried them yet, but she gave Anine one of her pills 'just to try and see if it helps.' The rest is as you know it. She took that one pill, fell asleep quickly, and came awake about ninety minutes later. She had no memory whatsoever of taking the pill, at least until she got into her altered state of mind on Saturday evening, into Sunday. It seems that her condition was medically or at least chemically induced."

"How incredible!" I cried. "One little pill did all that to her? What was this medication and where did it come from? Who gave it to Mrs. Roundtree?"

"All good questions, Waston. However, that's not the biggest part of the mystery. It turns out that Alice Roundtree has been in an asylum in Manchester, where is where she's originally from. She's been there since earlier this year. She was, and still is, suffering from all the same symptoms of mania and catatonia that all those patients Dr. Kenneth Blakely consulted both of us on back in mid-May – including Mrs. Susan Crossford. It's worth noting that Mrs. Crossford was only recently released from Colney Hatch Hospital. She's back home with her husband. There's some significant improvement, but she's still not well. She can maintain herself for the most part, but she's still largely confined to her room. She's still almost catatonic or largely so for hours, although she's managing to stay lucid for later longer stretches of time. Her poor husband is doing the best he can, with some help. Ultimately, he just could not afford to keep her at Colney Hatch any longer. Keeping her at home with some private assistance is manageable for him."

As my friend continued his narration, I listened with a growing sense of fascination, dread, horror – and cold suspicion. Was this another case of rogue pills out in the public causing vast, unregulated damage? The very idea was revolting beyond words. "So, what does Blakely think of this? Have you told him?"

"Yes, I have, and he finds it most unsettling and suspicious, no great surprise there. It leaves us with an interesting data point, but no answers. If you remember back in May, a number of other similar cases, male and female, were showing up in asylums around the London area. Mrs. Roundtree might well have been one of them, except that family connections took her out of London to elsewhere – and outside the range of our investigation. Oddly enough, one of the reasons we never made much progress on the group of patients was that we were never able to get much information, if any, from any of them. Also, the occurrence of such cases ended after May, almost as quickly as it had begun. There's no explanation for how it all started or ended. Nothing connecting any of these cases together to each other, or to a cause"

My mind was racing. The circumstances of all these patients were oddly similar to our "poison pill" cases, and yet, very different. All of our "Railway Girls" had died violently. None of these patients in the various asylums had. All were alive, even if they were living in marginal, greatly reduced circumstances. Clearly, if there was a pill or medication involved in all these cases, it wasn't the same one. Yet, I could not help but be alarmed: two groups of people, each suffering from unexplained, radical changes in behavior and well-being. Each person in the two separate groups exhibited very similar, almost identical symptoms as all others within the group. A profoundly disturbing line of reasoning to contemplate, even in theory. All we had were lots of questions, no answers, and many nagging fears!

"Where is Mrs. Roundtree now?" I asked.

She was at Prestwich Hospital but she improved enough gradually over time to moved to a small private nursing facility in Manchester. I believe she was transferred about two weeks ago, although I can't tell you how she is right now."

I reminded Sears about the details of our original cases and explained my misgivings about the odd similarities between each set of victims – or patients – despite the start difference in patient outcomes. He agreed with my concerns and told me he would share them with Dr. Blakely (who also knew about our ongoing investigation.) He assured me he would ask Blakely to redouble his studies of all the patients, with a focus on any medication taken before their symptoms began. After further discussion, we agreed that the personal circumstances and affairs of Mrs. Roundtree needed to be examined in great detail. While he did not know the woman's family, Dr. Blakely had met with them previously, and so he had some history and trust. If Mrs. Roundtree was incapacitated and unable to speak for herself, perhaps her husband, or another close family member, could provide the missing, much needed information.

"The name of the chemist, any physician involved, and a few of the pills in question, would be most welcome," I said. "Needless to say, I will also bring this entire case up with my friend Sherlock Holmes when I next saw him, which hopefully would be this evening. The circumstances here will be compelling at least, and possibly worth his immediate attention. I only wish this vital clue, this link in the chain, had been know back in mid-May, as we could have pursued the lead while it was fresh."

By this time, it was after 6:30 PM. We discussed all the cases, searching for additional understanding, looking for any and all possible linkages. With our collective knowledge shared and dissected, we decided nothing more could be learned for today at least. After agreeing to share all new information and possible clues in the future, we parted ways for the evening.

Frustrated, angry, and feeling the restless, almost obsessive drive that frequently drove Holmes to extraordinary lengths, I took a cab back to Baker Street fervently hoping to find Holmes there at last. Yes, he was busy, even desperately behind, but like the issues which caused esteemed, aristocratic clients to push their way to the front of the queue, some problems can't be allowed to wait. This was going to need some attention – and soon.

When I walked in, I was gratified to see a familiar hat and coat on the rack in our foyer. Holmes was back at last, hopefully to stay. There was news to tell and work to be done! I dropped off my own hat and coat with a sigh of relief and climbed the familiar seventeen steps. It was going to be an interesting evening.

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