The Singular Affair of the Announced Crime 2
And here's the second part! Please leave comments if you have read it, however short - but constructive criticism is, as always, welcome. I like it if you quote your favourite line, too! ;-)
Title: The Singular Affair of the Announced Crime
Author: Jaelijn
Rating: PG-17
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, Dr Watson, Inspector Lestrade, Mrs Hudson, Mycroft Holmes, OCs
Summary: Singular Warnings arrive at Baker Street in the most inopportune moment. A horrendous crime is to be committed...
Warnings: mention of drug use, torture, violence (nothing too graphic)
Author's Note: All canon characters were created by ACD, all original characters belong to me and may not be used without my permission.
---------------------
The Singular Affair of the Announced Crime
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
I went to bed somewhat troubled, but the next morning seemed so wonderful that soon I forgot my worries. The fog was all but gone, and the chill had been driven from the house by the warm light of the spring sun.
Mrs Hudson had already served breakfast, for she knew I was regular in my habits as long as I wasn't off with Holmes. The table was laid for two, but Holmes's plate seemed untouched. “Is he off already?”
Mrs Hudson shook her head. “No, doctor. He hasn't emerged yet.”
That was quite extraordinary, yet I breakfasted heartily, expecting the bedroom door to open any minute. I had finished, however, before Holmes had stirred, and decided to knock, for I remembered well that he had locked his door. “Holmes?”
There was no answer.
“I'm going for a walk, it's a wonderful day. Would you care to join me?”
There still was no sound from within, and I assumed he was asleep, thus I gathered my things and went on a solitary walk, which lasted for quite some time. Near Regents Park I met Inspector Lestrade from Scotland Yard who invited me to luncheon and confirmed that the city was calm at the moment, and that neither he nor his colleagues had consulted Holmes on any cases, and he hadn't heard of an investigation on Holmes's part either.
On my way back to Baker Street, which took me along Pall Mall, I met, to my surprise, Sherlock Holmes's brother, Mr Mycroft Holmes, who greeted me with all due warmth. He, too, had not seen his brother of late, and certainly not the day before, and was quite baffled when I told him that Sherlock had been sleeping late. “He is not ill, is he, doctor?” With some amusement, Mycroft confessed that Sherlock had always been the earlier bird of the two, especially when he was after a worm. However, he did not seem really concerned. “It is nothing, doctor. My brother has always had his mood swings. I'm sure you'll find him well out of bed when you return.”
Still, I somewhat dreaded my return to Baker Street. Sherlock Holmes's mood swings took the most violent nature when the fit was upon him, and he was easily irritated. Sometimes, I rather stayed out of his way. Mrs Hudson was remarkably long-suffering on that aspect.
Nevertheless, everything was quiet upon my return. Mrs Hudson greeted me warmly, and asked about the time for dinner, but I had to inform her that we would ring, for I did not yet know in what temper I would find Holmes.
There was no answer to my knocking at the sitting room door, so I entered cautiously. I found Holmes in his armchair by the fire - which struck me as curious, for it had been a warm and friendly day, and Holmes was not one for chills. He had drawn up his knees to his chest and was smoking his pipe, and evidently not the first one.
I opened the window to release the smoke he'd created, and sat, upon which he finally spared me a glance, and laid down his pipe. “Have you had a pleasant walk, Watson?”
“Certainly. I wish you would have accompanied me. I met your brother, and Lestrade.”
Holmes raised his eyebrows. “Anything of interest?”
“Nothing. I enquired, however, as to your whereabouts yesterday.”
Good heavens, what a shock he gave me! He was on his feet quicker that my eyes could follow, and shot one furious glare in my direction that would certainly have killed me if the idiom had been accurate.
“It's none of your business, Watson!”
“I was merely worried.”
His features softened a little at my admission.
“Don't be so secretive about it. Just tell me.”
“My dear Watson. We may have been fellow lodgers for quite some time, colleagues, for sure, and friends, even. But you really must not intrude yourself into my private affairs. If I thought you needed to know, I would have informed you. But since you have been unable to deduce it for yourself, I see no reason why I should tell you. It is clearly none of your business.”
“I'll be the judge of that.”
“It's not important, Watson.”
“But you would tell me if it was?”
He smiled. “I would. Now, if you please excuse me...” He started for his bedroom, but I intercepted him.
“Surely you will dine with me?”
“I have quite lost my appetite, Watson. If you please step out of my way now.”
A terrible suspicion rose in myself. No cases usually meant no stimulant for the extraordinary brain with which Holmes was endowed, thus producing the need for his 'artificial stimulant'. I wondered whether he was again prey to the hypodermic syringe that was a constant dread to his supreme powers. “Is it cocaine?”
“No. Look for yourself if you must, doctor.”
The 'doctor' stung. He had ceased to use it sometime ago safe when in jest, but now he deliberately deepened the gap that was always between us, but had closed in the course of years. Still, I took him by his word.
He followed me into his bedroom, stretching out on his bed, and watching my with a twinkle in his eyes that calmed my anger somewhat. To my surprise, I was unable to uncover either syringe or the bottle in which he kept his seven percent solution. When I finally found the Moroccan case, it was buried below a pile of papers which had not been disturbed for ages.
“Have you satisfied your curiosity? Excellent. Please do close the door on your way out.”
Stupefied, I took the syringe with me, and sat all evening pondering over the hypodermic in its satin bed, wondering what I was missing. I do not claim to really understand Sherlock Holmes, but after we had been acquainted for so long, I prided myself to know his every mood and habit, and his current behaviour remained a mystery to me. However, my medical instinct were aroused. Something was wrong.
The next morning, Holmes seemed as normal as he'd ever been. He was not in the best of moods, having found nothing of interest in mail or the morning papers, but he acknowledged my presence and replied to questions in an occasional manner, seeming much relaxed. Had I not kept the syringe, I would have put a wage on the fact that he had used the cocaine, so sharp seemed this turn of moods. But after all, Sherlock Holmes's moods were best described as mercurial.
“What are you planning for to-day?” I asked, keeping my tone as little suspicious as possible.
“Research, Watson.” He nodded towards his chemical table, where a half-finished experiment waited for his attention. He had dropped everything for the last case. “Don't you want to go for a walk?”
“Not to-day.” Truth be told, I was determined to keep an eye on him, which he no doubt knew, yet he nodded rather meekly.
As I picked up the papers he had scattered all over the floor and settled down to read, Holmes remained true to his word and retreated into the corner where his chemicals waited. Soon enough, the bunsen-burner was lit, and Holmes was producing strangely coloured fumes. They were, however, not altogether malodorous, and I was content to tolerate some smoke, as long as the window was left ajar.
As I opened it, there was a violent draft, and numerous papers where blown about, covering our floor. Holmes just frowned and said in his calmest voice, the one he reserved for incomprehensive clients and officials: “Close the window, Watson.”
The damage was done, and I busied myself tidying up the mess I had created, coughing as the atmosphere grew dense with smoke. Among the papers, which I attempted to stash and place on the side-table, I discovered a blueish envelop without address whatsoever, which I therefore opened. Inside were to tickets for a concert, paid tickets, as a fact, and therefore none which had been a present of an overly thankful client. Holmes despised such presents, as he insisted upon a firm scale of payment, safe when he omitted it altogether. He liked to choose his own free time activities, and although he was not adverse to praise, he despised people who believed money could settle everything.
I studied the tickets intently. They were for a violin concerto, an interpretation of one of Holmes's favourite compositors, but the date was the day before, when, as far as I knew, Holmes had never budged from our rooms. “Holmes?”
He looked up at my face, and down at the tickets in my hand, setting down the pipette he had been working with.
“What are these?”
“Tickets for a concert, as you no doubt have read by now.”
“Certainly. But the concert was yesterday. You obviously bought the tickets, and expensive ones at that, therefore you had in mind to attend it with a companion, presumably myself. However, you have not set foot outside these rooms yesterday, and did not even mention it.”
He smiled, which irritated me slightly - usually, he would listen to my meagre attempts at his art with indifference and calm patience, and never betray any emotion beforehand. I would have asked why he had changed his habits, but I was too caught up in the process of interference and deduction to stop now.
“Thus, you either forgot, which, I think, is not very likely. The tickets were among the day before yesterday's papers, so even if you had, you would have noticed them. Else you never intended to go, for whatever reason, or you changed your mind only on short notice. To my knowledge, nothing has occurred here yesterday, has it?”
He gave a brief shake of his head and blew out his bunsen-burner, the experiment apparently over. “You are quite correct.”
“How so?”
Holmes took the tickets from my hands, musing over them with something akin remorse in his expression. “I had intended to attend the concert, in your company, if you had joined me, as you deduced; and I had not forgotten.”
“So you changed your mind? May I ask why? It's certainly not a worm.”
“A worm, Watson?” Amusement lit up in his eyes.
“Case! No case, or you would have told me of it by now.”
“Precisely. There is no case.” He rose, placing the tickets on a side table. “No, Watson, I doubt I would take a case at present, even if one presented itself. Unless, of course, it offered certain outré features - grotesque. We have spoke about that word?”
Looking back, I had noticed that his light tone changed into a pressed whisper, but back then it took me entirely off guard when suddenly- “Good heavens, Holmes! Mrs Hudson!”
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Chapter 3
Title: The Singular Affair of the Announced Crime
Author: Jaelijn
Rating: PG-17
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, Dr Watson, Inspector Lestrade, Mrs Hudson, Mycroft Holmes, OCs
Summary: Singular Warnings arrive at Baker Street in the most inopportune moment. A horrendous crime is to be committed...
Warnings: mention of drug use, torture, violence (nothing too graphic)
Author's Note: All canon characters were created by ACD, all original characters belong to me and may not be used without my permission.
---------------------
The Singular Affair of the Announced Crime
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
I went to bed somewhat troubled, but the next morning seemed so wonderful that soon I forgot my worries. The fog was all but gone, and the chill had been driven from the house by the warm light of the spring sun.
Mrs Hudson had already served breakfast, for she knew I was regular in my habits as long as I wasn't off with Holmes. The table was laid for two, but Holmes's plate seemed untouched. “Is he off already?”
Mrs Hudson shook her head. “No, doctor. He hasn't emerged yet.”
That was quite extraordinary, yet I breakfasted heartily, expecting the bedroom door to open any minute. I had finished, however, before Holmes had stirred, and decided to knock, for I remembered well that he had locked his door. “Holmes?”
There was no answer.
“I'm going for a walk, it's a wonderful day. Would you care to join me?”
There still was no sound from within, and I assumed he was asleep, thus I gathered my things and went on a solitary walk, which lasted for quite some time. Near Regents Park I met Inspector Lestrade from Scotland Yard who invited me to luncheon and confirmed that the city was calm at the moment, and that neither he nor his colleagues had consulted Holmes on any cases, and he hadn't heard of an investigation on Holmes's part either.
On my way back to Baker Street, which took me along Pall Mall, I met, to my surprise, Sherlock Holmes's brother, Mr Mycroft Holmes, who greeted me with all due warmth. He, too, had not seen his brother of late, and certainly not the day before, and was quite baffled when I told him that Sherlock had been sleeping late. “He is not ill, is he, doctor?” With some amusement, Mycroft confessed that Sherlock had always been the earlier bird of the two, especially when he was after a worm. However, he did not seem really concerned. “It is nothing, doctor. My brother has always had his mood swings. I'm sure you'll find him well out of bed when you return.”
Still, I somewhat dreaded my return to Baker Street. Sherlock Holmes's mood swings took the most violent nature when the fit was upon him, and he was easily irritated. Sometimes, I rather stayed out of his way. Mrs Hudson was remarkably long-suffering on that aspect.
Nevertheless, everything was quiet upon my return. Mrs Hudson greeted me warmly, and asked about the time for dinner, but I had to inform her that we would ring, for I did not yet know in what temper I would find Holmes.
There was no answer to my knocking at the sitting room door, so I entered cautiously. I found Holmes in his armchair by the fire - which struck me as curious, for it had been a warm and friendly day, and Holmes was not one for chills. He had drawn up his knees to his chest and was smoking his pipe, and evidently not the first one.
I opened the window to release the smoke he'd created, and sat, upon which he finally spared me a glance, and laid down his pipe. “Have you had a pleasant walk, Watson?”
“Certainly. I wish you would have accompanied me. I met your brother, and Lestrade.”
Holmes raised his eyebrows. “Anything of interest?”
“Nothing. I enquired, however, as to your whereabouts yesterday.”
Good heavens, what a shock he gave me! He was on his feet quicker that my eyes could follow, and shot one furious glare in my direction that would certainly have killed me if the idiom had been accurate.
“It's none of your business, Watson!”
“I was merely worried.”
His features softened a little at my admission.
“Don't be so secretive about it. Just tell me.”
“My dear Watson. We may have been fellow lodgers for quite some time, colleagues, for sure, and friends, even. But you really must not intrude yourself into my private affairs. If I thought you needed to know, I would have informed you. But since you have been unable to deduce it for yourself, I see no reason why I should tell you. It is clearly none of your business.”
“I'll be the judge of that.”
“It's not important, Watson.”
“But you would tell me if it was?”
He smiled. “I would. Now, if you please excuse me...” He started for his bedroom, but I intercepted him.
“Surely you will dine with me?”
“I have quite lost my appetite, Watson. If you please step out of my way now.”
A terrible suspicion rose in myself. No cases usually meant no stimulant for the extraordinary brain with which Holmes was endowed, thus producing the need for his 'artificial stimulant'. I wondered whether he was again prey to the hypodermic syringe that was a constant dread to his supreme powers. “Is it cocaine?”
“No. Look for yourself if you must, doctor.”
The 'doctor' stung. He had ceased to use it sometime ago safe when in jest, but now he deliberately deepened the gap that was always between us, but had closed in the course of years. Still, I took him by his word.
He followed me into his bedroom, stretching out on his bed, and watching my with a twinkle in his eyes that calmed my anger somewhat. To my surprise, I was unable to uncover either syringe or the bottle in which he kept his seven percent solution. When I finally found the Moroccan case, it was buried below a pile of papers which had not been disturbed for ages.
“Have you satisfied your curiosity? Excellent. Please do close the door on your way out.”
Stupefied, I took the syringe with me, and sat all evening pondering over the hypodermic in its satin bed, wondering what I was missing. I do not claim to really understand Sherlock Holmes, but after we had been acquainted for so long, I prided myself to know his every mood and habit, and his current behaviour remained a mystery to me. However, my medical instinct were aroused. Something was wrong.
The next morning, Holmes seemed as normal as he'd ever been. He was not in the best of moods, having found nothing of interest in mail or the morning papers, but he acknowledged my presence and replied to questions in an occasional manner, seeming much relaxed. Had I not kept the syringe, I would have put a wage on the fact that he had used the cocaine, so sharp seemed this turn of moods. But after all, Sherlock Holmes's moods were best described as mercurial.
“What are you planning for to-day?” I asked, keeping my tone as little suspicious as possible.
“Research, Watson.” He nodded towards his chemical table, where a half-finished experiment waited for his attention. He had dropped everything for the last case. “Don't you want to go for a walk?”
“Not to-day.” Truth be told, I was determined to keep an eye on him, which he no doubt knew, yet he nodded rather meekly.
As I picked up the papers he had scattered all over the floor and settled down to read, Holmes remained true to his word and retreated into the corner where his chemicals waited. Soon enough, the bunsen-burner was lit, and Holmes was producing strangely coloured fumes. They were, however, not altogether malodorous, and I was content to tolerate some smoke, as long as the window was left ajar.
As I opened it, there was a violent draft, and numerous papers where blown about, covering our floor. Holmes just frowned and said in his calmest voice, the one he reserved for incomprehensive clients and officials: “Close the window, Watson.”
The damage was done, and I busied myself tidying up the mess I had created, coughing as the atmosphere grew dense with smoke. Among the papers, which I attempted to stash and place on the side-table, I discovered a blueish envelop without address whatsoever, which I therefore opened. Inside were to tickets for a concert, paid tickets, as a fact, and therefore none which had been a present of an overly thankful client. Holmes despised such presents, as he insisted upon a firm scale of payment, safe when he omitted it altogether. He liked to choose his own free time activities, and although he was not adverse to praise, he despised people who believed money could settle everything.
I studied the tickets intently. They were for a violin concerto, an interpretation of one of Holmes's favourite compositors, but the date was the day before, when, as far as I knew, Holmes had never budged from our rooms. “Holmes?”
He looked up at my face, and down at the tickets in my hand, setting down the pipette he had been working with.
“What are these?”
“Tickets for a concert, as you no doubt have read by now.”
“Certainly. But the concert was yesterday. You obviously bought the tickets, and expensive ones at that, therefore you had in mind to attend it with a companion, presumably myself. However, you have not set foot outside these rooms yesterday, and did not even mention it.”
He smiled, which irritated me slightly - usually, he would listen to my meagre attempts at his art with indifference and calm patience, and never betray any emotion beforehand. I would have asked why he had changed his habits, but I was too caught up in the process of interference and deduction to stop now.
“Thus, you either forgot, which, I think, is not very likely. The tickets were among the day before yesterday's papers, so even if you had, you would have noticed them. Else you never intended to go, for whatever reason, or you changed your mind only on short notice. To my knowledge, nothing has occurred here yesterday, has it?”
He gave a brief shake of his head and blew out his bunsen-burner, the experiment apparently over. “You are quite correct.”
“How so?”
Holmes took the tickets from my hands, musing over them with something akin remorse in his expression. “I had intended to attend the concert, in your company, if you had joined me, as you deduced; and I had not forgotten.”
“So you changed your mind? May I ask why? It's certainly not a worm.”
“A worm, Watson?” Amusement lit up in his eyes.
“Case! No case, or you would have told me of it by now.”
“Precisely. There is no case.” He rose, placing the tickets on a side table. “No, Watson, I doubt I would take a case at present, even if one presented itself. Unless, of course, it offered certain outré features - grotesque. We have spoke about that word?”
Looking back, I had noticed that his light tone changed into a pressed whisper, but back then it took me entirely off guard when suddenly- “Good heavens, Holmes! Mrs Hudson!”
-----------
Chapter 3