A Case of Revenge
What's this? Fanfiction? And you thought I was dead!
Title: A Case of Revenge
Summary: An ex-patient's mother wants Watson to pay the price. Will 221b's famous detective be able to figure this one out?
It has been my experience that when Holmes decides something is worth his attention, the detective will not let the issue go. Usually, as this aspect of Holmes' attitude is directed at his clients, this focus is a good thing. Unfortunately, as I am about recount, I had once given my friend reason to look upon me in such a fashion.
It was a long day at my surgery, many children coming and going with the common cold and several women heavily pregnant with back pain. After several hours of seeing to my patients, and skipping lunch to hurry two streets over to assist when three carriages collided, I hobbled back to Baker Street. I had met the postman along the way, who had a package for me, and arrived at 221b moments later and ascended to our shared living room.
"Who is your package from, Watson?" asked Holmes, glancing at me from his perch on his arm chair.
"How did you know it's not for you, Holmes?"
"You're far too happy." inferred the detective. I ignored Holmes in favor of setting down my hat, coat, and Gladstone bag and using one of my scalpels to open the box. I didn't know what to expect, but its contents certainly weren’t what I thought it could have been.
Holmes must have perceived my state of uneasiness, for I heard a swirl of fabric then saw his shadow darken the box. Within the box was an arm. A human arm. Holmes attempted to shake me from my stupor.
"Watson?"
"Between ten and thirteen years of age." the words were tumbling out of my mouth and my hands were shaking as they did during my first battle in Afghanistan. The only thought in my head was who would kill a child off the street and send their arm to me? "No," I murmured.
"No what, Watson?" Holmes' voice was far off, difficult to hear over the raging of blood in me ears.
"Well fed," was my response. "detached before death." my leg began to tremble, and, had I possessed the ability to think, I would have feared collapsing. Holmes, with his witch-like senses, took me by my elbow and led me to the chair he had vacated only moments before, then returned to the box to search the interior.
Seconds ticked by before the detective made a triumphant noise and extracted a piece of paper. Holmes spared a glance at me before reading the note at a glance, and doing something I'd never seen him do-he stopped and was forced to read it again. To say I was frightened would have been an understatement, Holmes began to pace up and down the living room, which only compounded my fear. "Holmes?" The tall man rounded back to me, but seem to hesitate as he handed the small slip of paper to me.
/Doctor-(it ran)
This is the arm of Bobby Lenard, do you remember him? He was the very first child you treated for pneumonia this year, and he lived. He's not so alive anymore. Twelve years ago, you killed my son, who you probably don't remember-the only thing that matters to you is money-. Until you can recall my son's name, and make restitutions to myself, I shall kill all of your child patients in the order they've come to you this year.
Theie blood is on your hands/
My blood ran cold, how could someone do something so grotesque to a child to extract revenge from me? "Watson?" Holmes was again looking over my shoulder in worry. "You..you don't recall the case this woman is speaking of, perchance?"
"In 1873 I had over twenty patients who could be considered children in any form." with effort, I forced myself from the chair to the mantle, wishing Holmes hadn't used all the bourbon in an experiment the week previously. "That year, there had been a particularly horrible strain of the flu that struck down many of my patients." something the tall man had said earlier caught my attention. "Woman?"
"Yes," said he, "the J pen was held by a delicate hand- left judging by the slant, well educated." I nodded at Holmes, not at all surprised. I've lived with the man far too long to be shocked by a simple analysis of the paper. "My dear man," said he, "is there any way you could procure a list of those patients?" I, to his surprise, I nodded and pushed myself away from the fire place to climb the stairs, limping more than I'd have liked in front of my friend.
Once in my room, I searched though the chest at the foot of my bed for my Black Book, where I kept the names of the children I could and couldn't save. I know it is madness, that if I let myself dwell on the dead, I would lose my mind. Over a hundred children passed whilst in my care, and this was my way of remembering them if no one else would. When I returned to the sitting room, Holmes' eyes were deciphering the meaning of the book. It was only a moment before he seemed to sadden.
"My dear Watson," said he, standing from the sofa, "tell me that's not a book of the dead." I sighed, and navigated my way to the chair Holmes had abandoned.
"I wish I could, Holmes." my friend shot me a look which i decided to ignore. The book creaked as I opened it, for I did not open it often, and began to search for the names of the children that had been claimed in some way or another. There had been twelve children, from birth to age eighteen, that died. Holmes took the journal from my hands to look over my notes. I'd kept only basic information: age, gender, name, cause of death, and the names of their parents, but I saw the look Holmes had graced me with before reappear. "What is it Holmes?"
"This," Holmes closed the book, then gestured at me with it, "I find it..."
"Pitiful?"
"No!" he ejaculated advancing toward me, "My dear friend, this is worrying, to say the least." it is truly a rarity that Holmes expresses concern for anyone, and I felt less hostile towards the man.
"I haven't taken leave of my senses yet, Holmes, and I don't think it will happen now." A nod was the only answer.
"Some of these children do not have mothers," Holmes informed me, quickly stepping back into the persona of lofty detective.
"Some of those children didn't have parents," Holmes sent me another look, this one questioning. "I looked down the list only a few moments ago, Holmes." he nodded, seemingly more at ease that I hadn't memorized my memorial of the dead.
"There are eight children that it could be," Holmes informed me, but I could feel a question building on my gut. "What is it?"
"What if the woman's child was a full grown man?" there was no way I could get a list of those names-no matter how badly we needed them.
"The arm is that of a child, most likely that was the age of her child. Do you have the names of the child patients that you've had this year?" again I rose and maneuvered my way to my desk to pluck my file from its resting place.
"I'll start telegraphing parents to keep them in sight, shall I?" said I, more to get away from the arm of the poor boy I had basically sentenced to death.
"Yes, yes," with a dramatic wave of dismissal, Holmes turned his back to me and dropped himself onto the floor in front of the couch with my Black Book. “Send one of the Irregulars to fetch Lestrade, if you would.” were his parting words as I left 221b.
Title: A Case of Revenge
Summary: An ex-patient's mother wants Watson to pay the price. Will 221b's famous detective be able to figure this one out?
It has been my experience that when Holmes decides something is worth his attention, the detective will not let the issue go. Usually, as this aspect of Holmes' attitude is directed at his clients, this focus is a good thing. Unfortunately, as I am about recount, I had once given my friend reason to look upon me in such a fashion.
It was a long day at my surgery, many children coming and going with the common cold and several women heavily pregnant with back pain. After several hours of seeing to my patients, and skipping lunch to hurry two streets over to assist when three carriages collided, I hobbled back to Baker Street. I had met the postman along the way, who had a package for me, and arrived at 221b moments later and ascended to our shared living room.
"Who is your package from, Watson?" asked Holmes, glancing at me from his perch on his arm chair.
"How did you know it's not for you, Holmes?"
"You're far too happy." inferred the detective. I ignored Holmes in favor of setting down my hat, coat, and Gladstone bag and using one of my scalpels to open the box. I didn't know what to expect, but its contents certainly weren’t what I thought it could have been.
Holmes must have perceived my state of uneasiness, for I heard a swirl of fabric then saw his shadow darken the box. Within the box was an arm. A human arm. Holmes attempted to shake me from my stupor.
"Watson?"
"Between ten and thirteen years of age." the words were tumbling out of my mouth and my hands were shaking as they did during my first battle in Afghanistan. The only thought in my head was who would kill a child off the street and send their arm to me? "No," I murmured.
"No what, Watson?" Holmes' voice was far off, difficult to hear over the raging of blood in me ears.
"Well fed," was my response. "detached before death." my leg began to tremble, and, had I possessed the ability to think, I would have feared collapsing. Holmes, with his witch-like senses, took me by my elbow and led me to the chair he had vacated only moments before, then returned to the box to search the interior.
Seconds ticked by before the detective made a triumphant noise and extracted a piece of paper. Holmes spared a glance at me before reading the note at a glance, and doing something I'd never seen him do-he stopped and was forced to read it again. To say I was frightened would have been an understatement, Holmes began to pace up and down the living room, which only compounded my fear. "Holmes?" The tall man rounded back to me, but seem to hesitate as he handed the small slip of paper to me.
/Doctor-(it ran)
This is the arm of Bobby Lenard, do you remember him? He was the very first child you treated for pneumonia this year, and he lived. He's not so alive anymore. Twelve years ago, you killed my son, who you probably don't remember-the only thing that matters to you is money-. Until you can recall my son's name, and make restitutions to myself, I shall kill all of your child patients in the order they've come to you this year.
Theie blood is on your hands/
My blood ran cold, how could someone do something so grotesque to a child to extract revenge from me? "Watson?" Holmes was again looking over my shoulder in worry. "You..you don't recall the case this woman is speaking of, perchance?"
"In 1873 I had over twenty patients who could be considered children in any form." with effort, I forced myself from the chair to the mantle, wishing Holmes hadn't used all the bourbon in an experiment the week previously. "That year, there had been a particularly horrible strain of the flu that struck down many of my patients." something the tall man had said earlier caught my attention. "Woman?"
"Yes," said he, "the J pen was held by a delicate hand- left judging by the slant, well educated." I nodded at Holmes, not at all surprised. I've lived with the man far too long to be shocked by a simple analysis of the paper. "My dear man," said he, "is there any way you could procure a list of those patients?" I, to his surprise, I nodded and pushed myself away from the fire place to climb the stairs, limping more than I'd have liked in front of my friend.
Once in my room, I searched though the chest at the foot of my bed for my Black Book, where I kept the names of the children I could and couldn't save. I know it is madness, that if I let myself dwell on the dead, I would lose my mind. Over a hundred children passed whilst in my care, and this was my way of remembering them if no one else would. When I returned to the sitting room, Holmes' eyes were deciphering the meaning of the book. It was only a moment before he seemed to sadden.
"My dear Watson," said he, standing from the sofa, "tell me that's not a book of the dead." I sighed, and navigated my way to the chair Holmes had abandoned.
"I wish I could, Holmes." my friend shot me a look which i decided to ignore. The book creaked as I opened it, for I did not open it often, and began to search for the names of the children that had been claimed in some way or another. There had been twelve children, from birth to age eighteen, that died. Holmes took the journal from my hands to look over my notes. I'd kept only basic information: age, gender, name, cause of death, and the names of their parents, but I saw the look Holmes had graced me with before reappear. "What is it Holmes?"
"This," Holmes closed the book, then gestured at me with it, "I find it..."
"Pitiful?"
"No!" he ejaculated advancing toward me, "My dear friend, this is worrying, to say the least." it is truly a rarity that Holmes expresses concern for anyone, and I felt less hostile towards the man.
"I haven't taken leave of my senses yet, Holmes, and I don't think it will happen now." A nod was the only answer.
"Some of these children do not have mothers," Holmes informed me, quickly stepping back into the persona of lofty detective.
"Some of those children didn't have parents," Holmes sent me another look, this one questioning. "I looked down the list only a few moments ago, Holmes." he nodded, seemingly more at ease that I hadn't memorized my memorial of the dead.
"There are eight children that it could be," Holmes informed me, but I could feel a question building on my gut. "What is it?"
"What if the woman's child was a full grown man?" there was no way I could get a list of those names-no matter how badly we needed them.
"The arm is that of a child, most likely that was the age of her child. Do you have the names of the child patients that you've had this year?" again I rose and maneuvered my way to my desk to pluck my file from its resting place.
"I'll start telegraphing parents to keep them in sight, shall I?" said I, more to get away from the arm of the poor boy I had basically sentenced to death.
"Yes, yes," with a dramatic wave of dismissal, Holmes turned his back to me and dropped himself onto the floor in front of the couch with my Black Book. “Send one of the Irregulars to fetch Lestrade, if you would.” were his parting words as I left 221b.