BBC Sherlock: Death Wish

Chapter 1: The Offer

November 2017

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"I write to yew, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, to tell 'bout murder. Mr. Cain of Mearcstapa, wuz grotesk, an abominashun. Guess for many, them mayn't be reason for murder, but I plotted vengeance and kill him just the same."

Dr. John Watson stopped reading aloud and looked up.

"What the h—?"

His gaze darted first to the addressee seated in the leather armchair, then sheepishly to his daughter who played contentedly at his feet. Mindful of his salty language, John regarded Rosie with paternal concern. His twenty-month-old was expanding her vocabulary at an impressive rate. Although, at the moment, the toddler seemed preoccupied with the Number Zoo Wooden Puzzle Sherlock had at hand for such occasional Watson family visits to 221B, John knew those little ears were catching everything.

"Observe what you are holding in your hand, John!" Sherlock eagerly interjected. "Notice the language lacks formal training. The misspellings reflect a regional dialect. See how the script appears stylish yet less than well-formed like someone with a weak or arthritic hand; the message is written on stationery with a floral design from the late 1950s, maybe early 1960s, it's yellowed with age, and musty smelling. The envelope is worn and folded many times apparently to fit in a wallet or purse." Perched on the edge of his seat, the detective was showing considerable restraint—was it patience?—seemingly unfazed by the nappy-changing delay Rosie had caused when the Watsons had first arrived. "Although it is misspelled, 'grotesque' suggests something tragic and terrible. Continue reading."

"Right," John agreed although somewhat distracted by his observations of his daughter. Where he stood beside the table that served as Sherlock's desk, John repeatedly checked the carpet for dangerous objects within reach of Rosie's chubby fingers. She was prone to putting anything in her mouth to soothe her teething gums. Convinced after a bit of obsessing that it had been recently hoovered—thank you, Mrs. Hudson—John at last relaxed, reassured that Rosie occupied a child-friendly area sucked clean of debris.

"Read on, John," Sherlock encouraged with thoughtful face and a knowing nod before closing his eyes. He tilted his head to listen and joined his fingertips, entwining and folding all but the index fingers as he leant back in his leather chair.

"Wee'yon, yah," Rosie mimicked her godfather's inflection. Her bright eyes were riveted on the yellow number eight puzzle piece in her hand when suddenly she squealed "Dadda" as if she were correcting Sherlock for calling her father by another name.

A half-smile flitted over John's face at his daughter's outburst. Clever girl! He cleared his throat. "I don't get it, Sherlock. You've read this multiple times. Why are you insisting I read it aloud to you?"

"It is better when I hear it from you, John," Sherlock spoke softly at first, as if to himself, before fluttering his crystal blue eyes open and readjusting his volume to normal. "Your initial and emotional reactions to its contents lend fresh insight to the words. It's a simple request," Sherlock gave John an impatient frown. "Oblige me."

"Ssshuh-sshuh," Rosie cooed and slammed the wooden eight several times into the wrong-shaped space until she found the right one and slid it in.

John chuckled softly. Rosie's attempt to say Sherlock triggered his second lopsided grin in as many minutes. Lord knows, the men had associated with enough frequency, especially when Sherlock showed up wanting to test his theories about local cases or to bounce off critical analysis against his "sounding-board." For the toddler,"Ssshu-sshu" was a household name as he was a regular presence.

John rolled his shoulders and took a deep breath before continuing.

"He wuz a mystery man, a loner. I discovered his savagery far too late. He wuz a clever monster and hide his deeds in the fenlands. Time I larnt the truth, I culdn't change what he'd done."

"Whenever he be dead—soon I hope—folk might athink Cain die at home of accident or cause of nature, but dornt believe that. His death willn't be natural and not accidental. I know cuz I will make sure he die, one way or nother, by my hand."

"Wait! "John looked up again. "Now I really don't get this. Will make sure...? Is this Cain fellow dead or not?"

"Keep reading," Sherlock urged.

"Pweep-ding," Sherlock's echo said as she banged the wooden puzzle pieces gleefully.

"Yew must show my plan by investigatin', Mr. Holmes, what I do and how I do it to kill him. You go after facts and tell the police 'nd allus the people. They shuld know, all of them, that I kill him. It wuz the ony way."

"Soooo…" John pursed his lips as he puzzled it out. "The murderer wants to get caught? Sounds like someone with a death wish."

Sherlock was barely able to restrain his grin, but he motioned John to continue.

"Wee'yon, Dada!" Rosie stated while focusing on the captivating colors and shapes. "Pweep-ding."

"For his deeds, he deserve to die. I don't afreard police will get me for me killing him, Mr. Holmes. They can't reach me where I at. I be dead already, yew see."

"Huh? Then who sent this letter?" John shuffled the envelope from behind the note and peered at the post mark. "It was sent a day ago? From here...London?"

"Wee'yon, Dada," Rosie repeated. "Pweep-ding. Huh?"

Now John was too distracted to notice his daughter's mimicry.

"I die now first, but I know I'll see me revenge. Culd be he be dead by the time yew get this post. If not, he will be. If yew find him still alive—he will be asuffering, I hope—then yew may tell him I sent yew for justice sake. For this reason, I appeal to yew, Mr. Holmes, to tell the authorities and the world the whole truth about how and why my husband, Harmen Grendel Cain, deserve to die."

Forever,

B. Winifred Cain

"A-HA! Charming, she is," John drew in a breath. "'Forever!' Seriously, now? This… B. Winifred Cain doesn't want for sarcasm, does she?

"She is a spirited one!" Sherlock replied with a shamefacedly deliberate pun and an amused gleam in his eyes. He grabbed the armrests of his chair and propelled himself out of the seat. Deftly sidestepping Rosie, he fidgeted with unmistakable excitement. "What do you make of this, John?"

Finding himself in the all-too familiar Holmesian stare—at full intensity—John nodded in agreement before looking away. "Intriguing! If I understand it. The dead wife somehow killed or is killing her husband. There is no clear motive, yet. There's no certain means, yet. The intended victim may not even be dead, yet. Curious indeed."

"This has promise, John!" Sherlock nearly leapt in the air, but rather than succumb to his dangerous jubilance with Rosie underfoot, he merely cheered, "Finally, something different! I see it now…." Like an actor on the stage, he swept his hand in a capacious arc to capture John's imagination. "A trip to the village; an inspection of the premises; a visit to the dying man or if we are too late, a request for his autopsy to determine cause..."

"We?" John stopped hard and scowled with a subtle shake of his head.

We. The single word filled the silence between them with meaning and questions.

"We," Sherlock insisted, the damper of his friend's curt reply extinguishing some of his exuberance. John's resistance was not unexpected. Their lives had been seriously altered by what had happened between them, to them, around them. After months of dodging the possibility, however, Sherlock had done the inevitable; he had just made the long-overdue, the long-expected offer.

Now it was up to John.

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A.N. All Sherlock Holmes disclaimers apply. However I wish to extend my utmost thanks to my devoted englishtutor who always encourages me and my nameless expert in Canon Holmes who has done her due diligence to challenge me, to strengthen my ideas, and to refine my word choices. As neither has seen the final version of this chaptered fanfiction, any errors remaining are entirely my own.

On those occasions when I've needed to quote BBC content, I have probably referred to any of the transcripts by Ariane DeVere aka Callie Sullivan, so I am quick to acknowledge and be forever grateful for this tremendous body of work.