My first attempt at Sherlock Holmes.

I am not a diehard fan of Holmes, though I always loved the tales, though long and far too dialogue-based for me. This is an undertaking which may go on to be a very long and peculiar tale.

Keep in mind; I am not an expert on Holmes.

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Sherlock Holmes

The Shadow in the Night

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Chapter 1

Ages Past, Come Again

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October 20, 1937

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Holmes stared into the flickering light of the dying fire, thoughts far away. He had long ago retired, long ago put away his coat to gather dust and be eaten by moths, and so long ago since he had been out in the world to see the sights of man's creation. The years weighed heavily on him, but it did not cripple him. No, Mr. Holmes was strong and valiant, and age alone would not bow his shoulders. His hair was grey all through, and was not combed this morning and remained so still.

He examined a small scratch on the face of his violin, chewing the inside of his cheek as he remembered how it had gotten there. It had been a bleak October just as this one, and he had made some frightening enemies a month before. They had come looking for him, and had found him. He himself had barely escaped with his life…but his old friend Watson was wounded by a masked assassin. The portly man passed on the following day, and Holmes had mourned his death for a full two years. He had been a steadfast companion and excellent source of information. But now it was all gone, all long past.

All so, so long ago…

A firm knock came to his ears; someone was beating on the door. It was late at night, and rainy, and Holmes knew from experience that such things that come to his door in the night are seldom good ones. Never-the-less, he walked towards the stairs and down to the door, which he opened to see a soaked man.

The man was bald, not a hint of hair on his thin face nor scalp, and he wore a thin jacket. "Sir…Mr. Holmes, sir, please, allow me to enter." Holmes stepped aside and the man entered, his eyes wide with fear. "Sir, I need your help, badly…"

"What is it?"

"A good friend of mine…we were looking around in the mine shafts far north of London; our business was our own." He began in between gasps. "We found something…I can't remember what it was, I didn't get a good look. My friend, Sir Richards, was silent for many hours after entering a dark passage, and when he returned he was bruised on the neck and face. I asked him what was wrong, but he did not answer me. We returned here to London…and…and…" The man suddenly broke down into tears. "He was standing there beside me, and he fell to the ground, as if with a seizure! I ran for help, but when I returned…he was dead!"

"How so?" Holmes asked calmly.

"His…his body was bloody and torn badly, as if a wild animal had eaten him alive." The man gasped. "There are men outside that want to take you to see the body…they want to know what happened, and they wanted me to come to see you."

"I see…" Holmes turned to look out the door into the rain, where a single man stood amidst a group of what looked like bodyguards. The man was dressed in fine clothes that were drenched with rain, but he did not seem to mind.

"Mr. Holmes!" He called. "If you would kindly come with me?"

Holmes chewed the inside of his cheek and answered. "…I will."

It seemed it was all coming back to him now…he had tried hiding from it and it found him anyway. It always seemed to find him in the end…

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The rain was not as heavy as it had been, and soon it stopped altogether. Holmes was led threw twisting alleys into the deepest parts of London, and when he saw the body of Sir Richards even he gasped in shock.

The man lay spread-eagled on his back, eyes wide to the cloudy sky and rain, his face locked in a grimace of agony. His chest was plainly torn apart, blood oozing from numerous wounds all across his body as if raked with claws and bitten by long teeth. All his internal organs were gone, and his right leg was now no more than a bloody stump oozing crimson blood onto the wet ground. The pool of blood had been mostly washed away by now, but the air was quite heavy with the smell of death.

"As you can see, Mr. Holmes…" The man next to the body said, scratching his chest. "…he was torn apart by something, but there are no animals around here with this kind of ferocity. This is London, after all."

"Pardon me for saying, Mr.…"

"Yutani." Holmes raised an eyebrow; it was a very strange name that sounded foreign. "My name is Edward Yutani."

"Mr. Yutani." Holmes stopped near the bloody ruin that had once been a man, pointing to the claws on the remaining leg. "Do you know any creature that could cut into flesh that cleanly, or that deep? It seems as though cut by knives designed to look like an animal. Same as with the bite marks…too deep, too clean."

"Are you suggesting that he was murdered?" Yutani asked.

"I am not suggesting, my good man…I am certain." Holmes pointed at the man. "This man was murdered."

"Could you help us find the killer, then?"

"But…" Holmes said. "One thing in particular intrigues me." He pointed to the broken ribs of the dead man, where the organs had been harvested. "No sane man would do this…and these bones, see how they are broken?"

"I do not."

"They are broken as so. They are not broken inward but outward." Holmes stood. "Something ate him alive from the inside, and then came out of his chest. This is something more than just a murder…this is some kind of unholy slaughter I have not seen or heard the likes of before."

"Can you help us?"

"I will, Mr. Yutani, I will help you." Holmes looked down at the body, grimacing. For the first time in many years, Holmes felt sick at the sigh of death.

And death so brutal, as it were. A man, torn open from the inside like the bone was no more than rotten wood, and then ripped to pieces. Whatever man had done this was sick and twisted beyond hope of redemption…and Holmes was determined to stop him.