Hey guys!
Well it's been a while and I am steadily rewriting and editing my fic and hopefully this time it'll all run a bit quicker and smoother. I am aiming for one new chap a week, please review! It really will mean so much to me!
Smoke, Bells and Parties
The resin hissed and spat in the flame that enfolded it, slowly softening. An expert finger and thumb quickly removed it from the heat, deftly rolling it into a small ball. The fresh burns went unnoticed. The ball was placed over a lighted candle in a lamp, painted with black spirals and red dragons, and covered by a misted glass cover. The resin quickly began to smoke, leaving the lamp through a reed pipe that twisted upwards to a black mouthpiece, carved into the shape of a dragon, its mouth open in a cruel grin, the tip of the reed taking the place of its tongue. Smoke rose in wisps, from the gaping mouth.
The boy, his shaved head gleaming with perspiration, handed the pipe to the man propped on a mat nearby. The addict raised it to his lips and drew in a lungful of the drugged smoke, followed following it shortly by with another.
Shaking slightly, he handed the pipe back to the boy, exhaling slowly as he lowered himself down. He rolled over onto his back, and closed his eyes slowly as the familiar feeling of the drug slipped into his bloodstream, taking over.
The boy watched as the man lost consciousness, his prone form mirroring that of every other sleeper in the room. The Sleepers could stay like that for up to a day and through that time, he and the other children were responsible for watching over them. The boy turned his attention back to his charge, watching the body rise and fall as he drew in short shallow breathes.
The man stirred, his face contorted into a frown. The boy glanced down at him, noting the sweat that was building upon his brow. A fever was taking a hold. Quickly, he stood, and returned a few moments later with an old man. The den master bent down and laid a cool hand on the other man's cheek.
The sleeping man felt the other man's hand on him, but did nothing. The smoke was consuming him, clouding his mind, blocking out the rest of the world. He felt as if fire was licking his body, scorching his skin. The suddenly it stopped. And a voice called to him. First soft, feminine; then harsh.
"Holmes?"
The bells tolled slowly and heavily into the grey morning, leaving an echo on the air of Hampshire. The church doors creaked slowly open as the funeral party gradually departed the building. Positioning themselves at the door, the reverend and a woman in black, presumably the widow stood thanking people for their attendance. There were words of comfort from the women and brief handshakes from the men.
The mourning widow seemed altogether a little too calm, for some people's liking. She was pretty, not much older than thirty, and wore a richly embroidered black lace dress that clasped her body into a perfect hourglass. Her expression was one of perfect, beautiful sorrow, but it was her eyes that gave her away. They were cold and emotionless, looking down on people as they left.
"Thank you for coming, Thomas would have been touched," she thanked one couple as they passed, smiling sadly. She turned to receive the next person, and felt her smile freeze. A small woman, younger than herself, was standing firmly on the path leading from the church and eying the widow with great contempt.
"Miss Anna," the older woman said curtly, bowing her head.
Miss Anna fixed her with a cold stare, and returned the identification, "Mrs Latimer."
Mrs Latimer avoided the piercing grey eyes and asked scathingly, "Are you returning to London soon, Miss Anna?"
The girl shook her head, smiling bitterly, "Can't even let me mourn my brothers death, can you dear sister," She laughed bitterly, "Oh you shall have your wish. I return this afternoon." Mrs Latimer nodded briskly and began to walk away, but was arrested by a sudden solid grip on her arm.
"If I ever find you were involved in his accident, I will personally watch you hang," Miss Anna hissed softly in her ear. Mrs Latimer pushed the hand away and swept on away down the path, leaving the other woman satisfied, but angry, her dark curls blowing softly in the wind as the breeze picked at the grass and played softly against the tolling bells.
Obituaries
"It is with great regret with we announce the passing
of Mr. John Frandil, who leaves behind a wife and
two sons"
"The family of Mr. H. Wilson commemorate the above death and invite all his acquaintances to his funeral this Monday"
Thomas Latimer of the Hampshire estate Forsetlys died beside his family. Aged 39
"Why do you read those things Holmes? It truly is morbid!" Sherlock Holmes lowered his paper and glanced across the room Dr. John Watson, who stood by the window, watching the street below.
"It is with avid interests that I watch the deaths of this city," Holmes said idly, returning to his paper, "You never know when they might be of some assistance." Watson raised an eyebrow, and shook his head.
""Oh, hang it all, Holmes, just be ready for dinner in an hour," he informed the detective and then after a small pause, "If the dead can spare you."
"Why?" Holmes' voice floated over the top of the London Times, idly picturing his friend's disgruntled face.
Watson sank into the chair opposite and began pouring himself a cup of tea. Once strained and drinkable, he sank back into his chair and said indulgently, as if the other person were a small child asking why he must attend church, "Because, my dear fellow, it is in our honour, for solving the incident of the Hound. I promised Sir Henry we would be there." A small grunt answered this explanation, which Watson took favourably as a yes. They sat in their usual companionable silence for some time, the occasional rustle from the papers and clink of china the only noise.
A while later, Watson glanced at the clock and stood, stating, "Time to go."
Holmes put down his paper indignantly, "You said an hour!"
Watson smiled slightly, "So I did. Now get ready." Sighing, Holmes set down his paper, drained his coffee and stood also, stretching out his long limbs. He began to pull off his brocade dressing gown as Watson moved towards the door. Opening it, he turned his head and casual said, "Oh and Holmes. Do something with your hair,"
He left, leaving an annoyed detective in his wake, who muttered,
"What's wrong with my hair?" as he hunted amongst the papers pinned to the wall for a mirror.
"The train was very crowded, and the lack of seats forced Miss Anna to resignedly settle herself at the back of the train in the compartment before the guards van, trying to ignore the feeling that the entire compartment was whispering about her singular travelling state.
Let them talk she thought, closing her eyes. Life can't get much worse.
Hours later, she was awoken by a touch to her shoulder. Blinking sleepily, she peered at the Guard who stood above.
"We're in London, Miss. You had better be getting off," he informed her gently. The young lady thanked him before departing the train. She wandered across the platforms and down the steps that led to the small waiting room.
A starched old lady sat waiting for her, erect on a chair; hands folded over her the black umbrella that was poised against the stone floor. The lady looked up as Anna entered.
"You're late," she stated dryly. Anna caught sight of the station clock as it quietly struck eight. She made to speak but found she could not. The world was being beginning to cloud over and the very tips of her fingers were beginning to tingle. "The haughtiness abruptly vanished from the older woman's face, as Anna suddenly fell to the floor.
Music and laughter greeted the two as they were ushered into a large, brightly lit room overflowing with people. Holmes coughed uncomfortably and adjusted his tie, watched as an amused Watson looked on.
"Mr Holmes! Doctor Watson!" A warm, friendly, Canadian accent rang out over the heads of the crowd
"Sir Henry," Watson called and began pushing through the masses to meet his friend, abandoning Holmes in a corner. The two men greeted each other fondly, for it had been some time since they had shared company. Brandy was ordered and the pair began recounting their lives since their last meeting.
Holmes shifted nervously for a moment or tow two before settling himself hurriedly against a wall where a portrait a ferocious hound hung, presiding over the gathering.
"There you are my old friend," he muttered, somewhat reassured.
"I see Holmes still prefers the quiet life," Sir Henry commented to Watson, sipping his brandy in good humour as they watched Holmes sit silently on his own. Watson nursed his own glass and sighed. Sir Henry noticed and asked concerned,
Sir Henry noticed, and voiced his concern. The doctor knocked back the contents of his glass, wondering what to say. He opted for the truth.
"You know Holmes is something of a," he waved his hands trying to locate the right word, "narcotics addict,"
"Surely not?" the Canadian asked. Watson nodded glumly.
"Now I know this sounds pathetic but I had a promise that there would never be another time," Watson expanded, setting his glass down on a passing waiter's tray and picking another. Sir Henry glanced uncomfortably at his friend.
"Perhaps," he suggested hesitantly,"We should find him another hobby?"
Watson nodded in amused agreement, "Perhaps we could introduce him to someone? Or maybe Mrs Mortimer is here?" Sir Henry chuckled, and pointed to the centre of the room where the superstitious Mrs Mortimer stood surrounded by bewildered young men and women.
"I think she's scaring them," Sir Henry sighed, and set his glass down, "You must forgive me Dr. Watson," he said, squaring his shoulders, "If I do not come back alive," he glanced at the ceiling, "Mourn for me?" Watson nodded solemnly and pushed the other man on his way.
"Mrs Mortimer!" Sir Henry cried, "You must forgive me ladies and gentlemen but I believe the good doctors wife owes me news of Dartmoor." He finished his sentence with a flourish and firmly guided a jubilant Mrs Mortimer towards a chair, grimacing as he passed Watson, who raised his glass in salute.
Three dances passed and still had not left his seat. He observed with steady religion the traffic of the room, with varied amounts of amusement. The relief on the faces of Mrs Mortimer's former audience was highly apparent, and Sir Henry's evident preparation of avid interest in what she would now say to him. Watson's voice at his side broke off his show and he twisted his head around to look at his friend.
"What was that Watson?" he asked brightly.
Watson sighed, "I said, would you mind if I called in on a patient before our return to Baker Street?"
Holmes looked hopeful, "Are we to return soon?"
Watson sighed again and frowned disappointed,
"Get your coat, I'll tell Sir Henry."
Sitting back in the cab, Holmes yawned and pulled on his gloves, feeling the cold creep into his bones. Watson clambered in opposite him and stared out of the window as the cab rambled down the street.
"Which patient are you looking in on?" Holmes asked politely, aware that the doctor had wished to stay longer.
Watson continued to stare and when he did speak it was short and curt, "You don't know her."
Holmes' mouth formed a silent "o" and looked away. After a while he said quietly,
"You could have stayed." Watson grunted dejectedly and Holmes smiled slightly and returned to the window.
A few minutes later the cab stopped outside a row of tall, daunting buildings that looked down at them in with grey faced stares. Holmes pulled his collar up, and opened the door to the wispy tendrils of fog that filled the streets. Watson paid the cabby and stepped up onto the curb, jamming his hat firmly onto his head.
"Come on," he muttered setting off down the street briskly, pausing briefly to allow Holmes to catch up. They walked in amicable silence before stopping at the grimmest house in the area.
Its windows were shuttered and drawn. The door was black, a giant silver door knocker hung imperiously upon it, in the shape of a fox. Hanging from the topmost railing, was a sign, scrawled upon as if by a child, "No Vacancies." Watson glanced back at Holmes, who smirked slightly and indicated the door.
"Your patient," he said midly. Watson drew in a breath and adjusted his hat, before knocking lightly.
Almost immediately the door sprung open, formidable looking lady, her grey hair pinned tightly, not a single hair out of place. On her face she wore a frown, and around her throat was the high clasp collar of her black mourning, dress. just "black mourning dress".
"Yes?" her voice was as cold as her eyes, and sent a chill through Watson. Notably though, Holmes stood unperturbed, observing the woman before him with his customary detachment.
"Doctor Watson to see Miss Latimer. May we?" Watson asked, an edge of anxiety creeping into his voice as he pulled off his hat.
The woman looked down her nose at him disdainfully, then at Holmes. Sniffing slightly, she opened the door fully, "I suppose you had better come in."
They followed a maid up the stairs, having left their hats and coats on a stand in the hallway. They passed through a short corridor, and then ascended another flight of stairs.
"Here we are sir. Would like me to check if she's decent?" the maid asked, a touch of cockney entering into her voice with the absence of her mistress, Holmes noted absently. Watson nodded and gestured with a wave of his hand; The maid knocked and went in. A moment later she opened the door, "Doctor Watson to see you Miss."
From somewhere in the room, a female voice replied, "Thank you Eliza, have a good evening." The maid bobbed and left, allowing doctor and detective to enter.
A fire burned in the grate, illuminating a reasonably furnished room, and in the shadows could be seen the outlines of doors leading to other rooms. The curtains were drawn yet the gas lamps were low. Watson stepped forward and adjusted one, lighting the dresser upon which it stood.
"You just had to do that didn't you John?" came a voice from before the fire. Reclining on a small sofa was a young woman dressed in a stiff black dress that fanned out under her. Smiling softly, she pushed a strand of her dark tawny hair behind one ear and sat up, setting her feet on the floor. Watson chuckled and stepped forward to embrace her. Kissing both her cheeks, he smiled in return before frowning slightly,
"Well Miss Anna, you certainly look pale," he placed a hand on her forehead and tutted. "You shouldn't sit so near the fire," he scolded, removing his hand. The woman scowled turning her head to the doorway.
"Tell your friend to close the door;" she said curtly, "He's letting in a draft." Holmes obligingly shut it quickly and moved into the firelight.
"Miss Anna Latimer, Sherlock Holmes," Watson introduced. Anna returned Holmes' slight nod and turned her eyes back to her doctor.
"How was the funeral?" he asked gently, taking her pulse. She shrugged.
"It was bearable. She was in complete control of everyone, I couldn't stand it. I took the first train home." Watson tsked sympathetically.
"She is Anna's sister in law," he added for Holmes' sake, who took in the information indifferently.
"Was it your brother's funeral, may I ask?" Holmes questioned offhand as he looked around. The drill again:
Anna frowned, "How did you know?" -- Holmes spun around, giving her a deep stare,
"Because," he began, "It was in the Times this morning, and assuming," he continued, "That as a Miss, you are not married, I foresee that it was your brother."
The mourning sister smiled bitterly, "Correct, Mr Holmes. Top marks."
Holmes averted his eyes, "Hunting accident?" he enquired. Anna smiled somewhat bitterly.
"That's what the papers will say, Mr Holmes. But no. My brother was murdered."
Yey! First chapter of my luvly rewrite. The more reviews you give me, the quicker I'll repost. Thanx to my beta J.A Lowell and all my old reviewers who are sticking with me!
Terriah