Shadows of Sherlock Holmes

Closed for fuckmeat
Supporting Roles/Cameos closed for Britwitch, sadie_lust, and haremfaery
PM for other supporting/cameo roles, male or female. Will not become a full-blown group thread!

~~~

http://ve.torontopubliclibrary.ca/sidney_paget/images/sherlock-holmes.jpg

http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_taN0qZTMxHg/S1Kuwl80ATI/AAAAAAAAA20/arYUJfqbwiw/s400/sidney001.jpg

~~~

"Let me see -- what are my other shortcomings. I get in the dumps at times, and don't open my mouth for days on end. You must not think I am sulky when I do that. Just let me alone, and I'll soon be right. What have you to confess now? It's just as well for two fellows to know the worst of one another before they begin to live together." -A Study In Scarlet

~

All emotions, and that one particularly, were abhorrent to his cold, precise, but admirably balanced mind. He was, I take it, the most perfect reasoning and observing machine that the world has seen; but, as a lover, he would have placed himself in a false position. He never spoke of the softer passions, save with a gibe and a sneer. They were admirable things for the observer—excellent for drawing the veil from men’s motives and actions. But for the trained reasoner to admit such intrusions into his own delicate and finely adjusted temperament was to introduce a distracting factor which might throw a doubt upon all his mental results. Grit in a sensitive instrument, or a crack in one of his own high-power lenses, would not be more disturbing than a strong emotion in a nature such as his. -A Scandal in Bohemia

~

"Which is it to-day?" I asked,--"morphine or cocaine?"

He raised his eyes languidly from the old black-letter volume which he had opened. "It is cocaine," he said,--"a seven-per- cent. solution. Would you care to try it?"

"No, indeed," I answered, brusquely. "My constitution has not got over the Afghan campaign yet. I cannot afford to throw any extra strain upon it."

He smiled at my vehemence. "Perhaps you are right, Watson," he said. "I suppose that its influence is physically a bad one. I find it, however, so transcendently stimulating and clarifying to the mind that its secondary action is a matter of small moment."

"But consider!" I said, earnestly. "Count the cost! Your brain may, as you say, be roused and excited, but it is a pathological and morbid process, which involves increased tissue-change and may at last leave a permanent weakness. You know, too, what a black reaction comes upon you. Surely the game is hardly worth the candle. Why should you, for a mere passing pleasure, risk the loss of those great powers with which you have been endowed? Remember that I speak not only as one comrade to another, but as a medical man to one for whose constitution he is to some extent answerable."

He did not seem offended. On the contrary, he put his finger- tips together and leaned his elbows on the arms of his chair, like one who has a relish for conversation.

"My mind," he said, "rebels at stagnation. Give me problems, give me work, give me the most abstruse cryptogram or the most intricate analysis, and I am in my own proper atmosphere. I can dispense then with artificial stimulants. But I abhor the dull routine of existence. I crave for mental exaltation. That is why I have chosen my own particular profession,--or rather created it, for I am the only one in the world." -The Sign of the Four

~

Holmes, who loathed every form of society with his whole Bohemian soul, remained in our lodgings in Baker Street, buried among his old books, and alternating from week to week between cocaine and ambition, the drowsiness of the drug, and the fierce energy of his own keen nature. -A Scandal in Bohemia


~~~

24 February 19-

It is with much sadness, yet a distinct feeling of relief, that I confirm the formerly unthinkable. Sherlock Holmes is no more. When I received the call from his landlady in Soho, I left straightaway. Holmes had so many times faked his death, fooling even his intimates, risked life and limb casually, but with purpose, and always prevailed; He had actively cheated death at Reichenbach Falls, and against Colonel Sebastian Moran of late memory, that violent lieutenant of Moriarty who made it his life's work to kill the detective.

So I was skeptical. I used every shred of medical knowledge at my disposal. His body temperature was less than 80 degrees Fahrenheit and dropping to match that of the room. The telltale first odors of decay reached my nostrils. Finally, I gave a subcutaneous injection of adrenaline directly to the myocardium. None, not even Holmes, with his vast knowledge of Hindoo fakirism, could maintain a cataleptic state under such chemical assault. He was truly dead. It weighed upon me like iron.

Now I begin the second, more bizarre, more incomprehensible (to those who knew him but casually) portion of this missive and admission.

Holmes was a complex man. This much was obvious to even the most casual observer. Yet public accounts of him always seemed to mention his austerity, perennial bachelordom, and lack of affection for the fairer sex. These were taken as gospel, due in no small part to my own published accounts of his cases.

All that was and is untrue.

It was not long after I took rooms with him at Baker Street that I discovered his secret. I had plans to be gone several hours at a medical symposium in Bristol. I missed the 9:20 from Paddington, however, and was forced to return to our lodgings. Ascending the steps, a curious sound assaulted my ears. A woman's shrieks, full-throated and in obvious pleasure, were drifting down the passage despite our extensively sound-proofed entry. Mrs. Hudson was out as well, and this voice was much younger, more vital, no mistaking that. I had half a mind to knock, but thought better of it. I retreated to a pub, had cold beef and beer, and waited out the day.

When I returned, Holmes was in a queer mood. He showed all the signs of having recently taken his cocaine solution, and reclined animally upon his chaise, a cashmere throw about him. Yet he was as jocular and passionate as I had ever seen any man, much less sober and spare Holmes. I inquired obliquely regarding the voice I had heard in the morning, revealing that my missed train had compelled my early return.

"Well, Watson, may as well tell you" he began, "Two men as close as we should have no secrets and complete trust in one another. You are as fine a room-mate and associate as I could hope."

Then he regaled me with one of the most astonishing tales I have ever had the pleasure and discomfort to hear.

His pipe, his cocaine, his morphia, his odd habits--they were not his only vice. It was so out of character, the manner in which he spoke and the fancy of his mind during this recounting, that I would have scarcely believed this was Holmes. The tale he wove before me was filled with the rankest debauchery and licentiousness. Holmes had dark and unstoppable feelings regarding sexuality, seized and wracked with them as with his other vices, and he had left no stone unturned in plumbing the depths of his own soul. The corrupt, decadent, and savage practices he enumerated shocked me to my core. I had recourse to 3 glasses of brandy and 2 pipes to calm myself, and they did not suffice. For the first and only time, I injected myself with a mild solution of morphia. Holmes approved ruefully.

And so I began to be another sort of diarist to Holmes. We would have no secrets, we would shield one another from all inquiry and reason to fear. A weight lifted from me. As vile as some of Holmes' tale was, he was absolutely frank, did not attempt to dissemble in the slightest. He accepted who he was, flaws and all, and regarded his darker desires to be recompensatory for his great powers of reasoning and deduction. In that, I could not find a reason to disagree. Many uncompromising and effective people secreted dark habits and proclivities, this I knew well. Holmes was no different, but perhaps the scale of his genius and the depth of his depravity are grander than those of others. It certainly seems so to me now, and did so then.

I recorded the tale of his sexual encounter. It was the first of many. I was both a public and private diarist, privy to every secret the man possessed. And now, with his death, I may finally publish and reveal his double life, as was his wish.

It began with a woman...

She woke in the small hours to the sound of hammering on her door. Her husband paused ominously mid-snore, then returned to his natural sleep rhythm. She rose with a sigh, crept downstairs to have a brief conversation with the caller, then returned to the bedroom to dress hastily.

Her nightgown hit the floor and was hastily replaced with bloomers and a corset. Martha fumbled with the laces in the candlelight. 'Mrs' Upchurch could well have delivered her child by the time Martha had ceased fighting with her clothes but she had learned the hard way how foolish it was to walk the streets in the middle of the night less than properly attired. She had been mistaken for a whore in the past, never again.

Her high necked gown went on next, dyed a sober blue/grey. Being a young woman who had to walk into strange people's houses in order to practise as a midwife, she had developed an austere mode of dressing that dissuaded most men from flirtation. Martha buttoned the dress right up to her throat and then sat down to lace on her boots. A few minutes later she was inhaling cold October night air, a thick shawl draped around her thin frame, to give the impression of a matronly bulk that she didn't possess. Martha carried her bag of equipment and followed a young manservant through London's streets to the house of a rather well to do woman who had been widowed over a year ago.

Martha had no idea who had fathered Mrs Upchurch's child, nor did she care to. Respected locally as a nurse, Martha had circulated the rumour that the woman was suffering a prolonged bout of pneumonia, a contagion that kept visitors away. She would deliver Mrs Upchurch's baby and then spirit the infant into the arms of a wet nurse across town. Mrs Upchurch had plans for remarriage that would be somewhat thwarted by an unexpected pregnancy. Martha would be paid handsomely for her role in this and would act as liaison if Mrs Upchurch was ever of a mind to visit her infant. She would pay the wet nurse an annual sum to raise the child and find honest work for it when the time came. Martha wasn't mercenary enough to let newborns fall into negligent hands but she was under no illusions about some of the things she arranged. Some women even approached her and asked if she would rid them of their problem before the child had grown within them. Martha abhorred such practices but there were those of her profession who conducted them and saw them as a necessary evil.

In a cruel twist of fate, Martha herself was barren. Certainly in her seven years of marriage she had never had cause to even suspect she might be pregnant. Her husband, James, insisted that he loved her just the same but she knew in the pit of her soul that he was bitterly disappointed, as were her in-laws, not to mention her own parents. James hardly ever bothered with the act of 'procreation' these days. Every coupling between them seemed to be sullied by sadness and grief for the children they would never have. James usually managed to work himself into a passion once he got started but Martha had found the whole business bizarre and distasteful even in their early years together, when they had been enamoured of one another and she still hoped that she might conceive.

She blamed herself. Never once had she ever suggested that her husband's seed could be sterile. James would simply not be able to cope with such a speculation. Martha had known a woman once who was also 'barren' and they had become briefly close. Jane's husband had had an affair and still failed to sire a child. The great strapping blacksmith had not been able to accept his sterility and it was his wife who had born the brunt of it over the years, sometimes physically but more a mental anguish born of living with a husband who despised her, who couldn't forgive her for not being the barren one after all. He irrationally suspected her of adultery, became so controlling that she rarely left his sight and he corroded her self esteem with his constant venom towards her, so that when he hit her the poor bitch only cowered and apologised more profusely. Unsurprisingly, the friendship between the two women had foundered, especially once Jane's husband had learned of Martha's profession, insisting that they must have met because Jane had betrayed him. Martha did not see the point of risking setting James on such a course and in reality it didn't matter which of them was barren. James had worried about the effect midwifery would have upon Martha once she accepted that she would never conceive but it allowed her a vicarious window into the fertility of other women. On some level, it soothed her and made her feel as though she had atoned for whatever flaw might have induced God to deal her such a hand.

Mrs Upchurch's delivery went well and Martha got home as the sun was rising. She shed her clothes and crawled back into bed as James rose to go to his job as a clerk at the bank. Martha curled herself into the warm spot vacated by him and ignored his raised eyebrow at the fact she hadn't bothered to don her nightgown once more.

She did not know it but that afternoon her life as she knew it would be inverted. She would meet the most compelling man that she would ever encounter and be drawn into a sordid world of crime, substance abuse and vice that would leave her forever changed. Her life would take a twist violent and secret enough that very soon, she would start her own diary. One that would never be intended to see the light of day.

Holmes had left the refuge of 221B Baker Street in search of a new shag tobacco he had heard much good of. He was casually dressed, merely striped trousers under a black morning coat, his watch chain adorned with a Chinese coin and a radiant blue carbuncle, a Meerschaum in his hand. The lean form of the detective prowled through the streets in search of a tobaccanist who carried the touted Turkish Marble.

As he rounded the corner at Berkeley Street, a scene began to develop. A knot of ruffians were pursuing a young woman, uttering crude veiled remarks about her anatomy and their prowess as lovers. Her retorts were tart, her wit sharp; She appeared to be more than holding her own. But much as the stag may keep the hounds at bay, yet eventually succumb, the one against many begins to tire as the predators circle and seek an opening.

The woman was obviously in a loveless marriage, but was married nonetheless, and Holmes was a gentleman. Honor and decency compelled him to intervene irrespective of her ability to perform the task herself; The streets must be safe for ladies to go about unmolested. Crime, even mere moral crime, must not go unchecked and unpunished.

Holmes approached the group concerned, pitched his voice low and conspiritorially. "You fellows had better not muck with that one. She looks a dish, but I have it on good authority that she has knifed more than one would-be suitor. Beware, else you get much more, and much less, than you bargained for. Evidently, the last fellow has a delicate portion of his anatomy feeding the fishes under Tower Bridge."

The leader, a fish-faced Limehouser with a comical demeanor, challenged Holmes. "An wot if we don't, Guv? Who're you to say who me an the boys have a go at?" He sneered and stepped forward, his chest puffed out in the classic primate gesture.

"I am merely a concerned observer, my young friend. I tell you this lady slashes randy boys who don't keep their place. Notice the bulky attire to hide her blades. If you have no love affair with your pizzle, do as you will."

The youth turned slightly away, as if to chew the fat or make up his mind. Holmes already saw the tensed muscles, and was ready for the strike. Fish Face swung a crossing left he hid with his body, but Holmes had already stepped to the side, and the blow whistled cleanly by. Surprise registered on the piscine face, and in an instant, a strong right from the detective crashed into the zygomatic arch, just under the eye. Fish Face crumpled, screaming, his right cheek clearly fractured, his already comical appearance made tragic by the effect of the blow. In the same instant, the young lady drove the heel of her hand into the face of her nearest admirer, staggering him back, fresh blood exiting his nose and cascading down his shirtfront. The other three, so recently expecting to have at the lady and perhaps rob the galahading gentleman, were in shock to see their apparent victory turn into a Cannae-like defeat, a vast army broken by few. Their heels became all that could be seen of them. After a few moments, Fish Face staggered to his feet and ran after them, his eyes wide with pain, fear, and sudden humility.

Holmes turned to her.

"Now, Madam, I shall introduce myself. Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective." His wiry frame bent slightly as he made a short bow. "Other than the fact that you are a midwife, have had boxing lessons, are unhappily married, and will soon need to replace your boots, I know nothing whatever about you. Whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?"

He smiled genially, yet with a glint of fire in his eyes.

Martha would have had her wits about her, had she not been dragged from her bed once more and summoned to a South Bank whorehouse. The girls there generally had their own ways of protecting themselves but when they did fall pregnant, they never sought a midwife until some moment of crisis. Not having been able to acquaint herself with the woman or monitor the later stages of the pregnancy, Martha was forced to think on her feet and hope for the best.

The girl she was visiting this time went by the working name of Clara and she was still young enough to have her looks. This meant she could pay Martha in full and make provision for the babe to be well cared for. It soon became apparent however that there would be no baby. The girl thought she was over seven months gone but her belly was nowhere near swollen enough. It was also apparent that she had a drink problem and therefore probably other vices to contend with. Martha could discern no foetal heartbeat and prodding the girl's belly wouldn't get the baby to move. The girl was in considerable pain and the baby had clearly died so Martha administered a strong opiate and another drug to induce contractions. Clara was forced to go through a stillborn labour. Martha had her suspicions that Clara had deliberately refused to curb the excesses of her lifestyle, hoping that the infant would perish. It was a selfish and dangerous way of terminating a pregnancy and Martha said as much, counselling the girl against sticking her head in the sand the next time. It was people like Clara who made Martha wonder if terminating the child's life while it was nothing but a stain on the bedsheet would have been a greater kindness.

Martha wandered home dejectedly, utterly exhausted. Putrid birthing fluid had gone through her apron to stain the front of her dress. Her equipment bag smelled similarly unpleasant and her hat had vanished, purloined by one of the other prostitutes. Her rebellious curls were pulling free of their bindings and her face was pale with fatigue. She looked like a fishwife.

By the time she realised her safety was in danger, the men had closed around her, jeering at her appearance and making obscene comments about how her clothes could have become so dishevelled and stained. Martha drew herself up and gave them a piece of her mind but she was only a short woman and they had her surrounded. It was clear that passers by didn't think her worthy of rescue, so Martha strove to break the circle and escape. Her equipment bag was snatched and just as swiftly dumped on the ground when the unpleasant contents were discovered. Martha broke the ring and resolved to go home without her equipment when another male voice rang out, this one cultured and authoritative.

"You fellows had better not muck with that one. She looks a dish, but I have it on good authority that she has knifed more than one would-be suitor. Beware, else you get much more, and much less, than you bargained for. Evidently, the last fellow has a delicate portion of his anatomy feeding the fishes under Tower Bridge."

Martha smiled despite herself and blushed furiously as she regarded her knight in shining armour. Somehow hearing such language from such a gentleman affected her far more than the jibes the market boys had thrown at her. Their ringleader squared up to him, trying to intimidate him and make him leave Martha at their mercy. Everyone else froze, waiting to see what happened next.

"I am merely a concerned observer, my young friend. I tell you this lady slashes randy boys who don't keep their place. Notice the bulky attire to hide her blades. If you have no love affair with your pizzle, do as you will."

It was strange, the way he said such outrageous things with such conviction. Martha had never seen a gentleman behave in such a way before. The market boy swung his fist and the gentleman neatly dodged the blow. Another youth moved towards Martha, his outstretched hand aiming for her thick brown hair. She drove the heel of her hand into his face, making him stagger backwards. She was shocked by the blood that poured from his nose and remained frozen to the spot until her rescuer had made the entire group take to their heels.

He turned to her as though nothing of note had occurred at all. His introduction of himself was so incongruously civilised as to be comical. Apart from the gleam of victory in his eyes though, the gentleman betrayed no feelings about what had just happened.

"Now, Madam, I shall introduce myself. Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective." His wiry frame bent slightly as he made a short bow. "Other than the fact that you are a midwife, have had boxing lessons, are unhappily married, and will soon need to replace your boots, I know nothing whatever about you. Whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?"

Since her birthing tools were scattered across the street, his deduction of her career was no great achievement. Her boots were indeed worn and Martha was saving money in order to replace them soon. His comment about her marriage though, it cut her to the quick. Her eyes widened like saucers and then filled with tears that she refused to shed. Angry with herself for being so emotional, despite the fact she had just been almost molested by those ruffians, Martha swiped her eyes with the sleeve of her ruined dress and tried to pull herself together.

"I am Martha Roberts. My husband, James, is a clerk for the Bank Of England. Our marriage is not your concern Mr Holmes." She replied, slightly nettled. "I am very grateful for your assistance however and shall remain in your debt for your gallantry." She conceded. "You already know my profession and since you do not appear to require my services, I am extremely fatigued and in need of some rest. I hope you will forgive me."

Martha performed a perfunctory curtsey, bowing her head as she did so. Mr Holmes' fine attire marked him as a man that she placed in a rather large category marked 'my betters.' The fact was that people of all classes needed midwives and so she moved occasionally in circles that her peers would never aspire... or stoop to. Just as her husband James would (hopefully) never set foot in a South Bank whorehouse, so he would never have cause to pass the time of day with a gentleman such as Mr Holmes either. Martha made a point of never making firm friends outside of her place in society. She had seen other midwives get pretensions because they had birthed some noblewoman's privileged brat but it was all folly.

Martha started gathering her dropped equipment, preparing to walk the rest of the way home.

Apart from the gleam of victory in his eyes though, the gentleman betrayed no feelings about what had just happened.

The gleam had been about a great deal more than victory. He had caught a scent.

"You already know my profession and since you do not appear to require my services, I am extremely fatigued and in need of some rest. I hope you will forgive me."

He had noticed the bristle at the mention of the marriage, and the sting remianed in her tone. Short, hurt, and unhappily reminded.

Martha began to gather her things, and Holmes leaned down to assist her. "I regret that my perceptions caused you pain. I forget myself, and often remark upon something of note irrespective of its ramifications for others. Please forgive my ill manners, Madam Roberts." He gave her a very genuine and warm gaze as he spoke, seeming to take in her face in an effort to show that he truly regretted it.

"And you needn't have any notion of status when you interact with me, Martha. I eschew it completely. There are sitting lords who care not a farthing for others and whose manners are beneath a common stableboy's. In my vocation, one begins to quickly see that ability and merit have nothing whatsoever to do with one's social station. The very idea is quite baseless, and I never consider it except as an indicator of the propensities of others. In fact, you show me something I do not often see, which is wit, beauty, ability, and depth in a single individual. I wonder...might I call upon your medical knowledge from time to time in pursuit of my cases, should the situation require? Watson is frequently engaged, and I find that midwives, with their vast experiential base, often have something over on a hidebound doctor's antiquated notions."

Holmes almost gave her a moment to answer, then said, "You are quite the most charming lady I have had the pleasure to meet in a very long time."

Mr Holmes seemed completely genuine in his apology and Martha was in no mood to make any more enemies that day. It was somewhat scandalous though, his meritocracy. Martha had heard that such people existed in the upper classes but had yet to ever meet one. Of course, that he said he eschewed status didn't make it an inalienable truth. Everyone's perception was shaped by certain experiences and prejudices and anyone to professed otherwise was blind to their own flaws. Martha found herself intrigued by Mr Holmes and it had been quite some while since anyone had so fascinated her. His compliment of her was without question the nicest thing anyone had said to her. James was adept at trotting out standard marital platitudes when occasion required it but he had never said anything to her impulsively or been overcome with ardent feelings for her.

"You show me something I do not often see, which is wit, beauty, ability, and depth in a single individual."

Mrs Roberts blushed furiously, the colour high in her usually pale cheeks. She would not look at him until she had composed herself, which took until she had retrieved all the things that had spilled from her bag. She reached into a pocket in her skirt and produced a small card. On one side it read 'Mrs Martha Roberts, Midwife and Nurse' and on the reverse was her address. They were only handwritten slips of paper that she kept about her in case anyone wanted engage her or recommend her to someone else. Hers was a pretty enough cursive but lacked the flowery embellishment that most literate women favoured. Were it not for the small hand and delicate penstrokes it could have been written by a man.

Mrs Roberts forced herself to meet Mr Holmes' gaze briefly as she handed him her details. It still felt wrong to meet the eye of a gentleman so boldly however and so her eyes swiftly dropped to his ornate watch chain. She was no pawnbroker but even Martha knew that it was a rare and exotic chain, no doubt attached to a virtually priceless pocket watch. Part of her wondered at a man who courted pickpockets so blatantly but then she remembered that he was a detective. Perhaps it was bait.

"I must confess that I have no notion of the medical knowledge that a detective such as yourself might wish to call upon. Nevertheless you are very welcome to take my card. There are good and bad midwives just as there are progressive and antiquated physicians Mr Holmes. My hours of business are naturally varied and frequently unsociable but if my husband is not at work at the Bank of England you may leave a message with him."

She did not know why she mentioned James like that, why she felt the need to wave her marital status in Mr Holmes' face. Certainly he was a good looking man but he would doubtless have a wife at home. Gentlemen like Holmes did not marry working class girls like her, not even the meritocrats. But it was immaterial. Why was she even wondering about his marital status or what kind of woman this man would choose for himself?

Then he spoke again and Martha knew. His tone was unmistakeably flirtatious. It had been so long since anyone had spoken to her with such gentle intent that she had not recognised it for what it was.

"You are quite the most charming lady I have had the pleasure to meet in a very long time."

If it was possible, Martha went an even deeper shade of scarlet. She thanked him, made her excuses and turned away to walk home.

By the time she reached her home, Martha felt very differently about how forward Mr Holmes had been. His flirtatious manner made her suspicious of him and she began to wonder whether he was an adulterer who preyed on working class girls. He had had no business commenting on her marriage, complimenting her or asking for her card. She had forgotten herself and felt ashamed, though had anyone asked her, Martha could not have told them why. By the time James came home from work for his tea, Martha was resolved to have nothing more to do with Mr Sherlock Holmes. No good could possibly come of it.

The boy checked the address on the paper and then confidently banged on the door of Mrs Martha Roberts, Midwife and Nurse. It was 5 am of an unseasonably chilly and evil spate of weather 3 weeks on.

It took her some time to get to the door. When the lady answered, Jimmy handed her a note:

Mrs Roberts-

Pardon the bother on this wretched morning. I have need of you. Jimmy, the boy, is one of the Baker Street Irregulars and is very savvy. Dress heavily, bring any implements you feel might be necessary for analysis of blood evidence. Once you say you will come, Jimmy will give you two gold sovereigns, and he has a cab waiting with hot tea and scones so that you might be alert. Please come. -Holmes

Martha was barely awake when she opened her front door but the icy wind quickly revived her. Her husband had merely turned over in the warm bedcovers, grumbling semi-lucidly about the incivility of infants arriving at all God forsaken hours. Martha wore a tattered and much darned bedrobe over a floor length nightgown, hugging the garments to herself as the young boy stated his business. She glared at him as though he might somehow be in collusion with the indecently forward Mr Holmes but after a moment's further deliberation and given that she was now wide awake anyway, she consented to dress and come.

Two sovereigns was forty shillings, which was an awful lot of money for a consultation. Martha hid the coins in a tin at the back of the kitchen cupboard. It was not as though she routinely deceived her husband but he was a naturally miserly fellow who believed they should save as much as possible, though for what she was not certain. Martha needed some more equipment and supplies however. She also sorely needed new boots that did not let the cold and wet set in upon her feet. Wearing two pairs of stockings was just making her go through them even faster. She dressed swiftly and carefully avoided the puddles between her door and the carriage. Martha also had her rebellious curls pinned to within an inch of their lives. Hopefully the evil wind wouldn't tug them loose.

She had hoped the boy would be able to give her some further information about what Holmes wanted but he did not join her in the carriage, preferring to sit up front with the driver. Martha attempted to sip hot tea while bouncing through London's cobbled streets and hoped that she scene she was being called too wasn't too grim. She had dealt with sickness and death but never violence or murder.

The hansom navigated the growingly busy roadway, dodging food coming to market and the first laborers making their way to work. It headed east, into Tower Hill, just south of Whitechapel. The streets grew grimier, the air thicker with smoke. Ragged bands of children haunted the corners like ghosts.

Rolling to a stop before a row of doss-houses, Jimmy hopped from the coach and opened the door. "It's this way, Madam", he said, gesturing to the nearest entry. He ran ahead, opened the door for her, and as she entered, she saw Holmes, clad in his travelling clothes. His manner was keen and alert, with an almost jovial energy playing at his face, but with gravity beneath it.

"Thank you kindly for coming, Mrs. Roberts. I regret the hour, but crime loves the wee numbers on the watchface. I also regret to say that the scene I am about to show you is indeed quite gruesome, I can see the question in your eyes." He studied her for a brief moment.

"Have you any reservations?"