by Jen (dragonriderjenner at yahoo.com)
Okie dokie! Chappie 2 here! And soo soooon! Exclamation
points are stupid! Now, on with the chapTER!!
Don't own SH22, but wish I did. Don't we all just wish that we
owned something that we know we never will? It's like that's some part
of the human psyche. Maybe it's why we all write fanfiction; so that
we can "have" something that we don't have. But enough of that. Read
Chapter 2: In which Holmes is the protagonist
Grinning, I made my way up the stairs to his apartment. The
door swung open silently and I stood in the doorway. Neither of the
struggling men noticed me. I watched them struggle for a few minutes,
then stepped closer. Within moments, both were sleeping soundly on the
floor. I lifted the man in the dark robes and tossed him out the
window. He landed with a meaty thud. I knelt by his victim's side and
swiftly examined him for injuries. Luckily, the man had emerged with
only a few bruises on his face. My grin widened.
"Well, well, well. If it isn't the ever so famous Mister
Sherlock Holmes. Oh, how much I have heard about you, sir. So much,
yet so little." I traced his sharp features with my eyes. "You're more
handsome than I had previously thought, even with those nasty bruises.
Her description does you no justice, Mister Holmes. But enough talk,
for I am here for business."
I lifted his head slightly with one hand and placed the other
over his face. "Forget," I murmured. "Now remember this: A brick was
thrown through your window, and you were attacked by a man wearing
black who jumped in through your window. You did not see his face. You
wrestled for a bit on the ground, then he managed to knock you out.
After you fell unconscious, you can remember nothing. That is all."
With that, I gently laid his head on the ground and turned to the
glassy mess on the floor. They glinted almost unnaturally for a
moment, their shapes almost seeming to shift in the bright light of
the apartment. Once more, I grinned, then turned and left the
apartment, satisfied with my work.
Mister Holmes would be left out of this matter and I would make
sure of it.
A tall man stopped outside of one Mr. Sherlock Holmes'
apartment. He was tall, and his sandy brown hair hung messily in his
face and touched the tips of his broad shoulders. His face showed
youth, but also intelligence beyond his years. His stance was tall,
proud, determined. He lifted a large fist to knock on the door. It
opened before he had the opportunity to announce his presence.
Sherlock Holmes opened the door and quickly looked over his
visitor. He smiled politely and stepped aside to let his guest
through. Holmes took careful note of his visitor's stride and posture.
He gestured for his guest to sit, which he did, and rather heavily at
that, as though he was exhausted but trying to hide it. "Might I get
anything for you? Water?" he asked, still smiling politely.
"Ah, water, thanks," his young guest replied. He looked about
his surroundings nervously, as though expecting something or someone
to jump out at him from the woodwork. Holmes took careful mental note
of all this.
When he returned with a glass of water, he found the young man
looking nervously out the recently repaired bay windows. He cleared
his throat politely. The young man jumped, obviously startled. He took
his water and returned to where he had been sitting and stared into
the glass. Holmes sat across from him and leaned back, carefully
watching the young man's body language.
"May I ask your name?" he questioned. The young man jumped
slightly, startled by his voice.
"Oh, um, yeah. 'S Kurtis. Kurtis Correl." He said, rather
"Is there something I can help you with?" Holmes asked, in what
he hoped was a soothing manner.
Kurtis looked back down into his glass of water. He began
slowly, speeding up as he gained confidence. "I think- I think
someone's after me. I keep gettin' this feeling that someone's
watchin' me, ya know? And these... things...keep happenin' to me. For
a while I thought it was just, like, coincidence, ya know? But they
kept happenin', and they're makin' me nervous. I think someone's
following me, too. I'll be walkin' round campus at night and I'll get
this kinda feeling that someone's following my every move, and then I
turn around, but there's nobody there, but then I turn around again
and keep walking and I get that feeling again and it's driving me nuts
and makin' me really nervous-like." The young man paused to take a
deep breath. "And then I gets these notes. They're weird, ya know?
Like, really bizarre. They say weird things and they're always, like,
everywhere. Sometimes they're in my dorm, sometimes in my mail,
sometimes I even find them in my backpack, and sometimes my roommate
finds them. When he first started finding them, he didn't think it was
serious, or anything, but then they kept coming and I started getting
real freaked so my roommate started takin' them seriously, too. My
roommate's the one who suggested you to me, Mister Holmes. He said
that you could help. You can help, right?" Kurtis looked back up at
Holmes imploringly. "Right?" he whispered.
Holmes leaned forward and placed a comforting hand on the young
man's shoulder. "Don't worry. I'll help you. Now, what else can you
tell me? Do you have any of the notes with you?"
"Uh, yeah." Kurtis fished through the pocket of his worn jeans
and pulled out a wad of wrinkled papers. A neatly folded piece of
paper was tucked into the messy stack. Kurtis' eyes widened in shock
at the sight of the folded piece. He shoved the entire stack into
Holmes' waiting hands, stood quickly, and began pacing, his movements
jerky and uncoordinated.
Holmes smoothed the papers out with graceful fingers, looking
quickly over each piece. Mr. Correl was correct in describing the
contents of each note. The words were written in an almost script-like
hand and were certainly bizarre enough to frighten any ordinary
person. Finally, he came to the still-folded piece. He looked up at
Kurtis to find the young man watching him, his face ashen. His eyes
returned to the paper. It was very crisply folded and all the edges
matched up perfectly. He unfolded it with careful movements, holding
it steady so as not to disturb any trace of DNA on the paper.
It was blank.
Elizabeth Lestrade was having the worst day ever.
First, she woke up completely rested, the sun shining through
her window. There were a few clouds that offered the occasional shade
and a brisk breeze that kept the day nice and cool.
Second, when she got to work, she found a stack of petty cases
that had been taken care of by lunch, which pretty much gave her the
afternoon off to do with as she pleased.
Third, she met up with several of her friends from college and
they had a most pleasant lunch together, catching up on gossip.
Fourth, her day decided to take the express highway to hell. 
Fifth, Holmes had decided to let her rot down there.
Oh, how he would get it. Yes, he would, nice and painful-like. Just
what he deserved, yes, that bastard. Oh yes. He would pay so dearly, that
bastard, leaving her there to rot like that, in the pits of hell.
"Goddamn...shit. Who knew people used the bathroom so frickin’ much."
"Damn. It’s already 4 pm."
"Oh, how he will suffer, that nauseous man." 
"You’ve reached the Lestrade residence. I’m sorry, but
I’m not home at the moment. Please leave a messa-"
Holmes sighed and leaned back in his chair. There was something
prickling at his senses. Something just out reach of his senses and his
intellect. It was 9 pm and Lestrade was not at home. In fact, she had
not been seen since she had taken on a new case yesterday afternoon
after lunch. From what he had been told, she had left the office to look
up some leads that she had apparently come up with and had not been seen
since. It was rather distressing for her to have gone missing so long.
Holmes stood and walked to the bay window, watching the street
before him with unfocused eyes. Usually the obstinate woman would’ve
contacted him by now, but... He had not heard from her in some time. In
fact, they hadn’t shared a word of conversation for an entire two weeks.
Not that it bothered him, of course. But usually she would be over to
speak with him at least several times a week, and for her not to do so
was rather disquieting.
Holmes walked across to his kitchen, rather hoping that his
Irregulars had left some food for him to eat.
And his bay windows exploded.
He rubbed his shoulder, trying to work out the knots that had
wormed their way in. The rooftop was rather uncomfortable, but Master
had said that this was of utmost importance. From his position, he could
see the nasty meddler standing idle. The nasty meddler stood there for
some time, looking out at the street in front of his warm and cozy home.
A freezing wind blew over him and seeped through his clothes and
skin down into his bones. He checked the equipment next to him, making
sure that it was still recording what was happening (or not happening) on
the street below. And it was.
The meddler turned away from the street and walked further into his warm home.
And suddenly there was a dark figure standing in the middle of the street.
The freezing man’s eyes widened, all thoughts of the chill forgotten. Just
a moment ago the man had not been there.
Could it be that....?
No. That was ridiculous. Of course it couldn’t be that.
It was impossible. Simply impossible.
The dark person did not move.
And the bay windows exploded.
He watched the screen, a frown marring his features.
So it had begun. Finally. They had taken long enough.
He turned to another screen, watching with mild interest.
The screen showed a French telecast from the day before. His sharp
mind automatically translated the drone from French to English.
"At midnight this morning, a blackout covered the entire city
of Paris. During this blackout, the Louvre Museum was broken into.
However, nothing was reported as stolen. Investigations are being
conducted and the museum has been closed indefinitely. Also during the
His finger gently caressed the now raised ‘power’ button. The
screen was silent, but he continued to watch it, his frown growing deeper.
There was no more time for games. He would have to tread carefully from now on.
 I was listening to ACDC’s "Highway to Hell" and was thus
There're gonna be a lot of short chapters at the rate I'm
 For someone to be ‘nauseous’ is not for them to be sick, but
to be sickening.
On to Part 3!
Back to part 1
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