Chapter 1
It has been at least two years since my last mission in Afghanistan. My father, John Watson, and I had returned to London. Dad was diagnosed with post-traumatic shock disorder (PTSD) and was advised by his therapist to take life easy, not to get stressed, and to start a blog. (Ms Hawke, the therapist, encouraged me to do the same, but she honestly didn't persuade me.) On our way back to our temp apartment, we met an old friend of Dad's.
"Hey, John!" the man chuckled.
"Oh, hey, Mike," Dad sighed, less-than-excitedly.
"How're things going on at Bart's?" I asked, referring to St. Bartholomew's Hospital and Mortuary.
"Not bad, not good. How are things going on at your place, John?" Mike Stanford asked.
"So-so. The therapist says that I should take on a flatmate. But who'd want to be flatmates with me? Rachel was a former assassin, so everyone's afraid of that. And I'm a doctor. That's too mundane."
"You know, John," Mike replied," that's not the first time today that someone's asked me that."
I looked up from my phone. A sleek, crafty look (hopefully!) glimmered in my eyes.
"Huh?" Dad's curiosity was piqued.
Mike replied," That's not the first time today that someone's asked me that."
"If I'm not getting into your business, who was it who asked?" Dad pondered.
"Aha! I can take you to him if you like..."
Fifteen minutes later, we got out at St. Bartholomew's.
"Does this fellow work here?" Dad asked while climbing up the fifteen steps. I was already inside, watching, waiting, listening. An odd thwacking noise issued from a side room, so I, donning a white practitioners' coat and pulling my hair back, followed the sound to the mortuary.
The halls were dimly lit and stank of disinfectants. A rich voice, coming from the room, asked, "What happened to the lipstick, Molly?"
"Huh?"
"I said, what happened to the lipstick?"
"Oh," the nurse, Molly, sighed, "it didn't work out. I came to ask you if I could get us some coffee?"
"Tell me when the bruises start forming. And I would like mine dark, with no cream and two sugars, please."
The man opened the door and nearly ran me over as I stood there.
"You don't work here. Take off the coat."
I took one look at the man's face and decided that he was more intelligent than, well, anyone I'd met. Instead of removing my coat, however, I followed the man to the lab. After a few minutes of sitting on a stool in the corner of the room, and I was beginning to go nutty. Just then, the door opened, and in stepped Dad and Mike. The man, looking up from his microscope specimen, asked," Afghanistan or Iraq?"
Dad just stood there with a puzzled look on his face.
"Were you in Afghanistan or Iraq?"
"Oh, Afghanistan. How'd you know?"
"I'll explain later."
Mike smirked at me and left the room.
"Is the girl your daughter?"
"Yes."
"I'm Sherlock Holmes,"
the man sighed, standing up and pulling on his black full-length coat.
the man sighed, standing up and pulling on his black full-length coat.
My father, John H. Watson
(His blog is https://pilotjohnwatsonblog-blog.tumblr.com/)
" I'm-"
"John Watson. And that 'girl' must be the infamous Rachel Hannah Paradise Watson."
"How did he-??!?!?!?!?!?!" Dad glanced over in my direction.
"I've got to dash. Think I left my riding crop in the mortuary!"
Sherlock Holmes took off like a shot, leaving me and Dad to wonder what the heck had just happened.
"Uhhh, how did he know that?"
"I dunno, Dad. Maybe he just observed? But that explains the whipping sound. He was testing the hypothesis of how long it takes for bruises to form after death. Clever, but morbid," I nodded.
"Come on Rachel!" Dad exclaimed, exasperatedly.
Just then, Holmes reappeared in the doorway, a big grin on his face."Aren't you coming?"
Dad and I just glanced at each other and followed Sherlock to the waiting cab.
22IB Baker Street was a small flat located in a not-so-busy part of London. As Sherlock Holmes left the cab, he checked his watch.
"Aren't you coming in?" he asked.
"Sure!" I nearly shouted, but caught myself as Dad glared at me.
Opening the front door, Sherlock bounded up the steps. An older lady opened the door.
"Sherlock!"
"Mrs Hudson!" Sherlock embraced the lady.
"And who might these lovely people be?" the landlady asked, a smile lighting up her face as she surveyed us. Not too bright, I thought to myself before answering with," I'm Rachel Watson, and this is my father, Dr John H. Watson."
" Oooh, a doctor! That'll be a nice change! Come in, come in. We mustn't keep you lovely people waiting outside! You'll die of chills!"
Just then, Sherlock's phone buzzed.
"Crud. I hate to have to leave you now..."
"Is that a skull?" Dad interrupted.
"Oh, yes. It is an old friend of mine. Now when I say 'friend',..."
"What are we supposed to do while you are gone?"
"Oh, sit and watch telly, I suppose. Now, Mrs H.! Mrs H.! Please fix the Watsons some tea!"
"Now, dear, really. I'm your landlady, not your housekeeper! Only this once I suppose..."
"Nope, I'm going," I grumbled, pulling on my leather jacket.
(Drawing of Me)
Dad followed, limping along on his cane. (Psychosomatic wound, remember?)
"I knew you'd come around to it!" Holmes remarked as we hopped in the cab.
"How'd you know that I was in Afghanistan?" Dad asked.
"I didn't know, I saw. Your haircut, the way you hold yourself, says military. The conversation as you entered the room - said trained at Bart's, so army doctor. Obvious. Your face is tanned, but no tan above the wrists - you've been abroad, but not sunbathing. The limp's really bad when you walk, but you don't ask for a chair when you stand like you've forgotten about it, so it's at least partially psychosomatic. That suggests the original circumstances of the injury were probably traumatic - wounded in action then. Wounded in action, suntan - Afghanistan or Iraq."
" How'd you know about Rachel then?"
" Easy. She thinks that she's invisible, but with the correct know-how, you can find anyone, Dark Web or Light. I'll go one step further and declare that she is, well, was, an assassin."
"How-"
| (What I picture when someone says assassin) |
Five minutes later and we were at the Park. An abandoned apartment (which I had never seen before) loomed eerily above us. Two cop cars were parked in front of the apartment which was blocked off by the crime scene investigation tape. A woman who wore a khaki skirt leaned up against one of the cop cars. Since I have very good hearing, I heard the woman swear and whisper to the driver," The freak is here."
"Hello, Sergeant Donavan," Sherlock greeted the woman with a sneer that was enough to scare a goblin. Well, maybe not that scary.
"Hi, freak. Who are these people? More freaks?" The driver thought that was funny and chuckled.
Sherlock sighed then answered," Lestrade invited me. And these are my friends."
He pointed to us as he said that. As he ducked under the tape, he motioned for us to follow him into the house. I passed by Donavan but she caught my shoulder and whispered into my ear," Be careful of whom you befriend, little girl."
"I am no little girl. I am your worst nightmare." I glared at her as I left.
As I bounded up the rickety steps, I heard Sherlock shouting about something.
Something like," Where is the case? Where is her case? Where is it? Where is it? Her phone must be in the case! Her phone is in the case!"
Dad lumbered upstairs as best he could, with me following closely behind to make sure that he didn't fall or anything. The Chief Inspector, George Lestrade, 'forced' us to put on the bluecoats that they have you put on before entering a crime scene. Sherlock Holmes, however, had refused and had kept on ranting about the 'case'. Whose case, you might ask? Well, the case of the woman who now lay dead on the floor.
"Holmes, who is she?" Dad asked.
"Well, first off, you tell me what you think of what happened to her. You're the doctor here. Tell me how she died," Sherlock sighed.
Dad knelt down beside the dead woman and tested her pulse and a few other things that would've been disconcerting had he not been a doctor.
"She was poisoned. Looks like a suicide," Dad sighed.
"Was not a suicide. It was murder!"
"Sherlock, why was she spelling 'Rachel' on the floor?"
"Mrs Wilson is not German. She was a serial adulterer."
"What?"
"Her ring."
I was piqued. "Can you tell me how in all the good earth you deduced that?"
Sherlock's eyes glowed with interest as he surveyed me. I could've sworn that his eyes if they could speak, would've said I swear on everything I know that that girl was a complete dunce. She couldn't be interested in this! She's a female!
"Well," he diverted his eyes to the floor, "Look at her ring. the inside is polished and the outside isn't. That's because-"
"She took it off quite frequently. One wouldn't wear a wedding ring while married while going on a date with someone else. It would be destructive to one's reputation as a 'single ' lady."
He glanced up, took a few steps until he was at my side, and whispered into my ear," I didn't think that you were smart. You're smarter than Anderson. That's very good."
I coloured and took a few steps away from this all-knowing man.
"If it's 'Rachel' that this Jennifer was spelling, then it must be something of importance.' Rachel', 'Rachel', 'Rachel'...."
"It's a freaking password. It's Ms Jenny's PASSWORD! Has anyone found the case yet? The case holds all the answers! I"ll be where you can find me!" Sherlock raced out of the room.
"Does he always do that?"
"Yeah, he's always just up and off. It's like he gets a high off of this stuff. He's a psychopath who gets high off of murder cases. Rach, baby, that's why I told you to be careful of whom you befriend. He
could kill you in your sleep and frame it as a suicide. He's clever and he's scary!" Lestrade barked.
I ripped my Bowie knife out of its holster and held it up to his face.
"Don't treat me like a fool, Lestrade!"