1. Chapter 1 (1/2)

a/n;

this is the week of the ancient, unfinished fic postings. this is my

second sherlock holmes fic, and this one chapter is all i have

finished so far. i'm going to make my decision on whether or not to

continue this based on how many reviews i get. if i get ten reviews

for this chapter ( yes, i'm greedy, and yes, i kind of don't want

to have to finish this ) i'll write another one. hope you like!

disclaimer;

sherlock homes is the property of sir arthur conan doyle whom i love

and would probably marry if he wasn't already taken. and dead.

the

fairer inconvenience

chapter

1

for as long as i have known

him, which has indeed now been a rather intimate number of years, my

friend sherlock holmes has been a man of remarkable mood swings. he

has the queer habit of changing dispositions as off-handedly as other

men might change hats. one minute, he is the very picture of health,

happiness, and virile energy that comes only from the sheer thrill

and ecstasy of being alive and at work in one's passion. the next, he

is a slumping, miserable, black-shadowed creature of boredom and

depression; and then at the slightest drop of a new case, he returns

to himself again. i have, with time, grown accustomed to these fitful

changes in demeanor; i have even developed a skill of predicting them

now and then. such was the case, one comfortably crisp night in early

october, many years ago now, when i was desperately endeavoring to

lift the most recent of holmes' "black fits"; the nearly

incurable bouts of depression he periodically experienced whenever

work was scarce for too long.

"come

now, holmes. surely this is a bit excessive."

my

friend shrugged his hunched, wiry shoulders in a way that suggested

he truly did not care. he was curled up in a ball on the floor

between a dining chair and a bookcase, looking for all the world like

a miserable child. his treasured violin, perhaps the only ( healthy )

object which

ought him something like happiness during the black

fits, was tucked beneath his chin as he wailed out from it a tune of

such mourning it was akin to melodrama.

"must

you sit on the floor like that?"

a

repeated shrug, as well as a mild sigh, was all i received in return.

i

oughtn't have been surprised. there had been no new cases for nearly

a month, something almost unheard of in the autumn. with the set in

of cold weather, the criminals normally came out in droves.

"listen,

holmes," i tried a third time. "i've heard that the

salsburg orchestra is playing in the norbury street theater tonight

at nine o'clock. if we hurry, we can just make the opening movement.

you can't spend every night moping about this place. and you needn't

try and hide it...i know full well you adore the salsburg orchestra.

you positively raved about them on their tour last year."

it

seemed i had at last caught the attention of my friend. his listless

gray eyes, which had been glazed and dull for weeks, gradually began

to spark and flash again with their old exuberance. he sighed again,

shifting the violin to rest on the floor. he seemed caught in silent

debate with himself for a moment. then, with another great exhalation

of

eath, and a weak smile in my direction, he lifted himself from

the floor.

"good

old watson. you are right, of course. my dear doctor, whenever did

you and i switch roles? it seemed only yesterday that you were the

voice of passion and i that of reason. we seem to have become quite

reversed."

i

smiled

oadly. the sound of holmes' voice had already improved

miraculously. i thanked heaven that one of his favorite orchestras

happened to be playing in london that night.

"there's

a good man. you won't regret it."

and

indeed, the evening was more than i could have hoped for. even before

the rise of the first curtain, i could see that

holmes

was in better spirits than he had been in weeks, talking and smiling

with his good old veracity of confidence. the players of salsburg

were in excellent form. numerous times holmes leaned over to whisper

musical notations and his calculated approval of their measure and

timing in my ear. i have never been musical, and knew nothing of what

he spoke of half the time, but it was a great pleasure to see him his

old self again.

after

the final movement of the third symphony, when the salsburg orchestra

had finished their bows ( during which i discovered, incidentally,

yet another striking talent of the great detective; he could whistle

through his fingers at a louder, longer, and shriller note than i had

ever heard ), it was yet only eleven thirty, and since neither holmes

nor myself were tired, we idled away another hour and a half at out

favorite pub in norbury street. neither of us are heavy drinkers, but

the atmosphere was warm and cheery enough, even well after midnight.

i knew that the final reparations to my friend's black mood had been

made when he engaged me for over twenty minutes in a conversation

over the comparisons of modern

itish drinking pubs to the communal

mead halls of the ancient anglo-saxons. finally, at one o'clock in

the morning, we started for home, both of us in fine spirits.

it

was a bit of a walk back to our rooms in baker street, but the night

air was so deliciously cool and sharp that we elected to walk rather

than hail a cab.

oh,

what a decision that was.

but

how could we have possibly known that in simply choosing to walk

instead of ride, we had unwittingly plunged ourselves into the depths

of one of the most singular and darkly troubling mysteries holmes

would ever encounter in his career? indeed; my friend is by no means

an emotional man, but this particular case, before it had come to a

close, would

eed in him such displays of feeling i had never

imagined possible.

but

we were not aware of any of that when we started out through the

lamplit streets of london that night. being as late as it was, the

cobblestone roads were virtually deserted; we saw not more than four

of five other people traversing the sidewalks, and as few as three

hansoms rattling the streets.

it

just so happened as we were rounding the corner that would take us to

the farthest end of baker street that we were passed by a young

couple, walking arm in arm in the opposite direction of us. the

gentleman tilted his head in gentile acknowledgment, and we returned

the gesture out of courtesy, but the lady took no notice of either of

us. i admittedly found myself craning my neck backward to look at the

two of them as they ambled away. the woman was a small, delicate

thing, with pinned up curls of the fairest blonde and a dress of

attractive periwinkle blue. she was resting her weary head on her

husband's shoulder as he caressed her temple and whispered into her

ear.

i

felt a very uncharacteristic pang of envy for them. it was not often

that i longed for the company of a woman, but i was not quite so cold

at heart as the great detective; when i wished for a love of my own,

i wished very heartily indeed

(

this was of course before i had met my dear wife through that

imfamous incident of "the sign of four" ).

as i watched the young

couple vanish around the corner we had just come, a strange and

pressing thought suddenly struck me. i had never tested this train of

thought with holmes, though several times i had wished to; a

uptly,

i felt a greater desire to try my luck than ever before.

"holmes,"

i said in as casual a tone as i could. "have you ever considered

marriage?"

a

stiff, mirthless chuckle met my inquiry. "no, watson, i cannot

say that i have."

"have

you never thought of it? even in passing?"

"i

have thought of it as an interesting statute of existence, yes. but i

have never given it the most trifling consideration in regards to

myself."

i

sighed. i had feared this cold-mannered response. i could sense at

this point when holmes didn't want to talk about something, but for

some unplaceable reason i was determined.

"speaking

hypothetically, holmes, if you ever were to marry, what sort of girl

would you look for?"

at

this holmes halted quickly and turned to pin me with a suspicious

stare. "why all the sudden curiosity, watson? you wouldn't

happen to have some hidden agenda i might wish to know about, would

you?"

"of

course not," i replied, slightly offended. "i've nothing of

the kind. i was simply wondering, is all....i've never heard you

speak even once about the type of woman you admire."

another

cynical laugh as we continued walking. "the answer to that is

simple, my dear doctor. i do not admire women."

"surely

there must be some specimen of the

eed you find attractive."

"i

can say with impunity that there is not."

"you

truly detest women, then? all women, with no exception?"

"detest

is an ugly word, watson; though i cannot claim that i do not possess

a very severe dislike of them. in my experience the company of women

in general has

ed nothing but ill consequences, i'm afraid. in

addition to my uncommon habits and lifestyle, i have long concluded

that i am quite simply and in all respects better off without them."

all

of holmes' talk of observation of important evidence has not been

utterly lost on me. my ears perked up at an incriminating sentence,

and i jumped at the opportunity to at last hold the upper hand.

"'in

your experience?'" i repeated, unable to keep from smiling

triumphantly. "pray, sir, what might your 'experience' be?"

it

is not often that i see an expression of sheepishness on my friend's

face. in fact, i believe this may have been the first. but it was

undeniably there, for however fleeting an instant; those strong,

hawk-like features softened for one passing moment into the all too

human look of defeat. in the blink of an eye, however, he had

returned to his masterful self.

"ah,

dear, inquisitive watson. i'm afraid that, for once, i am inclined to

leave your doubtless well-meaning inquiries in the dark. do forgive

me."

i

was about to open my mouth to reply when all of a sudden, our quiet,

tranquil night was shattered by a sound that i swear i will never

forget for as long as i live. through my experiences with sherlock

holmes, i have heard many a frightened scream--thousands of them,

likely--and yet never before had i heard a scream of such sheer,

blood-curdling terror. the single shrill note seemed to last an

eternity before it straggled off into a low and miserable wail.

holmes caught my gaze in his, and i saw the eruption of flashing,

steel-cold light in his eyes, and immediately a connection of duty

passed between us. we, most of all he, had heard that sort of scream

far too many times. it was the cry of an ill-used woman.

without a moment's delay we

were off and running in the direction of the shriek. it had come from

remarkably close by, and it's terrified trill echoed through the

empty streets as well as if we had been inside a canyon. holmes,

possessing legs a great deal longer than mine, had soon outdistanced

me, though i sprinted as well as i could to keep up behind him.

"quickly,

watson! not an instant to lose!" he called to me, his voice

having transformed from the debonair joviality of an evening out to

the razor-like precision of a call to arms.

holmes

reached the scene of the horror before me. it was in a dark, narrow

alley cut between two towering

ick buildings. the thin slit of

space was closed off by a high-boarded fence, leaving it with less

than twenty yards length and twenty feet

width.

i saw the tall, lean figure of my friend pivot into the alley, his

voice already raised in a commanding demand of surrender to whatever

fiend had befallen the victim....when suddenly his yell cut short. he

fell off into absolute silence in such a way that it made my heart

catch in my chest. what unspeakable sight had met him in the alley?

i

was

eathing heavily and strung tight with horrific anticipation as

i rounded the corner. there stood holmes, staring down the narrow

alley with his back to me. his arms were at his sides, and he seemed

frozen in immobility. for a moment, i could see nothing beyond him.

"holmes,"

i gasped, moving to stand beside him. i caught a glimpse of his sharp

profile, and was taken aback by his expression. he appeared to be

stranded in the rigity of complete and utter shock.

"holmes,"

i repeated. "what....what is it?"

but

at that moment, i turned to peer down the alley, and i am certain my

expression became a perfect match of that of my companion. i am as

rational a man as any other, but for one moment i would have staked

my very soul on the idea that there, standing before us, was a

genuine ghost.

but

it was not a spirit. it was a woman. the first thing i believe i

realized about her was her face. it was set in the most haunting look

of utmost emptiness that i have ever seen. her eyes, two wide lamps

of

illiant hazel, stared at us as if looking straight through us.

her beautiful, angelic features were devoid of any light or cognizant

thought. her hair was as red as rust, and hung freely in flowing,

curly tresses nearly to her waist. it was in following her hair with

my eyes that i a

uptly registered the most shocking aspect of her

appearance. she was as naked as the day god made her.

the

woman stood before us, fully erect and without a trace of shame ( or

even of consciousness, for that matter ). her skin was luminescently

white, and every contour of her body shone in the half-light of the

streetlamps and the blue, cold glow of the crescent moon above. she

was of average height, for a woman, and her full figure, though thick

and heavy in some places where she might better have been slight, was

stunning. i cannot deny that for a generous number of seconds i

forgot all pretense of modesty or gentility and simply stared at her

in full wonder and surprise. it was only her horribly vacant

expression that marred her strange, stout beauty.

both

holmes and myself might never have recovered the mental facility to

move, had the woman not acted first. before we even registered what

we had seen, the strange, naked creature's eyes widened, then rolled

back in her head; and she collapsed on the glistening cobblestones in

a dead faint. her limp body made a horrific sound as it struck the

ground, falling listless and still.

holmes,

to his credit, shook from the trance before me. in a lightning-quick

movement he sprang forward, fluidly removing the long overcoat from

his own shoulders and draping it across the pale body. he knelt

beside her and hurriedly took her pulse, then gently opened her

eyelids to examine for a concussion.

"come,

watson, come! for heaven's sake man, come and examine her!"

i

shook as if waking from a dream, feeling more than a bit foolish. "of

course!"

i

rushed to the woman's side and obeyed my friend's orders, checking

the woman's head and neck for injuries. from my rough, rapid

estimate, there appeared to be none. dumbfounded, i checked her

vitals. she was

eathing regularly and her pulse was normal. what

could have possibly happened to the poor creature?

"holmes,"

i muttered, eyeing her blank face incredulously, "this woman

bears no mark of injury anywhere."

holmes

was already at work, pacing up and down the alley in his

shirtsleeves, scrupulously inspecting the walls and pavement for any

sign of criminal intent.

"anywhere?"

he confirmed absently, his mind already distracted with capturing

every detail and minutae of the scene.

"well...."

i realized my own statement with some sheepishness, "....nowhere

on her head."

"then

examine her body, man!" he cried, shooting me an incriminating

glare. "honestly, watson, are you a doctor or aren't you?"

and

here, i must confess, my own humility nearly overcame me, for though

of the medical profession i may be, it was certainly not my habit to

examine female patients, let alone fully unclothed female patients.

"but....holmes,

i...."

"damn

modesty, watson, the woman may be dying! check her for injuries this

instant!"

when

holmes takes on that iron-clad voice of command and reason that he

alone have i known to possess, it is impossible to disobey him. it

was with no slight warming of my cheeks, however, when i stiffly

worked up the courage to draw back holmes' coat. the impeccable

whiteness of the woman's bare skin shone like paper in the dim light.

with trembling hands i gently turned her body on the pavement,

jarring her as little as possible while i searched for signs of

violence. there were none. no bleeding, no

oken bones, no torn or

lacerated flesh; not even so much as a single

uise. when i had

finally attained medical satisfaction that there was no injury

whatsoever on her person, it was with immense relief that i covered

the unconscious woman once more.

rising

shakily to my feet, i turned to see holmes holding his chin and

staring down at the pavement, tapping his foot impatiently. the

moment i was beside him, he turned and implored me with eager eyes.

"well?

anything at all?"

sadly,

i shook my head. "it's the most inexplicable thing i've ever

seen. she's out in a cold, unconscious faint, and we heard the scream

for ourselves....but i swear that there are no signs of violence upon

her anywhere. not a single scratch to be found, holmes."

the

detective narrowed his eyes. "you're positive, then? you're

absolutely sure?"

i

nodded gravely.

holmes

exhaled and thoughtfully covered his mouth with his hand.

"the

crime scene is equally bare," he muttered, and i sensed, like so

many other times, that he was speaking more to himself than to me. "i

can find no mark or imprint anywhere. the fence in the alley is

impassable, and there is no other exit from the enclosure. there

aren't even any footprints, and the night is wet enough; surely

anyone walking from the street should have tracked mud at least a few

feet. the place is entirely clean."

the

great thinker closed his eyes in stern concentration, but returned to

reality quickly and with vigorous energy.

"nevertheless,

this is serious business, watson. someone has assaulted this woman,

and we must get her more thorough medical attention as soon as

possible."