Elementary, My Dear Obi-Wan (the revised version)

She towed Holmes out with her, ordering him to the kitchen to start boiling water, a past time I invented years ago to keep him out of my way when I was treating an unconscious patient.

Ah, Shezan already pointed out the part about the assistant that I was about to mention, and the sentence being cut off after 'available'. I wouldn't have caught the thing with the coins, though.

I think Watson's right on the mark with his idea of a 'strange religious order'.

Belatedly, I realized that I had only served to focus his curiosity on something I wanted him to leave be for the time being. What exactly doesn't Watson want Holmes to focus on; the wound or the weapon, and why?

Do I detect a touch of teasing in Mrs. Hudson's question about the young man's nationality?

 

Thanks, y'all. That's why having other people read it is a GOOD thing. I'm so familiar with the story that I miss things.

And you old readers, don't you DARE spoil anything for newcomers!! No hints!!!

I guess 'pence' would have been better. Not at all familiar with MODERN British money, let alone 19th century...

 

Totally agree with Nat.

Wonderful job!

 

I think Watson's right on the mark with his idea of a 'strange religious order'.

And the beauty of it is that it dovetails nicely with Conan Doyle's stories; especially the - gasp! - reference to the Mormons. (Frosty, I take it you have forgiven sir Athur? )

I guess 'pence' would have been better. Not at all familiar with MODERN British money, let alone 19th century...

Contemporary British money is just as boring as anywhere else. Pounds divided in New Pence, which everyone calls "pee", as in "With the price wars, the Monday "Times" is only ten pee." (Nobody make a borderline joke here, okay? ) I'm old enough to remember the old pounds and shillings and pence. There were 12 pennies in a shilling (also called a "bob") and 20 shillings in a pound.

In addition to that, people referred often to specific coins, like the 2'6d or half-crown (two-and-six, two shillings & six pence), or the six-pence, or the thrupenny, or the farthing, or even gold coins like the sovereign or the guinea (1£1s)... You can find information about most of them at this link.

My point being that "tossing a few coins" actually works, otherwise Watson would say "tossed him a thrupenny" or "tossed him a half-crown", etc.

(And the entire aim of the system was to confuse foreigners. See the Monty Python skit "Confuse-a-cat, Ltd.")

 

Happy Sigh.

Knowing what we know about Mrs. H, it does give a very different perspective on her behaviour, doesn't it

 

Oh I do love this story. I promise I won't spoil it for the new readers!

 

More!

 

Wonderful- I too am curious to see what other changes are in store for us "oldtimers"

Shezan - you aren't joking about the old money system confusing foriegners. Whenever I traveled to London, I had to carry a cheat sheet that a nice bank clerk wrote up for me. I celebrated when the money system changed. I even like the Pound coins. I wish they would do the same thing here in the states. We have dollar coins, but no one seems to want to use them.

Frosty Erica and LJ are with ICFG (Foursquare) in a city that starts with a "T" about one hour outside of the capital. It sounds like you didn't meet them.

 

And I thought learning the Romanian money system was hard!

I think I'll just stick to a nice generic 'coin' reference and leave it at that. No point in blazing my ignorance THAT broadly. heeheehee...

______________________________

I had made plans for that evening to dine again with Mary, and to discuss the mysteries of wedding details. However, I felt that I could not in good conscience leave my patient, so I recruited one of the Baker Street Irregulars to take her a message bearing my regrets. I sent the ragged little boy off, feeling horribly guilty about my feelings of relief at not having to discuss linens and worry about making the wrong choice. Mary was usually the most levelheaded of women, but there was something about women and weddings?shaking my head, I went back inside.

Mrs. Hudson met me in the foyer and announced that she had left my dinner on the sideboard and that she was going to bed. I thanked her, went to the dining room to wolf down the food, and then went to check on my patient.


He was quiet?too quiet, I thought. He had been unconscious for well over three hours now, and showed no signs of awakening. Head injuries were strange things, and though his hadn?t seemed all that serious, there was no telling how it had affected him. Since there wasn?t anything I could do anyway, I resolved to go see how Holmes was coming with his investigation. As I turned to go, something caught my eye near the bed. I leaned over and discovered it was the young man?s belt, with the strange cylinder still attached to it. Odd, I had been almost certain that I had placed it on the dresser across the room, and yet here it was, all but hidden beneath the guest bed?s dust ruffle. Knowing that Holmes would certainly want to study it, I retrieved it and headed down the hall to his study.


I paused outside the door to listen. It was quiet inside, and there were no strange smells emanating from within. I?d learned long ago not to simply barge in on Holmes when he was working. Back when I?d first become his flat-mate, I had entered the study without warning just as he was completing a delicate chemical experiment. The resulting explosion had shattered the room?s windowpanes and left the room in such a mess that Mrs. Hudson hadn?t spoken to either of us for a week. Since then, I?d exercised caution before entering the room. I knocked, waited a long moment for a reply, and when I got none I opened the door and went in.


Holmes was seated in his basket chair, absently toying with his pipe and staring off into space. For a moment, I feared that he had succumbed yet again to the temptation of his seven percent solution, the relaxed as I realized that his eyes, though distant, held none of the cloudy lassitude common to his cocaine use. All the same, he was very deep in thought, and I had to say his name three times before he finally lifted his gaze to me.


?Has he woken up yet?? he asked immediately.


?No. I?m getting a little worried. But that?s not why I?m here. I thought you might want to see this.? I extended the belt and it?s strange burden to him.


?Hello. What?s this??


?I?ve no idea. I noticed it earlier, when I was undressing him. Interesting, isn?t it??


He eagerly relieved me of my burden, rising and going to one of the wall-sconces. ?I don?t recognize this alloy. And the workmanship?so unusual!? He unclipped the belt from it, letting it drop carelessly to the floor as he turned the cylinder over and over in his hands, his sensitive fingers running over its surface. ?This seems to be the business end,? he said, tapping one of its ends. It looked like a small, concave disc with what looked like a lens or stone of some kind set into its center. ?Whatever it?s business may be. And this,? he pointed to a small round protrusion, ?looks like a button.?


?Holmes, do you really think you should push that? We?ve no idea what it is, or what it does.?


?Come, Watson. Where?s your curiosity?? He grinned at me.


I shuffled my feet uneasily, recognizing and di

 

I love it! It's like having a jewel, handing it back to the jeweller, and then getting it back more polished and even more beautiful!

 

"For a moment, I feared that he had succumbed yet again to the temptation of his seven percent solution, the relaxed as I realized that his eyes"

Grammer issue in the above sentence


What can I say? I loved this story the first time around and am so thrilled that its up and running again!

 

"For a moment, I feared that he had succumbed yet again to the temptation of his seven percent solution, the relaxed as I realized that his eyes"

Grammar issue in the above sentence

I'll bet a gold sovereign that it's only one letter missing. ("... then relaxed as I...")

 

*looks contrite* Okay, we won't say a word. About anything. Anything at all. Yeah.

It's really okay about Mahala; I liked her, but she had a hard time fitting in a lot of the scenes. Besides, it makes the ending even *more* of an unknown!

Had a good chuckle over their observations on the strange person in the guest room; sometimes laughing because their guesses were limited by their planet-bound culture, and other times laughing because they got so close to hitting the mark.

Sarah >^,,^<

 

Yep, it's missing a letter there. Supposed to be 'then'. There's Microsoft's amazing grammar/spelling check for ya. Gets all anal about your writing style (and use of gender) but misses little things like that. I'm so glad I'm smarter than a computer.

_______________________________

No doubt Watson will be put out with me for usurping what he sees as his sole domain as the chronicler of my 'adventures', as he so inaccurately calls them. I feel, however, that some facts require a first hand accounting. This will also prevent my associate from embellishing the situation, as he is so wont to do, particularly when taking it from a second hand account. The whole incident was bizarre enough without Watson getting his hands on it.


After leaving Baker Street, I walked a few blocks south before hailing a hansom to take me to the riverdocks. The driver gave my rough clothing an alarmed look, and insisted I pay him in advance. Falling into character, I swore affably at him, ignoring the sneer that had taken up residence on his face, and counted out the coins.


The night had grown chill, and the insidious fog had crept up from the Thames to blanket the city, mingling with the soot from factories and homes. I had the cab driver stop well before we reached the docks. A character of my class would hardly be wasting money on a hansom, and to be seen arriving in one on the docks would not only weaken my cover, but also mark me as a target for robbery. Despite Watson's opinion, I do not go out of my way to seek trouble.


Pulling the battered oilskin coat closer about me, I stood on the street corner until the hansom was out of sight. Moriarty had a reach longer than mine, and I would not put it past him to find the one driver in all of London who had seen my destination. Once I was certain he would not see me make for the river, I tugged my cap lower over my eyes and shuffled off to my destination, a seedy swill-bucket of a pub with the colorful name The Roll in the Hay.


The Roll was famous for its brawls, which the local constabulary could do nothing about, (and usually wouldn't take money to try) and its singularly disgusting atmosphere. Run by a huge woman named Hilde, who was taller than I was and twice Mycroft's size, its reputation made it an ideal place for shady dealings. I personally find it fascinating, though Watson does not need to know that. I had made certain never to place myself in a position where I had to take him to the Roll. Some things really do not need published in The Strand, and Watson has never quite learned when to stop.


My contact was a man I knew as Rat. I found his pseudonym uncreative and clichéd, but as he wasn't interested in my opinion of it, I kept it to myself. He was waiting for me at a stained, rickety table near the back, where Half-Ton Hilde, as she was known behind her back, was busy muscling a small fight off her bar. She was in her forties, an immigrant from Germany, ambidextrous, and fairly well educated, though she concealed that fact well. She had never been married, though she had four children, one deaf, had a deep dislike for me. She was half-convinced I was a policeman. It was her policy not to get involved with her patrons' business, however, so she kept her opinions to herself. I was greeted with a venomous glare from her as I stepped up to my informer's table.


Rat pushed a tankard across the grimy surface to me. I took it, feigning to take a swill. I am not so unwise as to actually drink anything from the Roll. I wouldn?t put it past Rat to do something to it?and if not he, then Hilde certainly was capable. "You're late," Rat snarled, with what he apparently thought was a threatening glower.


Rat, I might mention, has delusions of grandeur. He's a petty, American-born thief who's read far too many yellow-back spy novels, and fancies himself mysterious and dangerous. Hence the dramatic name. His image was spoiled somewhat by the weak, rabbitish face, myopic squint, and noticeable paunch. A snarl, for Rat, was more of a whine. Still, h

 

In the previous post, you have "Whatever it?s business may be" when it should be "Whatever its business may be." I don't know of any spellchecker in the world that can catch that sort of mistake.

So, the belt with the strange weapon has mysteriously migrated from the dresser to half under the dust ruffle of the bed, and the patient is too quiet, huh? Hmmm.

How did Billy the Urchin get into Holmes' house if Mrs. Hudson was already in bed and not available to let him in? Did he really just stroll in the back door without her noticing?

Moving on to the next post, I like the way Holmes claims that Watson embellishes the details, and thinks that Holmes goes out of his way to attract trouble, but then he admits that he finds The Roll in the Hay a fascinating place. Uh huh.

Some things really do not need published in The Strand, Shouldn't that be "Some things really do not need to be published ..." or "Some things really do not need publishing?

She had never been married, though she had four children, one deaf, had a deep dislike for me. I think that should be " ... four children, one deaf, and had a deep dislike ..."

Good characterization of Rat, the way he wanted to live up to his self-chosen nickname and yet was more like a rabbit instead.

So now we have Moriarty's mysterious colleagues with their strange weapons, the strange and sudden death of an informer, a man with heavy-soled boots and a trace of a limp, and now there's something strange as well about Holmes' enigmatic guest. Strange indeed -- looking forward to more!

 

Frosty, I am going to beat you soundly about the head and shoulders next time we meet for not emailing me back, or even telling me you were restarting this thread so soon. I'll get to the serious business of betaing in my next post. Right now I need to sleep.

 

Ah...the story is still just as great as it was the first time!

 

The mystery deepens! I'd forgotten how wonderful this story was! Keep up the good work, Frosty!

Merry Christmas to all!

 

Great posts! I like your discriptions both from Watson's POV and Holmes'.

Remembering the previous version and thinking a bit I guess I know why are Watson and Holmes so surprised and shocked

 

I wonder if, as one of those new plot twists, you'll describe the mysterious intruder as suddenly sporting a sequin jump suit, electric guitar, puffy dark hair, and sideburns... No? Well, maybe the old way is best.

I liked Holmes' way of describing events almost as much as Watson's (even if he hasn't quite nailed down the humor thing yet), and Rat's death was just plain creepy.

Merry Christmas!

Sarah >^,,^<

 

definitely still enjoying

 

Hope everyone had a great Christmas!


________________________________

It was one of the few times in my life I had ever seen Sherlock Holmes startled enough to make an unguarded comment. It had taken me a long night of observation to notice the change in our guest, but Holmes, with his near-inhuman skills of observation, had noticed almost instantly. Of course, he?d also last seen the man hours earlier, and left. The change by now was dramatic indeed.


When we had brought the young man in hours earlier, I had judged from the relative seriousness of his injuries that he would be days, if not weeks, in recovering. Yet in the short space from the time we brought him in and now, the gash on his forehead had healed to a white scar that would vanish in time, and the bruising on his face had faded almost to nothing.


Glancing at me for permission, Holmes crossed to the bed and carefully lifted the gauze pad I had placed on my patient's shoulder. His breath hissed sharply through his teeth as he saw what had most disturbed me. The wound, though not so well healed as the other injuries, was nonetheless in far better condition. It now looked days, not hours, old.


Replacing the gauze, Holmes lifted his gaze to mine. "Well, Watson," he said with a trace of black humour, "You are either a miracle worker who has been keeping secrets from me, or this young man is an unusually fast healer."


"Not 'unusually', Holmes. Unnaturally."


He raised an eyebrow. "Superstitions, Watson? Come, now. Surely there is another explanation."


Nettled by his mockery, I folded my arms stubbornly. "Very well then. You explain it, Holmes."


The corner of his mouth quirked, the only apology I would get for his catty remark. "I don't think I can, Watson," he admitted, sinking into the chair I'd placed next to the bed. He looked suddenly weary, his grey eyes troubled. The soot and street-grime brought the spare lines of his face into sharp, unkind relief. Black hair, usually neatly slicked back, fell over his forehead. He looked as though he had just spent the past several hours dragging himself face down on London streets. Suddenly remembering where he had gone, and knowing Holmes as I did, that was a likely possibility.


"Your meeting didn't go well," I hazarded.


He smiled thinly, humourlessly. "You might say that. In fact, that would be stating it mildly."


"The contact wouldn't give you the information?"


"He...died." It was said in such a matter-of-fact tone that it took me a moment to comprehend his meaning.


"What?dead? How?"


Briefly, Holmes outlined the events of his evening. Though his voice was level, even cool, the look in his eyes told me he was deeply worried by the strange events. When he finished, I sat silent for a long moment, contemplating what he had told me. My gaze wandered to the man on the bed. I had to agree with Holmes; a link between Moriarty and our young guest seemed awfully coincidental.


As if on cue, the young man stirred for the first time all night. Holmes came alert like a hound on point, all weariness and concern forgotten. I straightened from my position against the doorframe, and moved closer to the bedside. Blue-green eyes opened in the pale face, staring unfocused at the bed's canopy for a long moment. Then he blinked once, twice, and turned his head to look me directly in the face. Though still cloudy from his long unconsciousness, I found his direct, penetrating glance a little unsettling. It was a great deal like Holmes's, when he was measuring someone to analyze, and yet there was a subtle difference to it that I could not put my finger on. Somehow, that indefinable quality made it even more unnerving than Holmes's.


"Where am I?" he asked softly. His voice was a light baritone, husky still from sleep, and laced with an accent that seemed at once an odd mix of British and Scottish and something else entirely.


"Baker Street," Holmes supplied, "in London."


There was no flicker of recognition in his eyes as he turned

 

He looked as though he had just spent the past several hours dragging himself face down on London streets I do like that sentence!

I also found it interesting that Holmes introduced himself as "Mister", but Obi-Wan called him "Master." I wonder if he misheard the vowel, as I can't imagine that they have such a phrase as "mister" in the GFFA. Or maybe he would call everybody 'master'? Well, every man, I mean. Does he know the word 'doctor'? Or would he say "Healer Watson"? Just random thoughts, sorry for boring you.

That last sentence makes Mrs. Hudson seem almost as secretive as Obi-Wan himself! But food is good. Feed away, Mrs. Hudson!