Sherlock Holmes- A Study in Blood

Chapter 10

"If you love something, let it go.  If it was meant to be, it will come back to you." ~ Cecelia Ahern

Holmes looked up from his experiment when Mrs. Hudson set a bottle of wine down on a stack of miscellaneous papers.  He smirked.   "I'm flattered, Nanny, but I'm afraid I haven't anything to give you in return."

"It's not from me, you goose.  Someone delivered it this afternoon."

She left the room carrying his dinner tray, half the food still left on the plate, muttering something about how he was going to kill himself one of these days with the way he carried on.  Holmes examined the bottle.  Margaux '58.   Just holding such a familiar vintage made his head spin with unwanted memories.  It had been her favorite...  No, never mind that.  There was a note attached.  Setting the bottle back down on the table, he opened the crisp, folded paper.

"I don't want to run anymore.  The Grand Hotel.  7pm.  ~A"

His hands began to tremble.  No.  Surely not.  Then again, could it be true?  He dared not hope.  His heart thudded painfully in his chest as his mind raced with possibilities.  Watson entered the room after putting Mary down for the night and frowned when he saw his friend staring blankly at the piece of paper he held in his hand, his face alarmingly pale.  "Holmes?  Is something wrong?  You look as though you've seen a ghost."

"Not yet," Holmes whispered.  Then he turned his frantic gaze to Watson.  "What time is it?"

Watson checked his pocket watch.  "Quarter to seven.  Why?"

"I'm afraid I can't explain, Watson.  I haven't a moment to lose!"

He hailed a cab.  Any other day, he would have walked, but this was no ordinary circumstance.  Time was of the essence!  As the car bumped and jerked over the cobblestones, Holmes closed his eyes and breathed deeply, trying to clear his mind and think rationally.  Not bloody likely.  Not with thoughts of that woman muddling things up as she always did.  He shook his head and squeezed his eyes tighter, gripping the edge of the leather seat he was perched upon, and tried to look past his confounded emotions and think logically.   What did he know?  The facts, Sherlock!  What are the facts?

One, he had no proof Irene had, in fact, died.  All this time he'd been merely assuming she was dead because of that damned bloodied handkerchief of hers and the word of his worst enemy.  Moriarty had wanted to get inside his head, wanted him to play the game.  And it had worked, all because Holmes knew his nemesis was just vile enough to kill Irene to get to him.  But had he indeed killed her?

Two, the note he'd received was attached to a bottle of her favorite wine.  It had been sprayed with her favorite Parisian perfume.  But all that paled in comparison to the fact that the slender hand that had penned the message was hers.  There was no doubt of that.

Three, no obituary had ever been posted.   A detail he'd overlooked until this very moment. Granted, she was a thief and a con-artist, with no family to speak of, but surely someone other than himself would have noticed her disappearance.  A dead body simply does not disappear, he knew this first-hand.  Someone would have found the body.  A doctor perhaps would have examined her and confirmed her death.  A mortician prepared her for burial.   At the very least, someone surely would have recognized her as the great temptress supreme and thief extraordinaire that she was.  After all, she'd stolen some very important items from some very important people.

Then again, Moriarty could have had her body disposed of before she'd even grown cold.  The bastard.

The cab lurched to a stop and Holmes nearly tumbled off the seat.  Cursing himself for not paying better attention, he hastily handed the driver what he assumed was a fairly large sum, though he was in far too much of a hurry to be bothered with such a trifling matter.  He didn't pause at the reception desk, for he knew exactly which room she would be in.