Preface

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A winding mist escaped the detective’s trembling lips and a cold November gale slashed at his long coat and light, cropped hair.  Like shards of glass, the wind pricked at his flushed cheeks and made his eyes water. The leaves twisted about his feet as he stepped down into a gulley. Careful not to slip, as there had been a recent rain, the detective kept his eyes on the ground until he came up beside a figure lying on the cold ground, curled up with his hands clutching his chest.

“Sherlock?” the voice whimpered through chattering teeth that were not affected by the cold.

Letting out a gasp, Sherlock Holmes dropped down beside the figure and pulled him into his arms. “John?”

The doctor let out a small cry as he looked under his hand at his gushing wound. Pulling his eyes up to meet Sherlock’s, John said, “Put my feet up, it’ll slow the bleeding down.”

Sherlock immediately did as he was told and propped John’s legs up against a fallen tree. Seeing the dark liquid spill out of a mangled hole on John’s right side, Sherlock shrugged his large coat off, folded it in half, and pressed it against the wound. That stopped most of the bleeding and the intensity in John’s face softened.

John reached up and grabbed Sherlock by the collar, pulling him down so that he could see his eyes. Through quick gasps, John pleaded, “Stop it, Sherlock. Stop all of this and get yourself out before it’s too late.”

“I’ll phone the hospital,” Sherlock replied, ignoring John’s request. He reached into John’s pocket and pulled out his mobile. With shaking fingers, he dialed the emergency number. As he waited to be put through, he saw shadows dancing behind him and several streams of light hitting the ground. Jumping to his feet, Sherlock turned and faced a brigade of police officers.

Through a megaphone, an officer commanded, “Sherlock Holmes! Hands on your head, please. Put the phone down and hold your hands up.”

Breathing rapidly, Sherlock tossed the phone to the ground and placed his hands behind his head. He looked over his shoulder at John, whose eyes were closed in unconsciousness.

The officer continued to shout as his men infiltrated the gulley. “You are under arrest for attempted murder, criminal mischief, fraud, disturbing the peace, forgery, gambling, terroristic threats, resisting arrest, wiretapping, unlawful concealment, vehicle assault, assault on police officer, and speeding. Do you have anything to say on your behalf?”

Returning his eyes back on the officers, Sherlock answered back, “John Watson. Take him to the emergency room and return him to 221B Baker Street.”

The police officers swarmed in and clicked on a pair of handcuffs. Keeping Sherlock braced in between two other officers, the lieutenant of the fleet announced in a monotone voice, “You are to be taken to the French penitentiary in Perpignan for thirty years on attempted murder and the other charges listed.”

Sherlock had nothing to say. And he said nothing until the solid iron doors of the French prison slammed on him. The world was now on the opposite side of him, and all he had to himself was a memory reel of the many days prior to John Watson being shot. Sitting on the concrete floor, dressed in his prison uniform, Sherlock said to himself, “Talk to yourself, Sherlock Holmes, before you go mad.”

 

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