Sentiment || Sherlock Holmes

The Abominable Bride Part 1

London. April, 1888. 

"A Study in Scarlet" by Dr. John H. Watson.

" The second Afghan War brought honors and promotion to many. But for me it meant nothing but misfortune and disaster. I returned to England with my health irretrievably ruined and my future bleak. Under such circumstances, I naturally gravitated to London. That great cesspool into which all the loungers and idlers of the empire are drained."

As I made my way down one of her busy grey streets, a man called out my name. I paused to hear him.

"Stamford. Remember?" He said. "We were at Barts together."

"Yes, of course." I greeted, shaking his hand. "Stamford."

"Good lord! Where have you been? You're as stiff as a rake!" Stamford exclaimed.

In a nearby pub, I availed him of my tale over a few pints.

"So what now?" Stamford asked.

"Mmm, I need a place to live." I said. "Somewhere decent with affordable prices. It's not easy."

Stamford chuckled. "You know, you're the second person to say that to me today."

"Hmm? Who was the first?"

Stamford led me to the morgue at St. Barts to meet this other man. As we walked through the corridors, I caught sight of a man beating a corpse with a riding crop in one of the chambers.

"Good lord!" I said.

"It's an experiment, apparently." Stamford explained. "Beating corpses to establish how long after death bruising is still possible."

I continued on down the hall.

"Is there a medical point to that?" I wondered.

"Not sure." Stamford said.

"Neither am I." I said. "So, who is this friend of yours, then?"

Stamford stopped by the door leading into the chambers we had just passed. Despite all instincts, I followed him inside.

"Excuse me!" Stamford called over the sound of the whipping.

"I do hope we're not interrupting." I said.

The man struck the corpse once more before turning around. He was tall, and wore a dark suit and waistcoat.

"You've been in Afghanistan, I perceive." He said.

"Dr. Watson, Mr. Sherlock―" Stamford began.

The man tossed his riding crop towards me suddenly, but I caught it neatly.

"Excellent reflexes. You'll do." The man said.

"I'm sorry?"

"I admire a suite of rooms near Regent's Park." The man said. "Between us, we could afford them."

"Rooms? Who said anything about rooms?" I protested.

"I did. I mentioned to Stamford this morning that I was in need of a fellow lodger. Now he appears after lunch in the company of a man of military aspect with a tan and a recent injury. Both suggestive of the campaign in Afghanistan and an enforced departure from it. The conclusion seemed inescapable." The man said. "We'll finalize the details tomorrow morning. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a hanging in Wandsworth and I would hate for them to start without me."

"A hanging?" I asked.

"I take a professional interest." The man said. "I also play the violin and smoke a pipe. I presume that's not a problem."