Sherlock Holmes Death By Werewolf, Page 2

  Miles shook his head. "Just an old man's body catching up to his youthful mind is all. I'm fine. Used to this by now, you know," he said with another smile.

  "I'm sure you are," Holmes said letting go of the man, who exited the room quickly and turned from view.

  Holmes turned from watching him to see the Chief Magistrate eyeing him thoughtfully.

  "You're a good man, Holmes. I can see why so many think well of you. Now, about what you believed to be chasing. A criminal no doubt?"

  "But of course, your Honor," Holmes replied with a nod.

  They settled down in the library at an oversized table and several minutes later Miles returned with a tray, upon which was a steaming pot of tea, and several empty plates and spoons, as well as a small jar of honey and some coffee cakes.

  Watson eyed the cakes hungrily.

  "Anything else, sir?" Miles asked as he retreated for the way out, using the doorway to lean on as he waited for dismissal.

  "No, please return to your rest, Miles. I'm sure you'll feel better after it."

  "Thank you, sir," Miles told the Chief Magistrate. He turned around and headed for the door, the hint of a smile on his face.

  Watson eyed the sweet cakes on the plate before him and didn't hesitate for a moment to dig into them and begin wolfing them down.

  The Chief Magistrate eyed Watson fondly. "I just love seeing a man with a healthy appetite."

  He patted his own stomach. "I'm afraid it's a habit I nourish as well."

  Holmes had neither tea nor coffee cake.

  The Chief Magistrate gave him a concerned look. "You shouldn't neglect your health, Holmes, it's not good for you," he warned.

  Holmes gave the Chief Magistrate a distressed look and said, "I will, but I forgot to ask Miles for butter and I can't eat coffee cake and drink tea without it."

  The Chief Magistrate rose from his chair. "I'll fetch it for you. Only be a minute."

  "Don't bother," Holmes requested.

  The Chief Magistrate paused a moment, then turned, "No, I insist. What kind of host would I be to allow the very famous Sherlock Holmes to miss nourishment because of lack of proper butter?"

  Holmes gave him a nod and smile. The Chief Magistrate left.

  Holmes waited until he was out of view, then quickly grabbed Watson's arm before he could eat further. "Don't eat any more or drink further."

  "What?"

  Holmes rose quickly, took the coffee cakes remaining and went to the nearest bookcase and hid them behind some books.

  He took the tea and poured it into a planter box near the windows, then returned.

  He left just enough tea in the pot to wet his cup and took some of the remaining coffee cake from Watson's plate and broke it on his own.

  The Chief Magistrate walked in with a small platter of butter, and then smiled. "I see you couldn't wait, Mister Holmes."

  Holmes gave the Chief Magistrate a thin smile. "Appetites sometimes demand to be served, do they not? Despite our acquired tastes."

  The Chief Magistrate brightened. "But of course, otherwise we would be nothing less than animals."

  "Indeed," Holmes replied with a smile. "Indeed."

  Holmes rose.

  Watson rose.

  "We really need to return to Baker Street, your honor. We have a busy day tomorrow and the hour is late. I'm sure..." Here Holmes gave the Chief Magistrate a piercing stare,"...That you also have much to do before the new day."

  Holmes headed for the door. "We'll see ourselves out."

  Chief Magistrate Reynolds watched them exit and his jovial smile turned to a puzzled one.

  He raised the platter of butter to his nose, inhaled deeply and then made a face. He gazed about the room, sniffing the air a moment, as if searching for something, then shrugged and left the library.

  Chapter Seven: Habits That Bite

  Doctor Henson was a portly man, too used to rich food and heavy drinks, too late at night and too frequently. His poor eating habits and drinking habits were showing in his weakened heart, loss of muscle tissue and extremely poor health overall, but tonight wasn't going to thwart his ambition to get good and drunk. He had lost another patient because his hands had failed him during the operation, and it was one time too many. The Saint Royal Mary Hospital had taken his credentials and suspended them, and he had been physically thrown out of his office. The only thing he had been spared was a trial for malpractice, which fortunately for him there were no relatives of the dead woman left alive to carry the accusation forward.

  No one had forgiven him this time. He had had it happen two other times. The first time he had been forgiven because there's not a doctor alive who hasn't made some kind of mistake. The second time it was alluded, by him, that one of the nurses had failed to administer proper anesthesia, but in fact it was by his order that she had done so. Another mistake. He should have used the available anesthesiologist to help, but hadn't wanted to wait. He needed to get done in time to join his male friends at the gentleman's club where he could drink and eat all night, as well as gamble. Another of his horrid habits that had come back to haunt him.

  As now, not only was he without a job and a practice, but the thugs who had covered his bets would be coming to collect before the week was out, and he was penniless because of his plethora of misdeeds and bad habits so he had to borrow the blaggart's money and be damned the consequences!

  In fact he was a miserable wreck and more than once had wished himself dead and taken up his own surgical knife to end it all, but the thought of not having another drink, or bite of mutton had caused him to fail in his mission.

  Self sacrifice of any kind just wasn't in his nature.

  But as he staggered home from the local pub, his belly more than full and his senses greased with liquors, he found it harder to worry about much of anything except the padding sound behind him.

  It was half past the Midbells, when Big Ben's hands were all straight up, and night had sunk its filthy claws into the evening and torn it apart, preparing to get it ready for the ravaging sun of the next day.

  He smiled at his poetic nonsense. What evening? He could remember none of it this night or the one before. Not since he had been censured and cast out upon the world, like discarded trash into an alley.

  He hadn't attempted to go any further than the local pub, even though he had funds enough to travel the world many times. He lived in a very lovely manor, which he had bought with his surgeon's knife. He also had a splendid cottage in the Scots, where he cold overlook the cold, cold sea and listen to its angry waves dashing against the cliffs every night.

  But no, he decided to stay home, hide in his dark room during the day, so no one could see his shame; and then to sneak out at night, like some kind of vampire awakening from its brooding coffin, to pursue fresh blood at the local pub.

  Except pubs don't serve vampires. Least none he knew of, though there were known to be a few...just not where. Vampires were not socially acceptable yet in London, even despite the likes of Count Dracula, who was favored by the Queen for his exploits with that famous detective...what was his name Gordon Scott? No, Homley Sherwood. Drats!

  He couldn't keep his thoughts coherent, because of that blasted padding sound behind him. Or was it the spirits he had imbibed? Didn't matter. Maybe if he hurried up a bit, the damned dog or whatever it was would seek some other poor soul to hound.

  That's it, he remembered. "Sherlock Holmes!" He uttered out loud.

  Those were his last words.

  Not because he wanted them to be, but because something grabbed him from behind, slammed him down so hard on the pavement that his skull cracked open and he lost consciousness immediately. Which was his grace, because as his body lay on the sidewalk pavement, something with a huge hairy snout surged forward with its huge canines, and then ripped his throat out savagely, not even giving him a chance to scream or protest even had he still been awake to resist.

  And just like his censure from work, he was now censure
d from life as well! In the darkness of his unconsciousness he felt himself flee this world as it ceased to exist behind him.

  But what had struck him down had to look up from its grisly meal, its ears twitching as the sound of a Constable's shrill whistle blew over and over again.

  It snarled angrily, and then took another bite of its fresh meal, leaped to its feet and dashed for the safety of the deeper shadows, from which it leaped a nine foot wall and vanished over.

  Chapter Eight: 221B Baker Street

  Watson sat up in bed as if someone had grabbed him by the shoulder and suddenly yanked him with all their might. He gasped for air. His face was flushed. He felt as cold as ice.

  Swiftly, he threw on a blanket about his shoulders and lay down again, but he didn't go back to sleep. He tossed and turned over and over.

  Finally, he slipped out of bed, went to his closet and searched through his clothing.

  He fumbled helplessly some time, but finally managed to snag his pants and a shirt. He had a mission that's all he knew.

  He stopped a moment, wiping at his forehead. What mission? What?

  He ignored his confusion, driven by something he didn't understand, something he had to do. As he left the room, he reached for his service revolver.

  Chapter Nine: In Pursuit

  Watson stepped off the porch of 221B, checked his inner jacket pocket for his weapon, and then stepped along the sidewalk. He looked behind him, to see if anyone had noticed him gone, but the lights in the flat were still out.

  He hurried up the street.

  He knew what he had to do. Where he must go. And it was imperative that he do so at once. His mind was now crystal clear.

  Chapter Ten: Professor Langston

  "You're sure this came from the Chief Magistrate's home itself?" Professor Langston demanded of Holmes, who stood next to him by the laboratory table where the substance he had stolen lay on a slide.

  Holmes eyed his friend, a man who had helped him and Watson countless times, and even though once rumored to have been a criminally insane man known as the Invisible Man, was far from insane. He was by far one of the kindest and most sane men that Holmes had ever met. And he had never killed a soul.

  But the Invisible Man moniker was apt. He just couldn't always control when it would happen. At moments of high anxiety or stress, parts of his body would inexplicably vanish in the most embarrassing of places.

  Rumors have a way of magnifying themselves way beyond whatever truth originally existed within them, but this was for certain...he could turn invisible.

  "I am," Holmes affirmed. "It was caught under the glass containing the books. That could only have happened were the glass to have been closed upon it."

  "Which means that from whomever it had been taken or torn," Professor Langston agreed, "it would had to have been someone that lived there."

  "Most likely, Professor," Holmes replied.

  "I see," Professor Langston said. He took the slide and put it under his Teslascope again and adjusted the magnifier about twenty times, until he could see the finest of structure in the substance.

  "Then in that case I would have to say that this is not human hair."

  He looked at Holmes.

  "What kind is it then? Wolf?" Holmes asked. "Five people have died in recent days from murders that appear to be based on accounts of a werewolf."

  Professor Langston frowned. "It is also not that of a wolf, and yet it is both."

  "Werewolf, Professor?"

  The Professor nodded. "It is my opinion."

  "Opinion?"

  "Fact that this substance is the hair of a werewolf. It is unmistakable for the reason that it contains the genetic material of both wolf and man."

  Professor Langston gestured to the scope. "See for yourself, Holmes."

  Holmes peered into the eyepiece. "I see. It's almost as if the two genes were hugging one another."

  Professor Langston laughed. "A rather crude description, but apt enough.

  Holmes stood straight again and looked into Professor Langston's face. "But you said you were confused by this sample. Why?"

  "You and I know how Harry oftentimes uses magic to combine certain elements?"

  "Yes, to create a third one or a fourth if need be."

  Professor Langston nodded. "This has all the earmarks of magic. For a full blooded werewolf does not have hair that is in a state of degradation like this one. It is either one way or the other. The fact that the genetic makeup appears to be neither fully one nor the other, can only be determined by laws outside those of science and nature."

  Holmes face hardened like granite.

  "And the other thing I asked you to examine?" Holmes asked.

  Professor Langston frowned. "As usual your deduction was absolutely correct. There is some kind of hypnogogic drug laced within the food."

  Holmes stiffened. "Watson!"

  "And..." Professor Langston continued as Holmes headed for the door, "...it is reinforced with some kind of magic, just like the hair you found."

  Professor Langston frowned even harder. The door had slammed and he wasn't exactly sure if Holmes had heard his last words.

  Chapter Eleven: Chief Magistrate Reynolds

  Once again, the Chief Magistrate's sleep was interrupted. He had just climbed into his bed and comfortably set aside his slippers, pounded his feather down pillow to get it positioned for his neck, when he heard the pounding on the front door again.

  But this time he also heard it open.

  "That's strange!"

  He immediately slipped his feet into his slippers, threw on a night robe, grabbed the pistol he kept stored in his right hand dresser drawer and hurried out of the bedroom.

  He got to the staircase and looked down.

  Standing at the foot of the stairs was Doctor Watson. He held his pistol in his hands, and was aiming it upwards at him.

  "Doctor, what in earth do you think you're doing?"

  Doctor Watson didn't reply. Instead he fired.

  The Chief Magistrate jerked to the side. The bullet missed him, not because of his movement, but because Watson's right hand had trembled somewhat before he fired, causing the weapon to move slightly.

  The Chief Magistrate lost his weapon when he recoiled from the bullet and tumbled down the steps to the foot of Watson, who picked it up. He now held two guns. One in each hand.

  The servant, Miles, rushed into view below as Doctor Watson stepped up the staircase.

  "Stop him!" The Chief Magistrate ordered immediately.

  The servant didn't move. He just stood there watching as Watson ascended the stairs, closing the distance between himself and the Chief Magistrate. "For God's sake, man, have you suddenly gone deaf? Do something!"

  Doctor Watson's right eye twitched the same time as he fired yet again. Two volleys at the same time. This time a bullet struck the Chief Magistrate in his right shoulder. He fell back against the wall, clutching at the wound, his face drained of color.

  "For God's sake, Miles, stop him!"

  But Watson wasn't stopped. Miles remained at the foot of the stairs as Watson ascended, almost as if he were in a trance.

  The Chief Magistrate began shaking violently. He had to do something; but he couldn't. All he could do was wait for his certain death.

  Watson finally reached to within several feet of the Chief Magistrate. He seemed to be fighting inside himself as the Chief Magistrate looked on in horror. Then Watson's finger began to pull the trigger again.

  "Kill him!" Miles ordered from below.

  Watson's hand froze. It did not budge.

  The Chief Magistrate pulled away from the wall. "Doctor, don't listen to him. I don't know what's going on, but you mustn't listen to what he says. We are friends, not enemies. You're both obviously under some kind of magical influence."

  "KILL HIM!" Screamed Miles.

  Miles' face turned crimson with rage. Moments later his hands began to lengthen, hair sprout from every pore on his face an
d his exposed arms. His night robe fell away in shreds as his chest expanded and his legs bulged with muscle and hair.

  His mouth shot outwards, turning into a snout, filled with sharp canines, but with one missing one on the right. His fingers sprouted sharp claws and his eye turned blood red and glowed fiercely with anger and death's hunger.

  The Chief Magistrate hollered at Watson, "He's tricked you, Watson. Kill him, or he'll kill the both of us!"

  Watson was frozen. He couldn't move.

  Miles raised his head and howled like the wolf he had become, the werewolf he had become. His eyes fixed on Watson. He leaped onto the staircase and came bounding up two to three stairs at a time.

  The Chief Magistrate, no longer able to stay conscious, he had lost so much blood, slid into unconsciousness and dropped to the floor.

  Watson heard a second howl from the werewolf and suddenly snapped awake, as if coming out of a deep and terrible dream. He spun around and the werewolf, Miles, leaped at him.

  Watson fired every bullet in his weapon.

  The front door slammed open.

  Holmes burst in, followed by Inspector Bloodstone and Constable Evans.

  They froze at the sight of Watson with a smoking weapon. What they saw was Miles lying on the staircase, blood pouring from the wounds in his body, his figure sprawled like a broken toy and above him the Chief Magistrate laying on the landing, his right arm over the top step, blood pouring down it.

  "Bloody hell!" The Inspector swore.

  Watson looked at his friends below, then the bloody corpse at his feet, and then turned to see the fallen Chief Magistrate.

  "What have I done?" He uttered and dropped both the pistols in his hands.

  Chapter Twelve: Scotland Yard

  Inspector Bloodstone looked on as Watson was booked. A Constable started to cuff him, but the Inspector stepped forward and stopped him. "He deserves better."

  The constable saluted, and then led Watson, who looked back at the Inspector with a grateful smile, towards the cells in back.