Back to the cold room and material; Vernet had already drawn the bed with the material on it. I took a deep breath, “here we go. 15th, December, Nineteen Hundred and Two; large mass of gray, soiled material.”
“Visual inspection,” Vernet encouraged me.
“Of course. Starting at bottom of bed, soiled material appears to be wet covered with a mixture of what could be conceived as mud and blood.” Vernet got up and measured everything, just as Holmes had asked. It took us two hours to catalog this material and its filth. “Should I unwrap or cut?”
“Cut. I truthfully would not know where to start unwrapping.” Vernet stated.
With great care, I cut straight up the piece of material. As I pulled back the layers, oh God in heaven, my suspicions were right! It was a person. Worse still, it was a WOMAN! Vernet and I stared at each other in horror.
“Who is she?” He asked.
I could only shake my head. This mess! This gruesome piece of flesh was a person.
Mrs. Hudson and Holmes brought in hot water, coals from the fire to add heat to this little room. Each time Holmes entered, his head was always turned away from us. Away from our heart chilling task.
It was nightfall before I went back into the parlor. Holmes was again kneeling in the floor. I place my hand on his shoulder and could feel him shaking. “Holmes.” Silence. “Holmes, she’s alive.” With that, he fell against me, continuing to shake. I knelt with him. “Holmes we are going to let her rest. I will not traumatize the body more than we have too.” I went back to let Vernet know that I told Holmes but the poor man was already asleep.”
After a couple hours of rest, and a mouth full of food, we sat to work. This poor woman was mutilated. It took Vernet and I almost two days to stitch up all of her lacerations. Some were so old that they had completely healed, while others cut across the healed flesh. We deduced by the healing of her tissue that this had taken place over months. How long? If this was indeed Holmes’ missing woman, it had been a long time. Dear God, what she must have had to endure. It shocked the senses to think that she was alive.
Nothing I witnessed on the field of battle prepared me for this.
Vernet had left. Holmes was deep into the book he had drawn. It must have been easier for him to see the text than the living person. Yes, I said living person. Short of a month had passed since she came into my life. Each day, I cleaned and dressed wounds. Each day there was new healing. If the actual person is as amazing as just the body, I was in for a treat. Holmes came in a couple times. However, was unable to stay for long. He was never a man for great emotion, this situation called for great emotion.
I came back one afternoon from a walk. Snow from a January storm we’re left in large dirty clumps piled in alley ways. It was a relief to the senses to walk down the streets. Though, my thoughts were always with her. I could take it no longer. I sat on a street bench and wept. In all of my time with Holmes’, never had I witness anything like this. I still would not allow myself to think this was the same person that had written the journal; nor that mischievous little girl or seductive woman from the paintings.
When I went to check on my patient, I heard Holmes’ voice through the door. He was reading to her. I knew not the material. I could but help to smile. The bandages were gone from her face and hands. Though, her wrists might never be normal. She looked like a person instead of a mummy from Egypt. The physical healing was progressing well, though I could not foresee how the emotional healing would take shape. Holmes reading to her was a great advantage. A comforting voice from the past; I pray.
I have discovered from my great friend the true difference between passion and emotion. As I stated earlier, I thought this situation called for great emotion. Perhaps I was incorrect in my assumption. I have watched over these many long years the passion at which my friend solves mysteries from least to great. He is methodical; he expounds tremendous amounts of energy, time, and mental facilities with very little emotion. To look back upon it, I saw the same processes with her with little to no emotion. Or what I perceived as little such. If this would have been my person, I would have grieved myself sick, turned over every rock in England to find the person(s) responsible for torturing her. It frustrated me most of the time, not knowing what Holmes was thinking or why? Then, I let myself believe that he felt his emotions in private. I was content with that.
There was a knock at the door. I knew not that we were expecting company. Holmes waved me down. He greeted Inspector Hopkins. “Inspector,” he spoke.
“Good morning to you sirs. You missed Christmas.”
Holmes handed him a book. “If you will recall, when we were in Sussex Downs I told you that I would keep you posted of everything that I felt was important to the case you brought to my attention.”
“I do remember Mr. Holmes.”
“This is next.” Holmes sank into his arm chair. “Dear God this is next.” He whispered.
Inspector Hopkins viewed the book with a wary eye, patting it as if it were an item of great value. “What is this Mr. Holmes?”
“I should say, it is about me.”
Holmes jumped as if he had been struck by lightning. I myself stood only to fall back into my chair. Inspector Hopkins stood staring at the creature that spoke. She was up, walking, and by jove talking. Though; she was holding on to the mantel for support. Her hair was nothing more than little clumps of red spots uh-top her head. Her skin that could be seen was still badly bruised. She tried her best to smile, “I do believe I over did it.”
She collapsed only to have Holmes catch her with his cat like speed. He carried her back to bed. Inspector Hopkins and I followed.
Holmes sat with her, holding her hand. “Indeed, the book is about her. I believe you will need a record of these events in order to build your case.”
“Good Lord.” Inspector Hopkins looked wild eyed from Holmes, to me, then to the lady.
I busied myself checking to make sure she had not reinjured herself.
“Who is she?” Inspector Hopkins whispered.
“Araminta Elizabeth Parker Merryweather,” Holmes answered.
Poetry & More 
One thought on “The Snake and The Rabbit”