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.

The December wind tore with force down Bakers Street. As the years progressed on me, my old wound pains me even more. Not to mention the normal ware on the human body with age. As the snow piled up on the sides of the buildings out our windows, it struck me as to the calmness that snow always brings. If only for the briefest of moments; the world seems clean and at peace with itself when it is snowing.

Holmes was sitting in his arm chair. He had not uttered a word in days. I am sure he is thinking about Mr. Parker’s daughter. He seemed to be not in the room. Elsewhere I know not.

I turned my attention back out the window. There was not a soul brave enough to venture out in this deplorable weather. I found no use in it either. Determined to update our indexes, I pulled one from the bookcase and began my task. It seemed that I know sooner had turned the page before a heart stopping scream tore through the silence. I was sure the shrillness of it could be heard all the way to Scotland Yard.

“Mr. Holmes! Doctor!” Was that Mrs. Hudson?

Holmes stared at me for a blank moment. Both unsure that it was real; silence had enveloped us as soon as the shrilling had subsided.

“Mr. Holmes! Doctor! Come quickly!”

Holmes and I jumped to our feet, running toward the now panting screams. We found Mrs. Hudson at the back door, white as the snow on the ground.

“Mrs. Hudson,” I asked. “Whatever is the matter?” Before I could gather my wits about me, Holmes was on his knees beside of a protuberance of soiled gray material. Soiled by dirt and presumably blood; for scattered all over it were crimson splotches and layers of grime.

Holmes was ashen, more so than usual and shaking as he guided his hands over the very large piece of material.

“Holmes,” I whispered. With a shot of strength I called again, louder, “Holmes.”

I thought I heard him say, “Ara.” But his voice was cracked chaos. He could have said anything.  

Holmes picked up the bundle of rags like it was a fragile child. “Mrs. Hudson, ring Vernet. Tell him I have an emergency for him the likes he has never seen. Watson, come with me.” I followed Holmes back to our shared parlor. He placed the rags by the fireplace, “come.” I followed him into a small room off to the right of the parlor that was seldom used. It was full of books and papers. With the speed of mad men, we emptied the room of its contents. To my surprise, a small bed was buried under the mountain of material that now laid waste to our parlor. Once more he picked up the rags. As he laid it with the greatest care, on the bed, the notion struck me that this was a person. A human being! No, I must be wrong.

I will never know how Vernet made it to Bakers Street in such a timely fashion. It seemed as no time had passed before he was standing by the fireplace. “Watson, my good man, what is the emergency?”

“I do not understand the full measure of what we are facing.” I answered. Holmes had disappeared.

Besides being a brilliant doctor, Vernet was also a talented artist like most of his family.

Holmes came through the door from the stairs. His complexion was still ashen. “Thank you for coming on such short notice.” The two men shuck hands. I thought Holmes would burst into tears instead of speak. The look on his face was one of horror and pain. He visibly steadied himself before he spoke. “Gentlemen, Mrs. Hudson and I are at the ready for anything you will need. The task you are about to undertake is the most important that you have ever, or will ever do. You have to be meticulous. Log everything. Measure everything. Vernet, make a visual record of everything.”

I started to walk toward the little room, Holmes grabbed my arm. He was squeezing me with force. His eyes were closed. His chest moved rapidly. As he began to speak, his lips quivered. “Watson, if you love me, I beg you.” He let go of me, sinking to his knees.

Vernet and I walked into the cold room. The mass of material had not moved. I released a long sigh.

“I guess it is my job to take dictation and draw.” I had forgotten Vernet was even in the room.

Holmes words and actions had chilled my blood. Vernet left the room, coming back soon with a chair. Leaving once more, he brought a small table, placing on it plain paper and different writing or drawing instruments. I was unsure.

With Vernet getting ready for the task ahead, I thought it proper to get my bag. Holmes had moved to his chair. I knelt in front of him. “Holmes?” After several moments of torturous silence, I left him alone.