“The bankers missing wife?” He gasped.

“The same. Hopkins, you can tell no one that she is here. Whatever persons that did this to her may still be looking for her.”

‘Whatever persons?!’ I screamed in my head; as I shot Holmes a startled look.

Hopkins went over to the small window that was in this room, “dear Lord.”

“Whom do you suspect?”

Holmes only shook his head.

The good inspector left.

Holmes tried to keep himself busy. I think it was his way of dealing with the pain. Though, I could be incorrect. I have been before. He stayed gone a lot. I found myself reading to Elizabeth. I read to her the newspaper mostly. One evening I was reading a story about Princess Beatrice.

She moaned a little, “Bea.”

I was unsure if I should stop reading or continue with the story. As confusing as it was, I said nothing to Holmes about it.

We sat at the table for dinner some days later, Holmes not saying a word.

“Your appetite is failing you Watson.”

I slammed my napkin down on the table and rose. “Holmes, I must talk about this. I am going mad.” I was exhausted both mentally and physically. “Help me.” I implored.

“Talk,” he raised an eyebrow at me.

“Will you respond? Will you help me figure out answers to my questions?” Holmes stared at me with an indifference that added to my frustration. I pointed toward our patiences room. When I followed my own out stretched arm with my eyes, she was sitting on the couch.

She looked at me with sad eyes, “sit with me kind doctor.” Her voice was soft. Her hands that of a skeleton. Holmes regarded her with the reverence of a queen as he walked past us to his arm chair.

She turned to face Holmes, “I prayed that you would befriend a kind doctor.”

“So you did write the journal?” I asked. Her hand placed atop mine.

“Indeed I did, doctor.” She was smiling as she turned back toward me.

“I really think it would be best if you returned to bed.”

“Doctor, I have laid too long.”

“How do you feel?”

“I am tired, sore,” with the movements of a drunkard she put her other hand uh-top her head. “And long for my hair to grow back.”

At first it was like this. However, she rekindled my energy, the little changes in her. After three months she was almost able to dress herself. Mrs. Hudson had to do very little to help her. She was able to make it to the parlor door without help.

Holmes and I had been out one bitter spring day. When we returned, she was sitting by the window looking out onto Bakers Street. Holmes just stood by the door watching her. Her hair was growing nicely. It was now the cut of a military man. Short. Holmes said nothing to her, only watched.

Finally, I could take it no longer. I walked over to her. “Good afternoon. May I call you Elizabeth?”

She smiled a weak smile, “my dear doctor, please call me Lizzie.”

It made my heart sing that she would allow me to call her an abbreviation of her name. “How are you feeling today Lizzie?”

She laid her hand uh-top mine. “You tell me doctor. I know Sherlock has been training you. Plus, you are a very talented doctor regardless of what he says.” She turned and winked at Holmes.

“Posh,” Holmes threw up his hand as he walked to the fire place.

She followed him with her eyes, giving a wicked little grin.

“I shall not toy with you. As your doctor, I need to hear these things from you.”

“Understood.” She looked out the window, took a deeper breath than she had been, “my head is pounding. Everything hurts. Every muscle in my body.”

“Do you need medicine?”

“No, this too shall pass.”

Mrs. Hudson came into the room holding a tray and humming. “Here you go sweet child.” She laid out…

“What is that?” I asked in shock. For I was unsure I knew what the white fluffy stuff could be.

“At least it is more than broth.” Holmes scoffed.

Mrs. Hudson frowned, “you care not for my broth.”

Holmes rolled his eyes.

Elizabeth said, “My good lady, one can only eat broth for so long.”

She smiled, “agreed. Well enjoy your potatoes. If you need anything, let me know.”

“Thank you.”

Holmes was by her side helping her from her seat by the window to a seat at the table. She took a breath over the potatoes that Mrs. Hudson had fixed. “They smell so good.” Her stomach let out a gurgling type growl. She blushed, “well, that was not very lady like.”

“We will not stand on ceremony today,” Holmes sat at the table then motioned me to the other seat.

When she rose up from sniffing her food, she immediately closed her eyes. For a moment, I thought she was praying. I looked at Holmes with a questioning glance.

Holmes spoke, “Ara?”

She opened her eyes for only a moment. “Give me a moment gentlemen. The room is spinning.”

I stood, “my lady will you permit me?”

She slowly raised both her hands, one on either side of her head. “It seems silly at best.”

“You need to eat.”

“I know,” she whispered.

Holmes got up helping her with the greatest of care to the couch. He sat down first making sure that she sat beside him. She began to raise her hands to her head again. He placed his hands there instead. I watched this interaction with the upmost curiosity. I knew Holmes had the capacity for great kindness. I had witnessed the tip of the iceberg many times before.

“Ara,” he whispered.

“Sher?”

“I am right here.”

She slumped over on him. His voice cracked at first, “Watson, will you fetch me a cushion?” I did so and placed it under her head. “Will you ask Mrs. Hudson to keep those warm?”

I was away at once, tray in hand.

Real spring was finally coming to our home. Flowers were in bloom, grass was starting to grow. And I felt light at heart. Holmes and I had been out interviewing a client. He was in a better mood for he stopped and bought a bouquet of flowers. We opened the front door to her voice laughing. Holmes looked bewildered. There on the steps she sat with Mycroft, Holmes’ brother.

“Sherlock,” she smiled. “This is as far as I could make it. As I was sitting here composing myself, look who stopped by?” She and Mycroft were holding hands.

“My boy, you should be ashamed. Not telling me she was here.” Mycroft scolded

Holmes spoke as he kissed the top of her hand. “It was for her safety.” Holmes gave Lizzie the flowers, “for you my good lady.”

“I am afraid I am going to need help back up the stair.” She blushed.

I removed my hat and tipped it toward her, “my good lady.” I bowed. “You have three gentlemen here to assist you.”

Mrs. Hudson clear her throat. Pulling my attention to the fact she was standing at the bottom of the stairs.

I corrected myself, “make that four persons at the ready.”

She giggled like a school girl full of light and youth. Mrs. Hudson took the flowers to put them in a vase. Holmes’ and I helped her up. Mycroft stayed for hours; the three sharing stories about their youth. I learned more about Holmes’ that evening than I had in all the years of our friendship.

The Snake and The Rabbit

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 Snake and The Rabbit