Sherlock Holmes and the Perilous Plague

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  1. Day 1
    March 8, 1829
    Mother dearest says that she has hired another tutor for me. I would honestly rather learn by my own devices. The elderly women do nothing but lecture and the younger ones hardly know a thing as to what they teach. A simple book can teach me more than any of the two of them, and yet, I've read every book available to me. In short, I'm just... Bored. Mother refuses to hear it, and Father is too busy to care anymore... I'm told that boredom is nothing but a state of mind, that there is always something of interest to do. And so they told me to start writing these journals. I doubt that there is any benefit to writing out the happenings of my dull days, but at least its something... I have been making masks and gadgets, hats and jewelry, but Mother despises my style with a passion fit only for a troll. She throws them out along with any dissected rodents or birds she finds. Is there something so wrong with trying to occupy my mind with endeavors of scientific nature, or turning science itself into art?

    Day 13
    March 20, 1829
    I've run off another tutor. Father is furious, and Mother sees me as a shame. I've been locked in my room for the rest of the night, and wasn't even let out earlier for the family luncheon, though I could consider that a blessing. No one in their right mind would eat anything that aunt Macabeth served. I've found a couple more hiding spots to store my science projects and steam work jewelry. Hopefully my belongings aren't removed from me again.

    Day 24

    ..... Another rat stolen..... a broken bird's wing was taken...... and my clockwork bracelet was smashed to pieces...... Enough..... And good riddance........

    March 31, 1829
    Police autopsy report
    The Miller family of three were killed in an arson crime, the fire having been too strong to put out in time. Not one survived. The Father, Aaron Miller, was found holding a bottle with trace amounts of alcohol, seeming to be the fire's main accelerant. The mother was nearby with knitting needles in hand. Whatever was being made was likely an easy light for any sparks that could have floated away from the living room fire-place. The main center of the fire, however, was in their only child's bedroom. No remains were found besides ash that had general similarity in form to that of an eight year old girl.

    11 Years Later

    Never had there been a doubt as to the outcome of the 3-31-29 arson incident. It's scenario set up had even been used fairly often as a teaching aide for up and coming fire fighters. There was an article in the paper talking about one firefighter's exceptionally high test scores on the scenario. Sitting in a coffee shop with that article in hand was a young woman with long, waved, silky red hair and pale skin. She wore a black leather trench coat over the top of a grayed brown cloth blouse and a long gray skirt that just barely came to rest above her wedged heel shoes. Within the clear plastic of the heal was an encased machine that seemed to work by steam power, though it seemed to be completely functionless, a mere statement of fashion. Little more was on her person besides a small handbag that was situated in her lap as she held up the paper with one hand and sipped a dark roasted coffee that was held in the other. The early morning on a Wednesday was hecktic for most of the working class to say the least, but even so, the sun bore no care, rising and falling as it did every day, casting color to the sky as if it enjoyed its job. If of course something so absurd were ever possible.

    As the woman turned the page in the paper, another article caught her eye. 'Alabaster Smith: Found Dead?' Many people would remember who the man was. A big uproar had occurred when the former member of parliament had gone missing but only two years ago. Now, an even greater uproar would be caused with the revelation of his death. There were no specific details in the paper, likely as a precaution by the local police force to buy them more time on investigation. A curious measure, but one that absolutely had to be taken. Especially for the tall, bald headed man with a scruffy, mustache and a cabby's hat that walked up to a small flat. He wore simple dress clothing, showing that he was a man of professional demeanor, or a man simply on a business call. The only thing that could distinguish him was the badge hidden in his jacket pocket. 221 B Baker street. He was at the right place. He roughly knocked upon the door a few times before calling out.
    "Sherlock! I know you're in there you ruffian! Open the door this instant!" he called before knocking again, louder. Charles Forester, the Chief of Police, had no time to wait upon a seeming madman who had all the answers to any case.
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  2. Sherlock Holmes, darkblue

    Deep in the bowels of his room at 221B Bakers St, Sherlock Holmes sat in the dark and pondered some endless mystery. Bored was the term that fit him best, bored bored BORED! He strode across the room and back again, anything to subdue his mind but it was for naught. Still the endlessly voracious crime solver had nothing to solve, nothing to do and nothing to distract himself the endless, boring nothingness with which he found himself faced.

    There was a sharp rap on the door, following by several others. The rough and loud voice of an exasperated individual called out, his mind absently noting the stress and strain in his voice. Forrester had a fight this morning, the tension of the rubato in his voice suggested it had been loud and long, perhaps financial or work related stress but who could really tell? Him, of course, who else? "Sherlock! I know you're in there you ruffian! Open the door this instant!" Now there was a voice he recognised and he let out a sigh of exasperated disbelief. These people needed to raise their intelligence or it would be the death of him.

    He clattered down the stairs, pulling open the door and quite frustratingly greeted the police inspector he had come to know and love. Note the sarcasm there. "Whatever do you want Charles? If it's about that damn Erget case, it was the butler. He had gun powder on his white gloves for Pete's sake! He found his boss sleeping with his wife and killed him, plain and simple! Now what else do you want from me?!" The police irked him at times, with their feeble intelligence and hardly a handful of wit in between them all. They seemed so desperate for help but always snapped and grumbled when they had to ask him for assistance. Really, it must be so exceedingly dull in their lives, no spark or fire to keep them going. What a bothersome life! "And have you managed to figure out the killer of Alabaster Smith or do I have to do all your work for you?"
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  3. Janell sighed as she finally got up from her seat, fastening the strap of her small purse as she pushed in her chair and looked about. Leaving the paper there on the small table, she picked up her empty cup and carried it back over to the service counter, depositing it there before leaving the rather high end coffee house. It was by this time that the streets seemed to have calmed down from the original morning work rush, only a few people dotting the street sides here and there. A large mechanical horse, hooked to a carriage, blew off a loud puff of smoke, the thick white steam and smoke composition having a metallic and acidic smell to it that would repulse most, but was acceptable in the mind of the young maiden who passed by, stopping beside a man who seemed to be performing maintenance upon the machine. The elderly looking man glanced up when he sensed the presence of another being beside him, but quickly looked away.
    "Begone, young lass, you have no business here," he said in his raspy and strained voice, likely having damaged vocal chords and respiratory tract from constantly breathing in the fumes given off by the machine. Even so, that tone was one not to be used with a lady. Janell clutched her bag tightly in one hand before knocking away the tool that was held in the man's hand with a swift swipe of the foot.
    "Bring me to the river Thames, the point closest to here. I have business to conduct. My pocket book has the leniency to pay you well for the trouble," she said coldly, annoyed that anyone would so much as think to disrespect a maiden in such a way. To what was this horrid world coming to? Even the elderly of the time needed a lesson in respect.

    Charles grumbled under his breath.
    "Yes, yes, the butler... What? No, you nit wit! I need you at the station! There's been a note for you. As well as the fact that we would like consultation upon the A. Smith case. But only as a second mind to go over our work. We have this mainly figured out already, you overconfident bastard. We'll let you run us around when you become the chief of police." Forester held back the full force of hostility and annoyance in his voice as he knew that any perceived weakness could be exploited by this sociopath whom the rest of the force seemed to need to function on a daily basis for most cases that were more complex 'than taking two steps and finding a confession note', as Sherlock had once commented in front of the most elite of Charles' own team. Just thinking about the incident boiled the man's blood. He was certainly an intelligent man, and needed babysitting from no one. Especially a man who sits in his apartment all day, exploiting government aid and any poor soul who would be so stupid as to come to him for problem solving instead of the local police force.
    "Now come on you dog. I made sure that I brought a more luxurious carriage this time so that I needn't hear you complain the entire time."
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