Chapter Text
July 18, 1897
Dear Radcliffe,
As previously discussed, please find enclosed the manuscript entitled "Sherlock Holmes and the Vampiric Assassin." While I am sympathetic to your reluctance towards publication, I urge you to reconsider your decision. In light of recent popularity of a certain novel that deals with similar subject matter, Mr. Holmes feels it is of vital importance to provide your readers with a scientific analysis so as not to feed into dangerous rumor, mysticism, and superstition. What follows is the whole and honest truth of what occurred; we feel it is our duty as men of science to make the story public.
Should you find it within your powers of discretion to move forward with this tale, you may reach me at the usual address.
Sincerely,
Dr. John H. Watson
Manuscript, dated October 1880
From the desk of John Watson
The tale begins as another ends, as most good tales do.
Mr. Sherlock Holmes and I were on a return journey back to London following the curious case of the Italian Nobleman. We had been in the country for some time at the bidding of an old friend of the Holmes brothers and we were eager to return to the familiarity of Baker Street, having neatly wrapped up a case that appeared to have bored my companion to the extent I feared his lethargy might lead to problems better suited for home. Indeed, we traveled through the countryside in a farmer's wagon which we had loaned to take us the middle leg of the journey. I found myself regretting that decision as the cold, damp autumn air wrapped itself around us in a malaise of grey cloud and ever-threatening winds that cut through one's overcoat and forced the urge to pull one's hat down below one's eyes to provide relief from the elements.
Holmes had remained silent through much of our ride, seemingly unbothered by our conditions. He lay sprawled in the bottom of the wagon, or at least as close as is possible to get while in cramped quarters stuck with straw poking out like needles, seemingly lost in thought. Being that we were between cases, I could only imagine the places his reeling mind must take him, wearied as I was by his black moods. He'd made no attempt to engage in our driver's attempt at conversation, leaving me to try to pay what remained of our way alone; the man clearly did not consider coin to be payment enough. As he rambled on about this and that, I too finally became weary enough with the effort that I allowed my own mind to wander to thoughts of Mary and the hearth beside my bed where my flannel slippers must still surely lie.
Too far down that mental path, as it happened.
I was jolted out of my own warm fog by a tremendous crash and the sensation that my body was being pulled forward by an invisible force. The sight of a tree rushing up to meet my head caused me to jolt back and resist, but my efforts were for naught and I found myself staring momentarily at a darkening sky through the dead branches before the world went dark.
I awoke some time later with an overpowering, drowsy sensation of warmth such as I had almost forgotten exists, as one does during times of extended cold weather. While my first impulse was to surrender to the sensation and fall back into sleep, I became aware that something had occurred and attempted to engage my brain to recall. A sound could be heard above the crackling of a fire near my head and my eyes flew open in sudden understanding, or as much understanding as I could muster in those first few moments of consciousness.
My head spun at the effort of trying to move to a sitting position, so I remained lying down on a soft, unfamiliar bed, twisting my neck towards the sound that had alerted my medical training. The soft groan repeated itself, louder this time and I saw Holmes on a bed near to mine. A white bandage, slightly stained with old blood covered his forehead and his eyes were closed, but he shifted restlessly as though his keen mind tried to convince his broken body that all was well without much success.
"Holmes!" I spoke in a hiss, uncertain of our surroundings, uncertain of his condition, certain only that something dreadful had occurred.
His eyes did not open, but he raised a hand to the bandage and twisted the rest of his face into a grimace. "Contain yourself, doctor," he murmured.
Momentarily relieved by the sound of his voice, I allowed my head to fall back upon a soft pillow. I took in the condition of my own body with a practiced eye, identifying a searing pain in my left shoulder, accompanied by the familiar, yet moderately intensified ache of my old leg wound. Apart from a mild concussion, I appeared to be in one piece. My mind searched back, trying to recall what had happened, before concluding that we must have been thrown from the wagon in an accident of unknown origin. It was not a comforting memory.
"Holmes, are you hurt?" Attempting to sit up to assess, I was overcome by the sensation that my shoulder did not bear moving at the moment.
He turned his head to look at me with an expression somewhere between pained and mildly amused. "I believe our hosts have seen to my condition. My head appears to have been somewhat harder than the wagon wheel which it struck and the blood you see is largely a surface wound." Slowly, he sat up to prove it. "But it seems that you are considerably worse off. I believe they have brought our cases to this room and I will see if your bag is among them."
My vision came upon a note that sat on a bedside table next to me and I reached out to retrieve it as Holmes busied himself. "Holmes, I believe that we've found ourselves among friends," I said in relief, scanning through a brief message imploring us to ring when we are ready for assistance. "We are in the house of my old military friend Colonel George Bantry. What good fortune that we were close upon him when the accident occurred."
Holmes declined to look at me, sorting through our things. "Good fortune indeed."
Colonel Bantry and his wife welcomed us into their home, though it was immediately obvious that their welcome was not without reluctance. We dined together the next day, my head injury having improved enough to allow for polite conversation and even in my weak and wearied state, I could immediately sense that we were intruding.
"No, of course you must stay until you are well enough to travel, old friend," Bantry said, seated at the head of the table in the dining room.
Bantry's wife came from an old, respectable English family, despite Bantry himself originating from a similar background to my own. As a result, the house was large and grand, though perhaps not befitting of a lord of the county. It was old and dark, the light of the fireplaces kept low and far between, the candles sparse. Massive hunting trophies hung on all the walls, showing tigers and elephant heads from Bantry's time in India. The overall effect, lined with dark wood, disturbingly graphic paintings, and the smell of damp, was less that of status than an extension of the uncomfortably dark climate outside.
We sat, all four of us, at a table far too large for our party. Holmes had removed his bandage, revealing an unsightly but shallow cut on his forehead; he sat perched on the edge of his chair, observing. Colonel Bantry, a tall, greying man of middle age sat rigid, eyes fixed straight ahead. Lady Bantry sat across from him, her eyes dull and weary, barely present apart from a sense of duty to her husband.
"We do not wish to impose upon your generosity," said I, gripping the handle of the cane Holmes had retrieved from my case, despite remaining fully seated. "And we are of course anxious to return to London after our long journey."
I found myself casting my mind back to the Bantry I had known in the past, so vibrant and full of life. A man that I had served with, a man known in our regiment as something akin to a court jester who took it upon himself to inspire laughter in times where it could be difficult to come by. He had been an unmarried soldier, like many of us. While I did not consider anyone in those days to be a close friend, if I had sought out companionship, he would have been among those I might have approached. I conceded that today, I had only spoken to him briefly and whilst suffering a head injury, but the coldness of the house surprised me nonetheless. Or perhaps saddened me, seeped as it was in something I could not touch.
Bantry cleared his throat in response to my polite demure, causing his wife to start and softly echo his sentiment. I found myself staring at her before lowering my gaze in embarrassment, trying to place the emotion on her face.
Holmes remained silent, picking at the meat on his plate. I could sense restlessness, even if our dining companions could not. It only spurred my desire for the both of us to leave as soon as possible; embarrassment might have been the least of my worries, but it was still a distinct possibility.
"What is it exactly that you do, Mr. Holmes?" asked Bantry, in what may have been an effort towards polite conversation.
Holmes twisted his lips, placing an unconscious hand to his forehead. "I execute justice, Colonel, a field that takes me into amateur criminology and detection."
"Ah yes," Bantry frowned. "I believe I have read of your work through the writings of my old friend Watson from time to time. You solve mysteries?"
"I have been known to puzzle out cases for my own curiosity from time to time," allowed Holmes with a sideways glance towards my clenched fist. Sensing pain, he got to his feet. Momentarily blinded by the pain of my shoulder, I allowed him to help me up and turn as though to exit the hall before my eyes refocused and fell upon the portrait of a young girl, perhaps 14 or 15 years old at most. I paused, leaning on my cane and allowing Holmes to grasp my good elbow.
"Mr. Holmes, we need your help; there is no one else that we can turn to." It was the lady who spoke, surprising all of us.
Holmes turned to look at her. "Help with what, my lady?"
Colonel Bantry puffed out his chest, his face reddening. "We will not bring others into this matter," he said firmly, reaching out to plant a fist on top of her outstretched hand. "This is not for him to know."
But Holmes put up a hand to silence him, his eyes fixed on the lady in fascination. "Help with what, my lady?" he repeated.
Her eyes glistened with tears. "Oh, Mr. Holmes," she whispered. "I'm afraid a curse has fallen upon our house and it has taken our child. The priests have forsaken us and I know not what to do." She paused, breathed. "She was taken, Mr. Holmes."
"Taken by whom?" I asked, suddenly unable to contain myself at her unexpected show of emotion.
"Vampires," said she, letting the word slice through the coldness of the dining hall as we stared in silence.