User blog:Iggylord/Fallout: A Study In Scarlet (Part Four: The Killer's Mistake)

6:30 PM, Friday, the 9th of October, 2291

Number 3, Sussex Gardens, Westminster, The London Wasteland, The United Kingdom

"What do you mean?" Lestrade asked Sherlock, "How's the killer messed up?"

"The case!" Sherlock announced, "We know that Mrs Wilson had two suitcases, but only the smaller of the two is present." With that, my companion moved swiftly down the stairs, not allowing Captain Lestrade to get another word in. Before any of us knew it, Sherlock had taken off, to an unknown location. I limped out of the hotel, in hope to find him.

"He's taken off." Said Donovan, the guard from earlier, "He does that sometimes."

"Ah," I said, "So that's something I should be getting used to, I presume."

"If you're going to be staying with the freak," Donovan said, "Who are you by the way? As in, to Sherlock. Because you're not his friend. Sherlock Holmes doesn't have friends.

"I'm a no-one." I said, "I barely know him."

"Let give you a tip, then," said Donovan, looking serious, "Stay away from Sherlock Holmes."

"And why's that?" I asked.

"He doesn't do this detective work for money," She said, "Doesn't ask for a single cap. He gets off on it. And eventually, he'll get bored of just investigating. One day, we'll be looking at a body, and Sherlock Holmes will be the one who put it there."

"If you insist," I said, unconvinced, limping away, "I need to get back to Baker Town, so, goodbye. It was... interesting talking to you," I continued to limp along, until I was a few streets away from Sussex Gardens. I stopped, to rest my leg and catch my breath.

A few drops of rain began to fall from the sky, which, within a few minutes, had become a heavy downpour. It was almost impossible to hear anything. I kept on thinking I heard footsteps, but dismissing it as heavy rain. Until, of course, a gloved hand grabbed hold of me from behind. It shoved a cloth to my mouth. On the cloth was a smell I recognized from my days as a doctor. Chloroform. I could feel tiredness overwelming me, and, soon, was blacked out, lying in the rain, on the cold, hard concrete of Bell Street.

7:45 PM, Friday, the 9th of October, 2291

Unknown Warehouse, The London Wasteland, The United Kingdom

I awoke in a pile on the floor, my crutch next to me. I appeared to be in some dilapidated pre-war warehouse, although I was't quite sure where. The room was draped in a contrast of bright lights and dark shadows. From one of the shadows, a man appeared. He was a bit on the heavy side, had brown hair, just starting to bald, and wore a black, three piece suit. In his hand was an umbrella, which he swung with an air of swagger as he walked.

"Who the Hell are you?" I asked, rising to my feet, "And why have you kidnapped me."

"I wouldn't call it a kidnapping," the man said, his voice like cold steel, "I'd prefer you to think of it as a 'spontanious meeting. After all, when one is evading notice of Sherlock Holmes, one should take the utmost precautions. Come, Doctor Watson. Take a seat. Your leg must be killing you."

"Damn my leg!" I shouted defiantly, "Who are you?"

"Interesting," the man said, as though amused by a small child, "Your therapist is clearly right. Your limp is psychosomatic. As for who I am, I'm the closest thing that Sherlock Holmes had to a friend."

"And what's that?" I asked, cautiously edging forward.

"An enemy." The man said, "Or, as Sherlock would put it, his 'Arch Nemesis'. He does like to be dramatic."

"What do you want from me?" I said.

"Not much, Dr Watson, not much," the man said, with a slight smirk, "I merely ask that you, in exchange for a generous sum of caps, tell me any information on the good Mr Holmes. Nothing you would be too embarrassed sharing, of course. I just worry about him from time to time."

"I decline." I said curtly.

"I beg your pardon?" The man asked.

"I said, I decline." I repeated, "I'm not telling you anything about him. Ever."

"Curious," the man remarked, looking at a notebook, "Your therapist wrote here that you have trust issues. So I wonder why you would so easily trust Sherlock Holmes?"

I asked him, "How did you know-"

"No matter," he interupted me, "What is more peculiar is that her thoughts on your tremor."

I looked down at my left hand. Until now, it had had a tremor, from PTSD, as my therapist told me. However, it was not shaking right now. It was perfectly still. An email appeared on my Pip-Pad, reading, "If convinient, return to Baker Town. If inconvinient, come anyway. Yours Sincerely, SH."

"She thinks it is from post traumatic stress disorder," the man carried on, as I continued to wonder the source of his information, "Fire her. She couldn't be more wrong. Look at you now. You've just been kidnapped, and yet your hand is perfectly still. For you haven't been traumatized by the war. No, far from it. You've missed the battlefield. And, when travelling with Sherlock Holmes, any day is a fight. Because the thing about war, is that war never changes."

Once again, a chloroform soaked cloth was pressed against my mouth. As I blacked out, the suited man smiled down at my body, and said, "Welcome back to the war, Doctor Watson. Welcome back."

8:05 PM, Friday the 9th of October, 2291

Baker Town, Westminster, The London Wasteland, The United Kingdom

I woke up in an alleyway in Baker Town, my crutch lying next to me. I felt in my pockets and, much to my relief, the Pip-Pad was still there. I walked out onto the main street, which was mostly empty, save for a few guards dotted here and there. I recieved another email from Sherlock, this time saying, "It's urgent. I need you at 221B immediately. S.H." I rushed down the road to 221, and slammed the door open. Whatever Sherlock wanted, it must have been important.

"What is it?" I asked, catching my breath as I burst into the flat.

Sherlock was lying on the sofa, his hands tented, looking thoughtful. "I need you to send an email." he said, opening his eyes.

"I was kidnapped, on the other side of London, and you called me here to send an email?" I asked, marvelled at the sheer ridiculousness.

"I tried shouting for Mrs Hudson, but she didn't here me." He said, as though it was a valid excuse, "What's this about you being kidnapped?" He sounded more curious than caring.

"Some bloke with chloroform," I explained, "Next thing I knew, I was in a warehouse with some guy. He offered me money in exchange for information about you."

"And did you take it?" Sherlock asked, sitting up.

"No." I answered.

"Pity," He replied, "We could have split the profit. Think things through next time. On my desk, there's an email address. I want you to send a message."

"First," I said, "The man who kidnapped me, he said he was your "arch nemesis". Real people don't have arch-nemesises."

"Don't they?" Sherlock asked, looking surprised, "Real people are boring. Now on my desk there's an email address. I want you to email it. There's always a chance that it'll be recognized."

"Okay," I said, "What do you want me to send." I sat down at my terminal.

"These words exactly," said Sherlock, "Thanks for the help with my stuff. Think I left my bag with you. Let's meet at the Acacia Café, and I'll take it back."

I typed the message and pressed send, saying, "Who did you leave your bag with?"

"No-one," Sherlock said, "You just sent a message to Jennifer Wilson's email address."

"What?" I asked, "The dead woman? Then, why'd I send that?"

"Well, the killer's biggest mistake was keeping the case with him," said Sherlock, "He would have realised it within a few minutes, and ditched the case. It only took a few minutes to find the right back-alley. However, I found a Pip-Boy 2000 charger in Mrs Wilson's case, and a list of the various email addresses she used for her various lovers. So, John, who has the Pip-Boy itself?"

"The killer." I said, "Hang on did you just get me to send a message to the killer?"

"Of course I did." Sherlock announced, "Think of it from the killer's perspective: It's been less than two hours since you killed your last victim, and you recieve an email that can be only from a woman you poisoned. An innocent man would remain calm whereas a guilty one would panic, and go to the place of meeting. Come on, the Acacia Café is a small, road-side diner a small walk from Baker Town. Let's get going."

"Sherlock, I can barely walk a few metres without needing a brake." I said.

"That would surpise me," Sherlock said, "Because you just ran up a flight of stairs, proof that your limp is merely psychological." As he said that, he kicked my crutch out of my hand and, much to my surprise, I was now standing fine, unhurt. "So then, Dr Watson," He said, putting on his coat, "Now that I've cured what it's taken months to even treat, let's get walking. To Acacia Road we go!"