On the Streets of Paris

DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any of the affiliated characters or ideas--their creator is the remarkable Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

KS: Halloa to all you readers! Do you know what this is?

This…is the sequel to Brother! Brother took place in about January, if I'm not mistaken, and this will take place in…probably April. And, like Brother (though I don't think I mentioned it) it is pre-hiatus. You might not want to expect quite as many frequent updates as the last fic...I may or may not give them. XD

Also, keep your eyes on my profile page. There I will periodically post links to illustrations of my fics. One is already up. (The one up isn't really an illustration...more of a sketch. But, it's coloured now!)


Only a very few times in my life with Sherlock Holmes did I get the opportunity to travel abroad on those important international cases, and in the middle of the spring of one year I was able to do just that. The affair was a tangled one, but the events surrounding it are of such singular interest, and are so connected with another case of his that I have written, that I knew I must give an account of it.

It was early in the morning, and Holmes had just spent all night in one of his chemical investigations. When I awoke he was already seated at breakfast, not looking at all as if his night had just been spent in such a malodorous—and, if I might add, highly flammable—task.

"Good morning, Watson," said he. "Did you sleep well?"

"Well enough," I replied, deciding not to mention the minor explosion and shouting of the night that had very nearly made me fall out of my bed.

I looked over and saw the mess surrounding the deal table where he worked his experiments—it was strewn with papers, notes, and a few books beside the table's normal objects. I picked up a phial and placed it back onto the table so that it would not be accidentally stepped on.

"Did you discover what you needed to know?" I asked.

Holmes was absorbed in the paper, absent-mindedly eating his breakfast.

"What? oh, yes." He replied. He pointed with his egg-spoon at a section of the agony column. "I do believe this 'R.H.' fellow is trying to extort money from someone." he said, seemingly more to himself than to me.

I took my seat opposite him and poured myself a cup of coffee, beginning on the breakfast that our landlady had provided. Holmes tossed the paper over onto the settee and turned his attention to the various letters that were stacked upon our table beside him.

He shuffled through them, looking as he always did for the most interesting ones first and tossing the others aside to either be burned or looked at later. I noted the ones he flung to the side—not too infrequently they were for me. Most of them to-day were circulars, and one that he tossed aside with a snort of disgust was an invitation to a nobleman's dinner party. Finally, the only one remaining in his hand was a simple letter.

Holmes looked at it for a moment, turning it over in his hands, and then opened it.

"What is it, Holmes?" I asked curiously. Letters almost always meant cases, for neither of us had any real correspondents.

"It is a case," he replied thoughtfully, reading it. "It is from a Frenchwoman…she has apparently lost her husband…" his voice trailed off as he examined it.

Then suddenly he sprang up, going over to a table and taking up our Bradshaw. He looked up at me, and I saw a glimmer in his grey eyes, despite his calm face.

"Pack your things, Watson. We mustn't be late for the train." he said.

"The train?" I asked. "Where are we going?"

"To France," he replied, going to his room. "I hear it is lovely this time of year."

KS: Thanks for reading! Please, don't forget or neglect to review! I know there are plenty of you that liked Brother, so keep me fueled with those reviews!