Criminals eyes, an alternative point of view;
a Sherlock Holmes story

by Ros Mayhew

Jerking back in the half-light from his blow you protectively raise your arm over your face. You hit the floor. Hard. Tendrils of pain lick their way across your sides and your breath escapes in ragged gasps as you roll over to stare up at your opponent. But he is in a similar state too, all shaken and trembling; for a moment- and only one- you think he is sorry, that he feels remorseful. However, the shadows betray his features set by malice into steel. He moves, a ghurka in his hand, and leans closer… The glint of light in the darkness, like fire in the forest, sparks some animal instinct- your foot lashes out. A satisfying crunch promises pain for him and you grin madly in the darkness. In seconds you are on your feet again and charge towards him whilst he is off-balanced. A thud. A sound akin to the tearing of wet sheets. A sickening wet noise and the bubbling of blood as he chokes for air.

You don’t bother to examine his corpse but quickly scramble to your feet and make for the stairs, away from the carnage. The weak fanlight through the window near dazzles you but it allows you to appraise yourself for the first time: your cuffs are ripped and your hands are streaked with blood, some of it your own. Fortunately the bloodstains are confined to your arms and, perhaps, you will be lucky, and not meet anyone going home. Your left hand feels numb, but in a strange way- a sort of muted pain. Squinting, you see why- two parallel cuts across the palm, and two matching on the fingers, where you caught the knife and pushed it away from you as you fell the second time.

What you have done has not fully dawned on you until now; the gallows await you. You have murdered him. No reason alive (or dead) will save your neck. Scotland Yard will hunt for you. The man was a monster but he was important (as they often are), even the great Sherlock Holmes could be called in. at this thought your heart begins to hammer on your chest like a bird beating its wings against the bars of its cage, yearning for freedom. Have you left any clues? He had been expecting you, but what clues could there be? You had not planned for this, only to talk with him, make him understand the pain, to try and stop him. And now you have murdered. The weapon was his; it could even be suggested that he fell upon the blade after tripping over. But that is unlikely (he dishevelled his own clothes, broke his own knee, punched himself repeatedly and then fell on his knife?). They will guess it was done by another, and you will know it was by your hand (and knee and foot) that he died.

Almost home now. It comes as rather a surprise; your thoughts have been so loud in your head that you have bot heard anything, much less noticed how close to home you are. A handkerchief allows your bloodied hands to grip the key and you are in. You are a machine now, moving but not thinking; jacket off, washing arms, dressing cuts. The sting of carbolic acid restores your senses but the cooling bandages are like warmth after the cold; you become lethargic and drift off into sleep.

Your dreams are calm. They are all safe. The only threat there ever was lies cooling in a dark house on the other side of London. You feel content.

In seconds you are awake, alert, pensive and it is morning. A pair of sharp grey eyes are staring at you keenly, dark hair falling over white temples and a strong thin hand is shaking your arm.

"Holmes?" you say, your voice slurred with sleep and shock. He smiles.

"Come Watson, come! Not a word- into your clothes and come. There is work to be done, the game is afoot!"


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