Sherlock Holmes Mystery Six: Sherlock Holmes

By John Pirillo

Sherlock Holmes squares off against monsters, villains and evil in a parallel world where all the authors who have ever lived exist, along with the characters they created.

Six books filled with adventure, mystery and  urban fantasy/science fiction excitement.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Pirillo
• Release date: Feb 28, 2019
• ISBN: 9781386535973

John Pirillo

The author was born in Washington, Pennsylvannia. He loves animals and birds. Has two pet cockatiels that keep him company while he writes. He has a lovely daughter and a rascally grandson. He is rich in friends that matter and well adjusted to a life of challenges. He writes and draws every day. He loves anything science fiction, fantasy or extremely well written. Same goes for movies and TV. Not married currently, but has an eye and ear open to possibilities. :)

Book preview

FALLEN

Chapter One: Paradise Lost

"B etter men than he had found themselves on the wrong side of the law. Better men than he had found themselves on the wrong side of death."

-—Doctor John Watson

A flat.

London

MidBells

What?

Andrew Stanton examined the red rose he had found on the other pillow of his bed.

He lay on his side facing it.

It was about twelve inches long, the deep, blood red of its petals about four inches.

It was the largest rose he had ever seen. And he had seen a lot.

It was his favorite tool to win the hand of his latest catch. Married women all.

Tired of their lackluster lives. Tired of cooking for men who didn’t care. Having one child after another who grew up to be exactly like their father.

That he was attracted to women with much the same outlook on life as himself, he didn’t ponder or give much thought. It wasn’t his nature to reflect upon his own rotten foundation, or what he might have done to shore it up, to improve him.

He was first and foremost a schemer.

Nothing more.

Nothing less.

He was a vampire in many ways.

He lived off the love of others.

And their money.

He eyed the small cache of gold coin that lay on the bed beside him, just below the pillow.

She had left him a small reward.

He still remembered the touch of her silken skin upon his chest, hot and pulsing with life and expectancy.

He had not disappointed her.

She had not disappointed him.

Especially this morning.

He had thought them through with each other, but last night she knocking on his door urgently. The hallway, usually well lit, was dark.

He couldn’t see her face, but he could tell it was her by her voice.

Will you let me in? She asked.

He had let her in.

Now...he smiled as he reached out to take the gold coins.

But for some reason he took the rose by its thorny stem instead.

A splash of blood erupted from his thumb that held the rose thorn too tightly.

Blimey! He cursed and sat up.

He strove to throw the rose away, but it wouldn’t come free.

More blood began to drip from the wound made.

He ripped at the rose stem with his other hand, but instead of that hand removing the rose, it became caught on the stem as well.

What the? He uttered, in a growing state of shock.

He leaped from his bed to his feet and staggered about his small bedroom, hopping up and down, trying to remove the rose from his right and left hands.

Now two streams of blood were pouring freely from the wounded areas. Not huge amounts, but slow, steady streams, like the trickle from a faucet not quite closed.

He didn’t worry about the blood loss yet; he was too wrapped up in the act of acting to stop the blood flow.

Then a great idea lit his mind at that moment. It was as if one those Oriental fellows with their flying rockets that exploded into myriad cascading darts of colored light had come alive inside his soul at that moment.

It was perfect.

It couldn’t get any more so.

He looked slowly, cunningly at the window frame beckoning at him with its glass reflecting his image so many times that he felt as if her were in a parade of wonderful people.

He rose to applaud himself and then...

Incident: Contagious Magic

London Bridge,

London

Later

MidBells was long come and gone. Big Ben had sounded the time of night and silenced itself, sleeping until the next hour weighed its hour and minutes and rung its bells.

Traffic had slowed to such a crawl that not even the Midnight Angels loitered anymore at the entrances to the bridge, hoping for a last night connection, one more chance to supplement their poverty with some kind of income...even one as degrading to them as it was...to feed themselves and their families.

Counting their hard earned money the women, one by one, swept off the pavement of the bridge and went their separate ways, some nodding to the other as they passed one another in a silent form of comradery.

Good Queen Mary of Scots had done much to uplift their status over time, but poverty still existed. No one could erase that without a law so stern that the Queen would lose her head as some prior rulers had for imposing laws that the rich and powerful would not suffer.

Loitering on the dark side of the bridge a tall man stood in the deepest of the shadows, only his eyes visible. Not kind eyes. Not the eyes of a man you would trust. Or ever could.

I’m here, greeted a young woman, her face cloaked beneath a hood drawn over her head, so only her cheekbones, and eyes were visible.

Her voice trembled somewhat, giving away the degree of fear and anxiety she felt. But also a sense of determination that went well beyond the scope of normal...especially considering the man she stood before.

A dark man.

Reviled by those who serve the good side of nature and envied by his dark competitors.

Indeed, he greeted her.

And do you have what I want? He asked.

She nodded.

She held out a piece of branch that appeared burnt on one end. It had an almost oily appearance to it, as if it were shedding some kind of liquid.

He clasped it, held it close to his eyes.

Hers for sure?

The young woman shivered. And damned for sure.

He laughed. I’d say that was going a bit too far, but good enough for me. But...

He waved the branch and muttered some barely audible words.

The burnt end of the branch lit up a fiery red for a moment, hurtling sparks of incandescent white and red outwards.

Finis! He commanded.

The light went out.

He nodded again. I can feel the power. It is like nothing I’ve ever felt before.

Or again, the young woman told him. She was a very powerful wizard.

Indeed, the man agreed.

He held out a hand, in the hollow of it was a rose petal.

Eat it!

The young woman backed away.

You want the damned thing or not, he demanded with a hiss.

Why eat it?

Because it’s contagious magic. If you don’t eat it, it won’t work for you.

And if I do then?

He laughed.

Again and again and again.

She recoiled from it, backing up, her eyes blazing with anger.

How dare you laugh at my distress?

Then he stopped. I apologize. I was not showing disdain for you, but what you will do once you have your vengeance. They won’t laugh. Not ever, ever again.

Take it. Eat! He insisted, waving the rose petal before her again.

She hesitated still.

Death can be your friend, he told her, an almost snakelike hiss pervading the syllables of his words. Eat and be free!

Before she could lose her nerve, she snatched the rose petal and ate it.

After she did she began making choking sounds.

He laughed again and strode off, leaving her choking at the railing of the bridge.

You okay, lass? A man asked from behind her.

She had been bent over, her entire body in pain, but now she straightened up. She threw back her cloak to reveal a beautiful red dress. She turned slowly around, revealing a beautiful face, scarlet red hair and eyes and a smile that could dazzle a dragon.

Do you like roses? She asked.

And she held out a single red rose.

Maybe. Depends how much it costs. he said.

She smiled.

I’m expensive, she told him, her smile still on her face.

That remains to be seen, he told her, and then seized her flower to toss it aside so he could grab her hands.

But instead of it flying away, it clung to his hands instead.

What! He cried out.

He tried to pry it free with his other hand. That hand got caught on the rose as well.

He looked at the young woman.

What kind of witch are you? he demanded.

She didn’t answer.

She turned on her heels and began walking away.

She didn’t look back.

Not even when his screams began.

She smiled.

Vengeance was indeed sweet.

And soon it would be the sugar of her life.

Chapter Two: Falling Angel

Constable Evans was on his usual route to Scotland Yard.

It was early morning on Glover. Hardly any foot traffic and the sun was barely peeking above the rooftops, and the morning mist was still curling about his feet in tiny puffs of gray and gold where the sun struck it.

As he strode swiftly towards the Yard, he was met from the opposing direction by a tall woman, dressed in a plush red gown of the deepest red, blood color. Her arms were naked to the weather.

She carried a red parasol in her left hand, tilted over her shoulder.

Her hair was a startling red as well.

He couldn’t see her face clearly, because she wore a red veil over it so that only her eyes were visible. They were quite red as well.

Startled, he froze for a moment midstride.

She stopped twirling her parasol a moment and paused before him.

She sucked in a deep breath, causing her well endowed bosom to swell appealingly before the constable’s eyes. But he didn’t see that, even if his eyes registered the movement, all he could see was the way her eyes looked.

A very good day to die, wouldn’t you say, constable?

He laughed, though he couldn’t say why later on.

She leaned close.

A very, very good day indeed.

She let out a light burst of laughter, like a young girl discovering a Christmas gift, then began twirling her parasol again and walked past him.

He was so stunned at first, he didn’t think to turn about, but when he did, there was no one on the sidewalk behind him.

She couldn’t have gotten far, but there wasn’t a trace of her.

It was like she never existed.

He frowned deeply a moment, then plunged ahead again on his route to the Yard. As he did something about her began to pull at his thoughts. Something familiar. Finally, he shook his head. It just wouldn’t come into focus.

The fog had begun thickening again, though it had been thinning before.

He kicked at the wisps of mist, loving the way it scattered before him. Reminded him of his school days when he and Charlie had run throughout the school yard pretending they were fighting fog monsters and kicking at streamers of fog to defeat it.

In a matter of a few minutes he had forgotten about the incident with the woman in red.

Ahead of him several of the newer Tesla electric cards with their huge electrical coils sparking on their front hoods drove towards him, the only sound coming from them their wheels crunching on the pavement where some rock or discarded trash had fallen and the crackling sound of the electric motors and their constant humming sound.

They passed.

He waved.

Their drivers waved back.

A man and a woman on monocycles rode past, the steam engines emitting puffs of steam behind them as they passed.

They waved too.

He nodded to them and waved as well.

Going to be a great day, he thought to himself.

A huge whirring sound caught his attention and he looked up.

Overhead, the London Surrey Blimp was passing overhead, its twin propellored tri-hulled body pushing gracefully above the rooftops.

It was powered by Tesla engines, with steam engines for steering.

A hybrid is what the engineers called them.

To Constable Evans it just meant more science, of which he was enamored, but not particularly deep in. Holmes sometimes encouraged him to get more involved in science, but he seemed to never have enough time to do so.

He wondered what it would be like to pilot one of those, or...he grinned. To pilot one of the moon capsules that delivered criminals into orbit.

They no longer were shot from a cannon and hoped that they would be linked up.

Thanks to Jules and Wells, a way had been found to reuse the cannon capsules and to give them guidance systems and power for a return flight.

Modern science, he sighed to himself.

Morning, Constable Evans! The Paperboy greeted him as he skated by on his steam powered skates, a huge steam engine on his back.

He never could get why the kids liked those things. Seemed awfully heavy and hot to him. But kids these days were so no like his generation.

Then he smiled again as he waved at the boy, who did a nice turn and delivered papers to three different flats in a quick backhand.

Everyone knew him on this route.

He knew everyone on this route.

Yes, it was going to be a very good day indeed.

But then he heard children scream.

He looked up just in time to see a man fly from a window high above the sidewalk, below which a small group of children were playing a game of hopscotch.

The man landed on his back in the midst of the children.

They fell back in alarm.

Constable Evans was shocked for the second time that morning. The man had fallen at least twenty feet, but there had been no sound of him impacting the hard stone below.

And the children. A third reason to be stunned.

They didn’t run away for some reason.

Constable Evans dashed to the scene.

Don’t worry, children, I’ll take care of him now.

A small girl grabbed his arm. Is he an angel, constable?

He gave her a blank look, and then asked, Why would you ask that?

Because I saw him fly from the window on wings of light, she said, and then she took the hand of her younger sister and began walking away.

The other children, silent as well, followed.

Constable Evans was puzzled more by the way they took the death than by the man laying on the pavement: Andrew Stanton, a very, very unlucky man.

He knew the fellow by reputation. A leech that lived off the money of women desperate for attention. He had only learned that because an angry husband had found out and complained, demanding he arrest the man.

He couldn’t of course. Police were not moral defenders, only the law.

Andrew was dressed only in his underwear and he was quite dead.

But one thing was quite unusual. There wasn’t a drop of blood from his body where he had struck the hard sidewalk.

His legs were spread out as if he were straddling something. But his hands.

Dear God! Constable Evans hissed, crossing himself immediately.

His hands were stuck to a large red rose. A very, very large red rose. If he didn’t know any better, he would say the rose looked like it was so full, it was ready to burst.

But full of what?

Then on closer inspection of Andrew, he noticed for the first time that the man looked like one of those circus balloons that had been inflated and then suddenly deflated.

As he leaned down to touch the man’s face and close the eyes looking into forever, he felt as if someone were behind him, watching.

He stood up quickly and looked.

No one.

But a soft peal of laughter came.

As if it was all around him.

Then he felt something move in his right jacket pocket. He looked there.

A red rose.

Watson’s Journal: Case of the Fallen Angel

Iawoke this morning to the sound of a song bird at my window. Now, normally I don’t awaken so easily. Not one to get much sleep, which you know from the many adventures I’ve inscribed here for your reading pleasure and enjoyment, I do cherish those moments of absolute dissolution of reality when my mind can cease its every day hurtles of worry, fear and doubt and succumb to the bliss of dreams.

What do I dream about?

That I can’t tell you. I don’t usually remember them. I just wake up and I’m ready to go. Don’t believe everything that Holmes tells you about me, I am alert at all times, even when napping. A habit I learned from the man himself, even though I am somewhat at times the butt of his humor when it comes to being awake.

But this morning was a cascade of trills that ran up and down the scale of beautiful. My ears were so fulfilled by the blossoms of sound unfolding within them that I roused more quickly than usual and just laid there, not daring to move.

The bird was perched just inside my window frame, its eyes soaring to the bright morning skies where not a sign of clouds grayed the pearly blue above. It was very pretty. Brown feathers with patches of red upon its cheeks and a beak that was a bright golden orange.

It almost seemed to hop and down from the vibration of its trills, but I know that was just an illusion brought about by its excitement that caused its whole feathered body to quiver with joy.

So when I got up after it finally had finished its say and went to my window to look upon Baker Street, a yawn blossoming from between my lips and stretching, I was startled to see a young lady outside on the opposite side of the street. She wore a pure red gown of the deepest shade of blood. Her eyes were like obsidian with no color whatsoever.

And they were searching into my eyes, as if she knew all this time that I would find her looking at me.

It was a sudden and startling connection.

One that immediately brought back memories of a darker time.

A time when Holmes and I sought to right wrongs made by one such as she. A woman of great beauty and desire, but of the most heinous appetites.

But the woman below quickly looked away once I’d connected with her and walked off, as if nothing unusual had happened.

Whether she was the same woman of my and Holmes case or not, I can’t definitely say. Later on, when I went to Inspector Bloodstone’s office to speak with him, urged on by a hunch that had sprouted from the experience, I was assured in no uncertain terms that the woman of whom I thought was no longer in our world. Gone. Dispatched.

But when I left his office and Scotland Yard I couldn’t help but wonder, how many times have I heard the same thing before? Over and done.

When it was not.

And so, to help me let go of the past, as well as to disclose yet another portion of my history with my good and best friend, Sherlock Holmes, I do deliver this new story:

Chapter Two: Devil or Angel

Holmes and Watson hurried up the stairs of the building to the second floor, where the landlord, Mister Farrington McCall