Sherlock - The Game Is On!

The Abominable Bride- One

Chapter One

Third POV

- - The second Afghan War brought honours and promotion to many. - -

In a dream, Watson is squatting down to a fallen colleague. In real life, Watson rolls over in bed, trying to get back to sleep.

- - But for me it meant nothing but misfortune and disaster. - -

In the dream, still tending to his colleague, Watson cowers as another shell explodes and he is showered with earth. Some distance away, an enemy soldier squints along his rifle and pulls the trigger. The bullet impacts Watson's left shoulder and he falls to the ground.

In his bed, Watson thrashes into a new position, groaning quietly. In the dream, one of Watson's colleagues drags him to safety. "You all right, Captain?"

Watson wakes up again, his face covered with sweat. Before his open eyes he can still see explosions going off on the battlefield.

London street in the 1880s. The road is busy with horse-drawn carriages, and there are many people walking along the pavement.

- - I returned to England with my health irretrievably ruined and my future bleak. - -

Watson limps along the road leaning on a cane.

- - Under such circumstances, I naturally gravitated to London, that great cesspool into which all the loungers and idlers of the Empire are drained. - -

"Watson! Stamford. Remember? We were at Bart's together."

"Yes, of course. Stamford." He shakes his hand. "Good Lord! Where have you been? You're as thin as a rake!"

- - I was a strong, independent woman. - -

Michelle sat by her vanity table, drawing red lipstick on.

- - Men saw me as indecent, because in this world women are nothing more but a object, used against there will. - -

Placing her hair in a bun, she pulled up her trousers and tied her waistcoat on.

- - But let me tell you this... I am a woman who is ahead of her time. - -

Later, Watson and Stamford are standing at a table in the crowded bar of the Criterion.

- -I made it home. Many weren't so lucky. - -

"So what now?"

"Hmm? I need a place to live. Somewhere decent, and an affordable price. It's not easy." He drinks from his glass of beer. Stamford chuckles. "You know, you're the second person to say that to me today."

"Hmm? Who was the first?"

In an underground mortuary, a man is repeatedly and violently flogging a corpse with a heavy walking stick. Watson and Stamford walk into the corridor leading to the mortuary and Watson looks through the window of the room with surprise. "Good Lord!"

"It's an experiment, apparently. Beating corpses to establish how long after death bruising is still possible." Watson watches the man a little uncomfortably as he continues to flog the corpse. Eventually he turns and limps away. "Is there a medical point to that?"

"Oh yes, it's all perfectly used for the joy of medical science." A well educated voice echoes. Watson and Stamford turn around only to see the most barbaric scene ever witnessed. A woman in trousers. "My Lady, I don't think your dressed appropriately." Watson scolds. Lady Phillips tutted. "Oh to hell with appropriate." Watson and Stamford raise their brows, absolutely disgusted but also humoured. "Would you deem it appropriate if men had to wear fish's tails in replace of top hats?" She asked rhetorically. "I presume your here to see Mr Holmes?" Stamford nods.

Stopping at the door to the room. Watson stops and turns back to look at Stamford, then realisation begins to dawn. Inside the room, the man is still thrashing the corpse with his back to Stamford and Watson as they walk in. "Excuse me!" The man flogs the corpse even faster. "I do hope we're not interrupting." Watson spoke loudly.

Giving the corpse one last violent lash, the man blows out a breath and turns, and we see Sherlock Holmes. He quickly looks down the length of Watson's body. "You've been in Afghanistan, I perceive."

"Doctor Watson, Mr Sherlock Holmes and Lady Phillips." Walking over to the walking stick, Lady Phillips tosses it to Watson, who instinctively reaches out and catches it. "Excellent reflexes. I suppose you'll do." She gestures sarcastically. "I'm sorry?"

"I have my eye on a suite of rooms near Regent's Park. Between us three, we could afford them."

"Rooms? Who said anything about rooms?"

"I did. I mentioned to Stamford this morning I was in need of a fellow lodger, Lady Phillips was always going to be a open option, however we needed a third lodger to sustain the liability. Now he appears after lunch in the company of a man of military aspect with a tan and recent injury, both suggestive of the campaign in Afghanistan and an enforced departure from it. The conclusion seemed inescapable."

"We'll finalise the details tomorrow evening." Phillips disclosed. "I'm sorry, my Lady, but your a woman." Watson pointed out. "Well yes I am. Thank you for concluding so."

"A woman should be seen not heard." Mr Holmes's gaze hardened, Lady Phillips laughs graciously. "Well I am a Lady who is seen and heard, quite clearly." Holmes and the Lady walk to the door. "Now if you'll excuse us, We have a hanging in Wandsworth and I'd hate them to start without us." Holmes takes his coat and wraps it around Lady Phillips. "A hanging?"

"I take a professional interest. I also play the violin and smoke a pipe. Lady Phillips also does the same but takes to fencing most of the time. I presume that's not a problem?"

"Er, no, well..." Watson was startled. "And you're clearly acclimatised to never getting to the end of a sentence. We'll all get along splendidly. Tomorrow evening, seven o'clock, then." Lady Phillips closed.

"Oh, and the name is Sherlock Holmes and the address is two hundred and twenty-one B Baker Street." He puts on his hat, then turns and walks away. "Yes. They've always been like that."