Sherlock Holmes: The Shadow From Beyond

Prologue

Iridescent globes floated within the fog of his clouded mind, a jumble of light and movement that continued without pattern. Chaotic. He was assailed by the rich scents of mold and earth as they crept through the barrier that was unconsciousness. There was a frenzied beating, an anarchic rhythm that resonated about him, through him.

In the background he could barely distinguish the low audible mumbling of foreign words, phrases of language that he could not decipher. He moved his body ever slightly, pain shot up his side and across his back, it was uncomfortable but helped bring him out of his stupor. Slowly, ever slowly he regained his senses.

Then the dream state left him and Watson suddenly awoke, slightly dazed yet much confused. The throbbing and painful headache that accompanied his consciousness did not assist matters. He glanced about his surroundings, his eyes attempting to re-focus within the low lit area he found himself. Clarity slowly replaced the blur of colored spots that had danced before him, details were forming, reality returning.

It all washed over him then, the memories of a not so distant past. He sighed as the weight of it all fell back upon him. Could this not just be a nightmare he could wake from? A bad dream brought on by indigestion or something similar?

Unfortunately for the doctor it was all as real as the pain in his temples; sharp and distracting.

Still underground no doubt he surmised; the dampness of the air, the smell of earth and decay, the pressure of thousands of pounds of rock about him.

Watson lay upon a folding cot in a small cell, three earthen walls and one barred with iron surround him. Outside this barred wall was another small alcove, empty save for the burning torch ensconced in the wall and the ring of rusty keys hooked upon a spike besides. Both are well out of arm’s length, unreachable. Cool stale air flowed inward from a tunnel that exited the alcove into shadowed darkness beyond.

He gently turned his throbbing head to better examine his surroundings as best as possible. A simple wooden table and two rickety chairs were positioned against one of the dirt walls of his prison; the table was bare of any object other than some old scraps of writing paper. The rest of the cell was empty save for a shadowy figure hunched at its center.

A man is crouched near to the floor facing away from Watson. The figure was scrawling hurriedly on the stone floor with some crude writing tool, all the while mumbling a strange foreign verse.

Above all else, Watson heard a frenzy of drumming accompanied by the sounds of tribal chanting that resounded towards him from the earthen passage beyond. The high pitch of piping flutes had intermixed with a cacophony of psychotic beats to create audible chaos.

Deep below him in the bowels of the earth, a rumbling of tremors had begun, a shaking of the ground that increased in strength with each passing second.

The huddled figure at the center of the cell worked feverishly now, and he muttered under his breath words Watson could finally understand.

Quickly! Quickly! the man spoke. Before time runs out! Before all is lost!

The voice seemed familiar to Watson, comforting in a way. He focused his gaze upon the shadow before him and his eyes widened as he recognized the man that crouched just a few feet away. He attempted to rise from the cot, his head still a cloud of dizziness as he exclaimed. You. You! Is it really you my old friend? Thank the gods, you live! I surely thought you lost Holm..e…s...

His words faded off as he became overwhelmed by light headiness and fatigue. Watson swooned and collapsed onto the cot and back into unconsciousness, into dreams and the memories of when this nightmare had all begun…

Chapter 1

The Game is Afoot

Watson! Watson my dear chap. Watson! Wake up! Holmes exclaimed as he addressed his old friend from across the chaotic study they shared at 221b Baker Street.

Apparently the good doctor had dozed off while reading the Morning Post, which now rested on his chest, lightly rising and falling with each deep breath. With his slipper covered feet propped up on a footrest in front of the crackling fire he seemed the perfect example of calm respite.

Watson! cried Holmes again in a slightly louder and more forceful tone. With that came the abrupt end to Watson’s repose as his eyes quickly snapped open. Slightly groggy from his nap the doctor looked up to his flat mate Sherlock Holmes with seeking eyes, his facial expression a mix of enquiry and befuddlement.

So sorry to wake you from slumber old chap. There is nothing like a few mid-day winks to re-energize the body. But it seems we will soon have a visitor, so brush away those sleepy cobwebs won’t you Watson as I may be in need of your assistance.

Holmes had the drapes pulled aside and was gazing down into the bustling crowds of Baker street from his usual perch. The morning sunlight cut across his distinct facial features; the high cheekbones, the tight pursed lips, and the hawk-like nose, all in common sharpness to his recently pressed suit and slacks. One of his favorite pipes smoked away in his right hand, and the air was thick with its exotic tobacco. Watson noticed Holmes’ eagle like eyes attentively scanning the daily activity spread out in the busy street below.

A police coach has stopped at our threshold, our companion in crime solving soon to join us. Holmes mentioned as he opened the window to allow a cool breeze to waft through the study. Watson, aroused by the fresh air brushed himself off as if literally covered in silk threads, hoisted his bulk from the armchair he occupied and shuffled over to join his companion at the window. Sure enough Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard was stepping out of the police carriage below them; he wore a concerned visage as he looked upward at the pair.

Within a few minutes the diligent Mrs. Hudson had shown Lestrade into a room he had become very familiar with over the years, one of intellectual chaos: Piles of papers and stacks of books, discarded scientific apparatus, curios, souvenirs, and memorabilia of multiple adventures littered the study area. The atmosphere of the place reeked of Sherlock Holmes, and not just due to the heavy scent of pipe tobacco that floated upon the air, this cluttered environment was an extension of his persona, each item an important element of the whole.

Lestrade’s visits to 221b had occurred at more frequent intervals over the last few years, this mostly due to the rapidly rising crime rate in the growing metropolis of London proper and Lestrade’s constant need for Holmes’ advice in these matters. It was October of 1909 and the Summer Olympics held in London the year before had attracted many people to the city seeking fame and fortune or simple entertainment, and although over and done with, many had stayed behind, greatly swelling the capitol’s citizenry.

Like any other expanding major metropolis in the world, the increase in population brought with it an increase in criminal infractions and Lestrade and his officers had their hands full. From muggings to murder and all sorts in between, the city was rife with lawlessness and misdeed.

Mrs. Hudson showed the Inspector into the study of 221b Baker Street, smiled and closed the door. The two occupants turned to Lestrade who huffed and puffed, his face a bright red. He then deeply gathered in the air that had escaped his lungs as he had ascended the stairwell.

Over the last few years Lestrade’s moustache had expanded, as the crime rate had, growing wider and thicker, and on par it seemed with his waistline. He was now pleasantly plump, if one could ever refer to Lestrade as pleasant. His ample belly reflected the rewards of success credited to him and his Scotland Yard staff in the apprehension of those criminals. These results were actually and often based on the hard work and diligent efforts of Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, who had used his tremendous insight to solve most of those incidents for Lestrade, who was well outside his abilities in most of the cases. Holmes, always the gentleman, had allowed the inspector to reap the public benefits that should in truth have been lauded upon himself. The detective instead preferred to enjoy the quiet praise of those he had directly aided and the financial compensation that was often associated with such praise. He had very little to no interest in celebrity and appreciated the thrill of the hunt over public adoration.

What brings you to our doorstep on this beautiful fall morn Lestrade? the detective enquired. Where you not occupied with that ballet scandal or whatever mess it was? Something about a missing tutu and some inappropriate photographs, if I recall?

Murder most foul Mr. Holmes! Most foul indeed! Lestrade bellowed, ignoring the sleuth’s sly remark concerning his recent investigation. Your insights and opinions are of serious need in this matter. The inspector had lowered his eyes at that last statement in an attempt to avert Holmes’ gaze, embarrassed to admit his lack of understanding of certain facts that only the great detective could offer.

A slight smile broke the countenance of Holmes’ visage upon that request, and after a momentary pause, for dramatic effect, he motioned for all to sit down.

But Lestrade, quipped Holmes in a slightly sarcastic tone. Surely you and the great Scotland Yard can handle a simple murder case on your own. Why call on us for consultation in this matter?

Well normally the Yard can handle these affairs without aid but.. Lestrade, distracted by memory, trailed off and was silent for a moment.

Watson had noticed an expression of great agitation on Lestrade’s facial features as he spoke, one rarely displayed by the inspector in their past shared adventures. It seemed to lend sudden import to his narration and so the doctor leaned closer and listened more attentively.

Pray continue. Holmes urged him and Lestrade began his narration once again.

"It’s the condition of the deceased, the body. It’s in a physical state I have never encountered before. It is in a condition very strange indeed. And although I have seen many odd things in my years as a police inspector, this has left me quite shaken. I’ll admit that I am completely baffled by it.

If you wouldn’t mind accompanying me good sirs, I will elaborate on the details as we travel to the scene of the crime. Lestrade continued, Over these many years of our collaboration I have become well familiar with your methods Mr. Holmes, therefore I have left strict instructions with my men to not disturb or alter the crime scene in any way as per your requests in the past. I must admit that I trust not enough in these rookie police cadets they send me to not foul things up, so I bid we leave immediately before chance they do.

Holmes nodded his agreement, tapped out his pipe and rose from his chair. He proceeded to retrieve his waistcoat from the rack; grabbed Watson’s as well and handed it to his old friend. Fortunate for you Lestrade, as well as myself, I seem to be between clients at the moment, he noted. My boredom of late knows no bounds, so your visit comes perfectly timed. Hopefully this case will distract me from this morbid state of mind and rid me of my doldrums. Doctor Watson will of course join us, as his medical knowledge and intuition are always of great use to me. he added with a smile.

Watson was also happy for the distraction as his medical practice was suffering a slow period of late and too much free time had left him either restless or napping. He waited by the door already fully dressed with overcoat and hat, eager to get some fresh air into his lungs after spending all morning in that stuffy room, albeit mostly asleep.

Chapter 2

A Ride Through London

The police coach bumped and leaned as it cut through the late morning traffic of London’s busy streets. Watson noticed that it was a fine day for early October, the temperature of just about fifty-eight degrees Fahrenheit was brisk yet pleasant and the crisp fall air blew leaves about the streets in miniature amber hued tornadoes.

The sounds of an active day were in full swing as laborers hawked their wares and pedestrians mingled about in loud conversation. Each district the carriage passed through offered its own tapestry of daily life, with sights and smells of both entertainment and industry alike.

Holmes was not distracted by the bustling world outside the carriage windows, he listened attentively, all his concentration focused upon the words Lestrade spoke in detailing the facts of the crime.

The victim is a Professor Thomas Harper of Redington Road, an unmarried man of sixty three years of age. explained Lestrade Other than the servants that are on staff, he resided alone in a medium sized house left to him through inheritance, located on that quiet street within Hampstead proper. We received a notice from one of our constables very early this morning, shortly after 1 a.m. or so, that Mr. Harper was found dead in his study, the body in a horrid state. It was one of the house servants that had alerted my man on duty of the incident. At 1:30 a.m. my constables and I arrived at the premises, and after an initial inspection secured the crime scene.

Not Professor Thomas Harper formerly of the University of London who was removed from his position and forced to leave the school under a cloud of controversy about three years ago? asked Holmes with a cocked eyebrow.

That very one Mr. Holmes, noted Lestrade. Are you familiar with him? Not much more than what the newspapers wrote of the situation at the time. Holmes replied. He seemed to focus inward then, referencing the immense library of facts stored within his mind. Professor Harper was in the faculty of History. he recounted. "He specialized in topics involving the Medieval Crusades as well as studies that covered the many different pagan religious practices and ancient beliefs of those regions in the Middle East. He was also a mildly successful author of books about those subjects, of which one I have read. His lectures were extremely popular with the students at the University of London and he was considered a respected local figure at the school with growing tenure.

"During the summer months between school terms he would travel to far reaching locations on the globe to continue his research and collect artifacts and relics relative to his studies. It was only after returning from a field study to Iranistan some years back that the subject matter of his teachings became more odd and dark in nature. It seems he had discovered some knowledge on that trip that greatly altered his course focus, as he taught less on the historic context of the Crusades and more so about the pagan religious ceremonies that had come out of that region. He had collected many ancient manuscripts and doctrines while on these trips; ones that described long lost cults and their bizarre theological practices, and it was these topics he embraced with zealous abandon.

In class he was said to ramble on and on in a fevered passion about powerful God-like beings imprisoned beyond time and space, and of the return or release of these original gods or Ancient Ones or something along those lines. In these long erratic monologues the students swore that he was a man possessed of a voice not fully his own and his facial features would twist up with the passion of his words. The topics of these lectures often contained references to abominable rites of occult practice and hinted to the existence of relics of vast immemorial powers. Horrific subjects spewed from his lips and eventually he let his physical state devolve from that of a well groomed sharp dressed scholar into a wild eyed, disheveled, ranting madman.

Holmes continued as both Watson and Lestrade listened attentively. "Soon afterwards complaints were logged to the dean of the university by Harper’s pupils and many abandoned his course citing that he had discarded the original curriculum in favor of these occult topics, topics of little interest to these history minded students. The board at the University of London warned him to tone down his teachings and return to the original material within the course outline or face being placed on academic probation. Harper attempted to make efforts to appease them but in time his strange behavior returned, even worsened, and after multiple advisories as well as a term on medical leave that accomplished little results, he was subsequently removed from his teaching position.

"Professor Harper then threatened the university with a very public lawsuit over what he claimed was the illegal termination of his employment contract and the tarnishing of his reputation. He said that it would be his pleasure to drag the proceeding on and on with appeals and delays until he was successful in his case. Wanting to avoid any negative media press and wishing just to be distanced from this man, U of L settled out of court for a sum equal to the remaining terms of his contract plus a small concession.

"Harper then took a break from life in London and set off travelling the world once more and rumors abound that he visited many far off and ancient lands on these trips. After a few years abroad he returned to his London residence in Hampstead and soon after began offering private