I haven't posted here in a while. I'm either too lazy or too busy. My current work, the third in my mystery series is taking whatever time I have between everything else.
But I did promise to take a portion of this book to post here. But first a brief explanation and set-up here.
I've become a fan of
Sherlock Holmes, and my other posts in Lorelei's Writing Journal, I've posted about this very thing. I realized there was a 3-year span of no stories coming from Conan Doyle about Holmes, and that he had actually killed Sherlock off, but had to bring him back. He didn't get into his hiatus much, and everyone accepted this as Sherlock's memory loss, or as some refer to it as the Great Hiatus. This character was such a big hit in England, and elsewhere that Doyle had to continue with the story. However, he never wrote what happened in between.
Since my third Lainey Quilholt book
Until We Murder Again is set in a writer's retreat where various writers of mystery have come together for a week long event of writing and round robins, I eventually had to decide what each of them wrote. There's a hard-boiled detective writer, for instance, there's one that's more into suspense/horror side of murder mysteries, one who writes the classic whodunit and another who does the cozy. My MC, Lainey, is writing a true-to-life story (this is the first book
Party to a Murder.) And it is her first serious attempts writing.
Another writer is a Sherlock Holmes fan (yeah, you had to figure that was going somewhere, didn't you?). His name is Wesley Powell. I'd promised to share with you a bit of what he wrote. He is writing what he calls
The Lost Manuscript of Sherlock Holmes. It opens where Sherlock has just grappled with Moriarty, and this was where the author, Conan Doyle left it, that he along with the villain went over the cliff into the Reichenbach Falls. But later on, it is revealed Sherlock actually survived, but didn't want anyone to know, because he knew that Moriarty's henchmen would be looking for him in order to kill him.
This is a portion of what I've written for this book:
Chapter 1
When Moriarty fell to his death that
fateful day into the Reichenbach Falls of Switzerland, after I fought
him to what should have been certain death for the both of us, I had
to compose myself, surprised that I remained on the cliff and he had
plunged into the churning waters over eight hundred meters down. I
somehow managed to keep my balance and since he was fighting dirty, I
also took this tact and gouged his eyes. I have to presume it was the
younger, more agile man pitted against the older Moriarty, who was
more set in his sedentary ways, giving the orders. While I, on the
other hand, am an adept bare-knuckle fighter and know a bit of
baritsu, which has helped me on occasion. Fighting for my
life, I had to resort to variations on backstreet fighting.
Pressed against the cliff side, I looked
around myself ascertaining I was quite alone. Already a thought
occurred to me that Moriarty would have brought along at least one of
his henchmen, and he would come here to make sure I had not survived
his attack. What they would find is that I had survived and Moriarty
had perished. A plot was already developing in my brain, that was at
the same time terrifying and devious enough that I knew it should
work, as long as I acted quickly. One part of me thought I dare not
do it. But the other part—my reasoning part said it was the only
way I would survive.
There was only one way for my certain
survival and that was to allow everyone to believe I had died along
with Moriarty, went over the cliff into the depths, fallen to my doom
on the rocks below and washed away my body by the mighty rush of
water.
I moved swiftly away, knowing Watson and
others would soon be looking for me. The earth abruptly went
vertical, and finding hand- and foot-holds on the rocks and boulders,
I scrambled my way up to a flat area, where I could watch from above,
unseen.
I waited. In a little while Watson
appeared first. He found the spot where I'd left my stick and the
pages I'd neatly written for him to find, in which I told him I'd
known the note given to him had been bogus, intended to separate us.
I watched him read and come to realization as to what had become of
me. Watson called out for me, went to the edge and looked down
hopefully. From there one could not see anything but the mighty falls
churning all the way down a thousand feet. He continued to call when
three men in [uniforms] also came to the spot. They looked around
some more for some clue as to whether or not I had fallen to my doom.
Of course, they would all come up with the only possible answer: I
was gone.
I must admit my heart gave a lurch at
first sighting Watson, watching him desperately call out for me. I
nearly did return a yell, but stopped myself, realizing the folly. To
allow anyone, even my most trusted friend to know I was alive would
ruin the possibility of my own continued survival.
I remained hidden and still, watching the
scene below as it sadly played out. It was best this way. At this
time I did not know how long it would take for Moriarty's men to
realize he was dead, and hunt for me. Moriarty's body would be
discovered, eventually, down in the river below. But mine would not
because I was still alive. It would hardly take a genius to figure
out I was still alive.
In a moment of thrill, I realized I was
about to set off on my own adventure. Of course, I would need money,
what I had would not last me long. The only person I could dare
contact would be my brother, Mycroft. He would keep my secret safe
and wire me funds as I needed.
Once Watson and the others gave up and
left, I straightened and moved off. Before I'd gotten very far, I
heard first the sound of a slug hitting a tree, right after which I
heard the report from a riffle. Automatically I dove for cover behind
a rock, just in time, as another shot was fired and it ricocheted off
the rock, exactly where I had been.
I did not stay long in my hiding place. I
had no idea how many of them there might have been. A shooter would
have easily pinned me down white others came after me.
I ran as fast as I could, dodging behind
a tree, here and there, while the shooter somehow tracked and shot at
me. My only chance was to keep inside the woods, and keep moving,
which I did. I might have ran a mile before I slowed my pace and
looked back. By this time, I'd come down off the mountain, somehow
moving away from the rushing river and, well beyond the falls. I
noticed there were trails and a road, but I knew to avoid them
completely. I had to blaze my own trail, through underbrush, over
rocks, and through fields of more rocks and weeds. Donning my
deer-hunter's cap, I kept to the tall ancient forest, and headed
toward the village. Knowing full well I would need a disguise, I
would find a shop in a nearby town which I could procure these
things.
