Sherlock Holmes in Middle-Earth? - Prologue
London, April 1, 1893. 122 Baker Street, 9:00 pm. Sherlock Holmes' study, just above Mrs. Hudson's flat.
The clock tower had just struck nine, I noticed with a shudder, and Holmes showed no signs of stopping his so-called "experiment". As usual, he had shut us in, curtains drawn like a veil across the window panes, not allowing any human eye to see his progress. Once more, he pricked himself with a pin, then dripped the acidic liquid over the cut. As a doctor my first impulse was to bandage it, as any ordinary man would have wished. But, then again, Holmes was no ordinary man, and I would just have to deal with it.
My head jerked up when I smelled something burning... something akin to cooked meat. Eyes instantly locking on the slender, rather tall frame of my friend, I could clearly tell he was dousing something with water. Rising from my usual spot, in an armchair, I strode over and examined his arm. It was a grisly wound, for that tiny pricked finger had turned nearly black from burning. Ah, I sighed and went for my bag. He'd used caustic liquids AFTER I'd told him strictly not to. But, of course, he was older than me, and a very masterful sort of man. Not a man to take orders from anyone, least of all myself. Fumbling with my bag, I took a roll of bandage and a proper dressing for the burn, then circled back to where Holmes stood, silent and brooding.
His expression was unreadable, deep-set brown eyes staring off into space, as if he'd taken some narcotic to soothe his rattled nerves. I was, as usual, quite left in the dark as to why he'd been performing this rather bizzarre experiment, but I didn't doubt that he'd tell me eventually. Puling his unresisting hand towards myself, I gnetly but firmly wrapped and dressed the wound, then returned to my chair. I sat there, in silence, watching Holmes without stirring. It was high time he spoke, but I didn't have the energy nor patience to argue with him, so I sat still as a mouse, waiting for his explination of all this.
Ithilien, in the middle of the Third Age. The ruling household, Uruviel, daughter of Legolas and Laureli.
The wind whistled through the trees, sending leaves from their boughs in a flurry of reds, yellows and oranges. Some scattered, others collected at her feet in an array of shades. Still, some others, seeming to be bolder than the rest, actually came to rest in and atop her golden hair, adorning her in the splendor of thier majesty. She gave a soft, silvery laugh, then turned to go inside, not bothering to shake the leaves away.
Her silken skirt rustled in the wind; a pretty blue frock that matched her azure eyes to perfection. A dress that had once belonged to her mother, before both her parents had departed into the West nearly six months before. After Elessar had passed into shadow, both her parents had decided to leave. Besides, Uruviel was more than capable of ruling, and they'd known that.
But now, something seemed determined to frighten her away from her rightful throne. Late at night, she'd heard screams. She'd seen something not unlike a horseman, but it had nothing to show that it was. It frightened her. There had to be some way... a possibility to end this reign of terror. But how?
(Yeah, short and bad. Just let me know if it's "worthy" or not)