Evil Sherlock Holmes: The World's Greatest Killer

Chapter 1

"Dr. Watson, I presume?"

John Watson looked up at the man walking toward him down the long hallway. Watson smiled in response, briefly smoothing out his moustache before climbing out of the terribly uncomfortable wooden chair he'd been waiting in. He straightened his suit jacket as the man approached, extending his hand in greeting. "You must be Mr. Mapleton," Watson said with a smile.

Charles Mapleton, administrator of the newly commissioned Office of Police Surgeons, shook his hand vigorously, the man's firm grip almost painful. He was an older man who appeared old-fashioned both in his personal appearance and his dress. He had a full head of silver hair and bushy sideburns that traveled along his jawline until almost meeting at his chin. His large, overgrown eyebrows gave him a friendly appearance, as did his broad smile. All in all, Watson mused the man looked as though he had stepped out of a century-old painting.

"Please, call me Charles," Mapleton said warmly. "It is a pleasure to finally meet you. Dr. Creighton has been singing me your praises for so long, I feel as though we already know one another."

Watson chuckled. "I'm certain I fall short of everything the good Doctor has told you about me," he said. "Dr. Creighton really only knew me as a lad."

"Nonsense," chided Mapleton. "He said you were the finest clerk he'd ever had over in Edinburgh, and became one of the finest Doctors he's ever had the pleasure of knowing."

Watson cleared his throat. He was always uncomfortable when people sang his praises. "Well then, I hope I can live up to the high expectations he's set for me."

"I'm sure you will," Mapleton said with a wink as he shifted a stack of files he was carrying from under one arm to the other. "Come, walk with me."

Mapleton turned and began walking with Watson following beside him. As they began making their way down the hall, Watson glanced at the passers-by. It still felt a bit surreal to be in Scotland Yard, the headquarters of London's Metropolitan Police Service. It wasn't like anything he'd expected. The expansive red brick building on 4 Whitehall Place was much more casual than what he was used to, having come from the military. He mused that he rather liked the more laid back atmosphere, though he did find himself wishing they had more females working in the building.

"I was looking over your records earlier," Mapleton said as they turned down another hallway. "They said you received your medical degree from Barts and The London School of Medicine and Dentistry in 1878, and had subsequently gone on to train at Netley as a surgeon in the British Army. After being discharged you attended the Royal College of Surgeons to study Forensic Medicine under Dr. Bell."

"That is correct, sir," Watson replied.

"Bit of an odd choice, isn't it?" Mapleton mused.

"How's that, sir?"

"Well, with training and experience like yours, I'd think you'd be more suited to private practice," Mapleton commented. "Why go into Forensic Medicine?"

Watson sighed. He never much cared for discussing this subject when it did come up. "I was wounded in the service," he said. "Took a bullet to my shoulder in Afghanistan." Watson held his hand to his shoulder and rubbed his wound absently. The bullet was still lodged inside him. It ached occasionally, but it always seemed to flare up when he talked about it. Mapleton frowned.

"Well, you know what they say, old chap," Mapleton said. "Whatever doesn't kill you makes you stronger, yes?"

A hint of a smile grew on Watson's lips. "Unfortunately, that is not always the case." He held out his hand before Mapleton, which shook ever so slightly. "Ever since my wound, my right hand has suffered from tremors..."