Disclaimer – certainly not mine

Notes – set after Holmes' return from his three year hiatus. I would also like to point out that I am not attempting to write a ghost story, slash or a death fic here… also, my research is spotty at best.

Further Note - Watson calls a certain something perveted in this fic, and is expressing Victorian Age Morals, as he is a Victorian Gentleman - his morals aren't mine and no offence is meant.

One Man's Magic…

The following was located in the rubble of a building on Queen Ann Street, in a battered dispatch box. The journal was stained on one or two pages with watermarks, however the writing was clearly legible and the content fantastic. Should it prove to be genuine, this tale would surely count as one of the more fantastic of the 'lost cases' of Sherlock Holmes and Dr John Watson. With that in mind the tale has been reproduced below without alteration or edit.

The style of writing is dissimilar to that of the stories published in 'The Strand', which experts have attributed to the fact that it was clearly a first draft of something that was never intended for official publication. It will soon become apparent why the story was never polished for publication: the personal content of the journal, coupled with the delicate subject matter render this particular tale unsuitable for public consumption. In addition it is apparent that Watson was missing several key facts that would weave the story into one that 'The Strand' would find suitable to publish.

I'm sending you a copy of the tale because I know you are interested in such things. As you will find it is not dated, which makes pinpointing when this took place difficult except in the broadest terms.

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As a doctor, one becomes accustomed to being woken at odd hours to attend to a patient. It is one of the more trying aspects of the profession, especially for a man with a ruined shoulder and game leg, however medicine is as much a calling as a duty and I have never begrudged those I attend in the small hours of the morning. The same cannot always be said for the times that my friend, Sherlock Holmes, has awoken me. In the first six months of our acquaintance I became used to hearing him being knocked out of his bed at odd hours, and took some comfort in the idea 'better him than me'. As my recovery progressed, I became more curious about the early morning and late night disturbances; eventually I was included in them. True, I did not always hear the initial sounds of a late night or early morning visitor, and on those occasions Holmes would wake me from an unusually heavy slumber with a hand to my shoulder and an insistent call.

Over the years I began to discern a pattern to the disturbances, and quickly learned that if I didn't wish to be dragged half dressed down to a waiting cab in the early hours of the morning that I should rouse myself from my bed and begin dressing when certain sounds were heard. That was certainly the case this morning, and I dragged my aching body from my warm bed reluctantly. The early spring weather was displaying an unfortunate tendency towards a fine mist of rain and raw cold, which did my aching limbs no good at all. By the time I was dressed and halfway down the stairs to the sitting room Holmes was racketing around in his own bedroom while our caller waited by the sitting room door.

As if my thoughts summoned him, my friend burst from his room, his collar half done and his hair in disarray, darting along the landing towards the stair leading to my room.

"Good morning Holmes," I said dryly and he gave a terrific start, his hands fumbling at his collar for a moment. I made no mention of the fact, as the landing was dim and my black suit would of course make it difficult to spot me. Three years after the death of my wife I continued to wear the full mourning suit that I had donned when my loss was at its sharpest. Society only required such a display for a year; however I was not yet ready to put aside my feelings.

"I didn't see you there old chap! Lestrade is here with a case," Holmes informed me briskly, "Get our coats, would you?"

"Certainly," I nodded, and slipped into the dim sitting room to fetch the Inspector and our outer wear. Lestrade looked uncommonly ill at ease, and offered me an uneasy greeting as I shrugged stiffly into my coat.

"This is a bad business, Doctor," Lestrade said as I donned my hat and opened the sitting room door once more. Holmes took his things from me quickly, leading the way down the stairs as he dressed with impatient movements.

"As I have no idea what this business is…" I hinted shamelessly as we got into the waiting four-wheeler and the constable on the box whipped up the horses the moment the door was shut.

"There's been a robbery," Lestrade began when Holmes remained silent, his grey eyes staring out at the passing dim streets, his mind obviously engaged elsewhere, "In a graveyard. Someone has dug up a fresh pauper's grave and… removed the body from the coffin. There are marks at the scene that point towards some sort of occult practice, but there is also… two men went to the grave, but three walked away from it."

"The occupant of the grave walked away?" I gasped, "Surely not!"

"The tracks are clear," Lestrade confirmed gloomily, "And there are a few symbols and bits and pieces that point towards some sort of occult ritual as well. If I didn't know better I'd say the men who dug the grave up then raised the occupant back to life and walked away with him. As I do know better, I thought Mr Holmes might be able to help."

"Perhaps the occupant was still alive when buried," I suggested, my mind spinning, "It is not unknown for this to occur, and I have to say it would be a better explanation than a man being raised from the dead by a ritual. Have you checked with the nearest doctors and hospitals?"

"We're doing that now," Lestrade confirmed, "Though how anyone would hear a pauper who had been buried alive, with no fancy system in place like a bell or what have you, is beyond me. I was hoping it was students playing some kind of a lark, but I haven't been able to find any evidence to support that theory."

"Surely if you have only just discovered this crime…" I trailed off and grimaced when Lestrade shook his head meaningfully, "I see. How many?"

"This is the second," Lestrade shuddered, "We've kept it from the Press so far, but how much longer that will last I cannot say. We didn't call Mr Holmes in the first time because we weren't sure what we were dealing with."

"Certainly not the dead rising from their graves," I muttered, "That is impossible."

My friend's thin hand clamped itself around my wrist, squeezing firmly, and I considered what I had said to get that response. Holmes had been a source of much comfort to me since his return, his time overseas spent in the employ of his Government changing him from a self described 'thinking machine' to a man who could show a friend some support in times of extremis. Realisation dawned and I sent him a grateful look; I would have to find a way to reassure him that I was not haunted by the memories of my beloved Mary. Although I still mourned for her, she was not a burden on my heart.

The cab drew to a halt and Holmes leapt from it, hurrying into the graveyard without a backwards look.

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