adrowsypirate

I got done reposting The Whitechapel File to AO3, and I added more to Chapter Five if you've seen it on Tumblr. I hope you like it.

Hi, I have an AO3 account. I have no idea if it was me sending a self-request through the public waiting list sometime ago or if it was a direct invite, but I will be posting any new story and old stories on AO3 now. I have a creepypasta short story I might post here on Tumblr and on AO3 to figure out how AO3 works. I only read on AO3; I never posted on it. I will be reposting my Sherlock Holmes story here soon and will edit it to add a link.

link to other blog https://www.tumblr.com/blog/whitechapelfile

The Last Bow.  Prologue: Old Friends and Old Problems

The year was 1914. John had made his way to Sherlock's house. Holmes had gone into retirement at the age of forty-nine in the year 1911.

He moved to the Sussex Downs to take up beekeeping and write The Whole Art of Detection, a best-selling book that outsold most of the stories about him.

Sherlock had bought the building that they used to live in and let John's son and wife move into their old place.

The cabin was made of oak wood and had a stone foundation.

John knocked, then Sherlock opened the door. He had gray hair and was still clean-shaven.

“Watson,” he said, stepping aside and letting him in.

They made their way towards the living room and took seats in armchairs.

“I heard they plan to hang Professor James Moriarty.” John paused. “I thought they would have hanged him by now.”

“The hand of justice moves slow, old boy,” Sherlock said, taking a sip of his tea.

“Did you hear about the war?” John asked, eyeing him.

“I did,” Sherlock said somberly.

“They want to send my youngest son and grandson off to the war.”

Sherlock paused in thought, making John blink. “What is on your mind?”

“I think an old problem may have a hand in this war.”

“Professor Moriarty?” John paused. “How?”

“Moriarty has a number of companies that make arms and uniforms for armies across the world, and charities to help people affected by the war,” he said, making John blink.

“The man could pay a man to burn your home, then make people cheer for him helping you.” Sherlock paused. “The man is the pied piper of lies, making people dance to his song.”

“Are you going to visit him?” John asked, making him nod.

“Aye, do you wish to join me again, old friend?”

 {Pov Dr. John Watson}

The moonlight danced off the walls of the alley as John's mind drifted towards the case at hand. His eyes landed on Sherlock; he walked with resoluteness towards the lodging house, 9 Victoria Park Square, Bethnal Green.

The foggy Whitechapel alley was lit by tall steel coal-gas lamps as the sound of a train passed over the Great Eastern Railway.

John followed behind Sherlock. They stopped outside the door, then Sherlock knocked on the door.

“Joseph Barnett.” Sherlock said, knocking on the door as a dark pit of anger was lit inside, making John glare at the closed door. The foggy hallway, lit by the dim gaslight, felt smaller.

The oppressive silence felt like a ship that tipped over and fell on a dying sailor. Sherlock crouched and began picking the lock with his usual focus and quiet confidence.

John's mind drifted towards Mary Jane Kelly.

She had been found on the morning of 9 November 1888, the day of the annual Lord Mayor's Day celebrations. Kelly's landlord, John McCarthy, sent his assistant, ex-soldier Thomas Bowyer, to collect the rent.

Kelly had been six weeks behind on her payments, owing 29 shillings. Shortly after 10:45 a.m., Bowyer knocked on her door but received no response.

He then attempted to turn the handle, only to discover the door was locked. Bowyer then looked through the keyhole but could not see anybody in the room. Pushing aside the clothing used to plug the broken windowpane and the muslin curtains which covered the windows, Bowyer peered inside the room—discovering Kelly's extensively mutilated corpse lying on the bed. She is believed to have died between three and nine hours before the discovery of her body. John suddenly stepped forward, then kicked the door in.

Sherlock blinked. “You do know we will have to pay for a new door, right Watson?” Sherlock said before pausing. “I do get why you are mad,” he said before stepping in. Joseph Barnett sat slumped in the only chair, his throat cut with the same terrible precision we had seen before. The blood was still fresh. On the rough table beside him, a plain, high-quality cream white visiting card from The Loose Thread Inn. It was expensive paper that stood out in the slum.

Written in precise, elegant handwriting: just “J.M.” Holmes moved past him like a ghost. He picked up the card and turned it toward the feeble gaslight. His face went very still.

“The Loose Thread Inn,” he read aloud, voice low and dangerous. “A lodging house in Kensington, if I am not mistaken. How very like him to choose such a name.”

John stared at the innocuous little booklet. “A tailor’s jest?”

Sherlock gave a short, humourless laugh. “No, Watson. A message. Barnett had become a loose thread in a much larger tapestry. And our unseen weaver has cut him neatly away.” He slipped the card into his pocket, eyes gleaming with that cold fire I knew too well. “It seems the game has changed, old friend.”

John's fist balled, making his knuckles turn white.

“Then let us finish it tonight.”

Sherlock placed a hand on his shoulder, a rare gesture.

“No, my dear fellow. Not tonight. Go home to Mary. Your child will be here soon enough, and she should not face these final days alone while you chase shadows with me. I will see this thread to its end — or at least tug at it a little further. Tomorrow, when you have rested and your mind is clearer, we shall take up the hunt together.”

{Pov Sherlock Holmes}

Inspector Greg Lestrade stood over the body, hands in his pockets, his ferret-like face pinched with weariness and something almost like satisfaction.

“Throat’s cut clean,” he muttered. “Looks like he did it himself. Couldn’t live with what he’d done, maybe. Or just another poor devil who’d had enough of this life.”

Sherlock's voice was sharp. “He did not do this himself, Lestrade. Observe the angle of the wound —”

Lestrade held up a hand. “Now, Mr. Holmes, I’ve learned to listen when you speak, but we need more than theories. We’ve got a dead man in Whitechapel with his throat opened. The public wants this Ripper business buried. If I go to the Commissioner saying Joseph Barnett was Jack and some unseen hand finished him off… well, you can imagine the reception.”

He looked at the “Loose Thread” card Holmes had found, turning it over in his fingers. “Though I’ll grant you this is curious. Very curious.”

Sherlock turned the card over in his fingers. “The Loose Thread, Kensington. Registered, no doubt, under his own name — Professor Moriarty. He has no need for petty deceptions, Inspector. The man walks through the world as a respected scholar while spinning his webs in the dark.”

The walk to Kensington was short. The Loose Thread Inn was made of marble stone with two giant dark oak doors.

“Professor Moriarty?” Sherlock asked.

The innkeeper was an old lady of 71, short with a pale face and short salt-gray hair, and she wore a long green dress.

“Room seven,” she said. Sherlock made his way towards room seven, then knocked.

“Come in, Mr. Holmes.”

Sherlock stepped in, his eyes landing on Professor Moriarty.

Moriarty was extremely tall and thin, his forehead domed out in a white curve, and his two eyes were deeply sunken in his head. He was clean-shaven, pale, and ascetic-looking, retaining something of the professor in his features. His shoulders were rounded from much study, and his face protruded forward and was forever slowly oscillating from side to side in a curiously reptilian fashion.

“Professor Moriarty.” Sherlock said, taking a seat.

“Mr. Holmes,” the Professor said calmly. “One of your agents was Jack the Ripper.”

“Which one?” Professor Moriarty asked, eyeing him. “How many men were the Ripper?”

“Countless, Mr. Holmes.” Professor Moriarty paused. “And you can’t tie it back to me.” Professor Moriarty said, taking a sip of tea.

“Someday I will tie it all to you.” Sherlock said, turning to leave.

Hi, sorry for not posting in a while. I’ve been working on my novel and got a bit lost in the story and characters.

I do plan on finishing my Sherlock Holmes story—I just haven’t seen much engagement, and I’m not sure how many people are reading it. That said, I’m not upset about it. I’m really happy people liked that I reposted Ticci-Toby by Kastoway—I even saw someone reblog it, which made me glad to see people still enjoy the character.

Horror is a great genre with a lot of storytelling potential, but that’s not what this post is about. I do plan to finish the story, and I’ll keep writing short stories while I work on my novel, though things might be a bit slower this month.

It’s my birthday month—April 28—so feel free to make Ticci-Toby jokes. My sister and her friend used to joke about it, and I always found it funny.

BATMAN: THE LONG YEAR — Commissioner Jim Gordon

The rain never seemed to end. It fell in thin, cold sheets, like the sky itself was mourning the people trapped in Gotham. Jim stepped out onto the rooftop and lit a cigarette, the ember briefly cutting through the gloom.

He was an aging man in his mid-to-late forties, his worn tan face framed by neat red hair threaded with gray, as if someone had spilled salt over him. His brown overcoat hung heavy with rain, and beneath it he wore a white button-up shirt, black slacks, and scuffed brown leather shoes.

“I thought you gave up smoking, Commissioner.”

Jim exhaled a long, tired sigh and turned. “Batman.”

“How did he get out?” Batman asked.

Batman wore a gray-and-blue suit tonight, the oval bat emblem muted in the downpour.

“Professor Hugo Strange,” Jim said. A beat. “New suit?”

“We are working a case, Jim,” Batman replied, genuinely confused.

“Yeah, yeah… but what’s with the change?” Jim teased, a faint grin tugging at his face. Batman tried — and failed — to hide a reluctant smile.

“No updates. All the bodies were left with some kind of holiday item. And it’s only a few days until Thanksgiving.” Jim paused, drawing on the cigarette. “The wife’s trying to get me to retire.”

“She is?” Batman asked, studying him.

“Yeah. She wants to move somewhere else.”

Jim let out a low laugh. “Not happening. And if I did leave, I sure as hell wouldn’t run for mayor.” He turned back toward the skyline.

When he looked again, Batman was gone.

“Again, Bruce?” Jim muttered, annoyed and resigned all at once.

Batman 

Bruce watched Jim step back into the building. The rooftop fell silent again, rain whispering against the concrete.

“It’s kind of creepy to watch your friends, you know,” a voice said.

Bruce turned. Richard Grayson stood behind him: tan face, brown hair damp from the rain, the black suit with the red bird-of-prey emblem clinging to him like a shadow. A faint bruise colored his left eye.

“Did you and Jason get in a fight again?” Bruce asked, eyes narrowing at the bruise.

“No. I stopped a robbery,” Richard said, rolling his eyes.

Bruce gave him a look. “No need to lie.”

Richard threw his hands up. “I just wanted to ask if you needed help.”

“Check Julian Day’s old residence,” Bruce said. “I’ll speak with his brother.”

“Calendar Man has a brother?” Richard blinked.

“He lives on the east side of Gotham.”

{II found this in my Google Docs—something I wrote when I was imagining how I’d reboot the MCU after Marvel Secret Wars. I figured I’d post it here. I’ll add more in another post if anyone’s interested.}

The Ultimate Spider-Man movie script by me EXT.Brooklyn Bridge New York

Traffic is frozen in chaos. A car hurtles through the air—about to crush a pinned cop.

At the last second, a webline SNAPS it still. Spider-Man swings down, straining as the car dangles inches above the officer.

SPIDER-MAN Well, ain’t you lucky you’re not a cop that rides a horse?

He lowers the car gently. His suit glimmers — red and black with gun melt black webbing, a faint blue spider on the back, eyes narrowed and sharp.

From the smoke, RHINO stomps forward, a hulking brute in mechanized armor.

RHINO Spider-Man… I will break you.

Spider-Man drops down lightly in front of him, dusting his hands.

SPIDER-MAN (grinning) Aleksei! I missed you, buddy.

RHINO You talk too much.

With a roar, Rhino charges. Spider-Man vaults clean over him in one smooth flip, landing on his back and hammering rapid punches.

Rhino bucks him off, tossing him across the pavement. Spider-Man fires a web mid-air, snatching the bulging cash bag off Rhino’s back before ricocheting off a cop car and launching a flying kick.

SPIDER-MAN Finders keepers!

Rhino, enraged, tears a luxury car off the street. Harry Osborn stumbles out of the wreck.

Rhino raises a massive foot to stomp Harry—Spider-Man yanks him clear with a webline.

SPIDER-MAN Heads up!

The car comes sailing at him next. Spider-Man dives, flips, web-zips back, and slams Rhino across the jaw with a kinetic punch that cracks his armor.

Rhino staggers, tries one last charge— Spider-Man sidesteps, webs his legs, and slingshots him face-first into the asphalt.

SPIDER-MAN (breathless, to Rhino) And they say I talk too much.

[This scene popped into my head, and I wanted to see if I could write a moment between Bruce and Alfred.] BATMAN: THE LONG YEAR — Pilot Test Scene Bruce stood beneath the lone lamp in the Cave, reading the case file for what felt like the thousandth time. His cowl hung from one hand like a dead thing. The shadows under his eyes had gone from purple to black over the months, as if someone had pressed their thumbs there and refused to let go.

He hadn’t shaved in four days; the stubble was more gray than black now. When he tore the page from the wall calendar, the rip echoed louder than the ticking grandfather clock behind him.

His watch — the platinum Patek Philippe his father wore the night they died — had stopped at 10:47 p.m. sometime around Labor Day. He never wound it again.

“Did you make me coffee, Alfred?”

Alfred set the tea tray down with the same practiced grace he’d shown for thirty-five years, though the cup rattled once (just once) against the saucer before he steadied it. The morning light crawling into the Cave found new silver threading through his hair, bright as frost, and the skin beneath his collar looked thin enough to tear.

He reached to take the torn calendar page from Bruce’s bleeding fingers. For the first time in Bruce’s memory, Alfred’s hand trembled.

“No, Master Wayne. I made tea.” A pause. “You also have unread texts from Mr. Kent.”

“Clark worries over spilled milk.”

“He is your friend, Master Wayne,” Alfred said as he sat beside him. “Still reading over this case?”

Bruce nodded.

“Don’t you have a wedding to plan?”

Bruce rubbed his eyes. “All is going well this time. No pointless family drama. Crime is low.” He paused. “But Julian Day — Calendar Man — was quietly released from Arkham six months ago on a technicality.”

Another pause.

“In those 236 days, he’s been designing the perfect crime: a year-long murder cycle tied to every major holiday.”

Alfred swallowed. “There’s something wrong with this city.”

I know this is the kind of post most people will roll their eyes at, and honestly, I doubt many will even read it. But I wanted to share it anyway—why not? It made me genuinely happy to see how well my repost of the original Ticci Toby story was received. It’s nice to know people still enjoy it.

Note

This is Kastoway story and his alone, not mine This story is 100% unchanged — it’s the original version written by Kastoway in 2013. I only formatted it for easier reading. I’m not claiming this story as my own in any way.

Reading this honestly hurt a little — it’s sad to look back at what could’ve been. I know some people are upset with Kastoway, but I’m not one of them. I hope they’re still writing and are happy now.

As a writer, I’m honestly grateful I never went through what Kastoway did.

When I was 12 or 13, I posted a few stories on Wattpad — nothing weird, just some cringey superhero tales and one pretty bad horror story. I’m actually glad none of them took off and that I eventually deleted them.

These days, I just mess around with a half-baked Sherlock story on Tumblr and keep working on my novel on the side.

I still find myself thinking about this story a lot. I’ve always believed it’s one of the best-written creepypastas out there — and here’s my hot take: it’s better than Jeff the Killer.

Don’t get me wrong, I still like Jeff as a character, but Toby’s story feels deeper, sadder, and more human.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy revisiting Kastoway’s story as much as I did. It really holds up.

Ticci-Toby By Kastoway

The long road home seemed to go on and on. The road continued to outstretch in front of the vehicle endlessly.

The light that shone through the branches of the tall green trees danced across the window in random patterns, every once in a while, obnoxiously shining in your eyes.

The surrounding was full of deep green trees forming a forest around the road. The only sound was the sound of the cars engine as it traveled down the path. It was peaceful and let off a serene feeling.

Although the ride seemed like a nice one, it lacked every form of ‘nice’ for both passengers.

The middle-aged woman behind the steering wheel had neat short brown hair that fit her complexion quite well. She wore a green v-neck t-shirt and a pair of blue jeans. Diamond stud earrings decorated each of her ears which partially shown from behind her hair cut.

 She had deep green eyes which were brought out by her shirt, and the lighting seemed to make them more noticeable. There wasn’t much significance to her appearance. She just looked like any “average mother” that you’d see on t.v. shows and such, but one thing for sure made her differ from those “average mothers” and that was the dark bags under her eyes.

Her facial expression was gloomy and sad, although she genuinely looked like one who smiled a lot.

She would sniffle every once in a while, and occasionally glance back in the rear-view mirror to look back at her son in the back seat, who was hunched over partially, his arms held tight around his chest, and his head pressed against the cold window.

The boy lacked any normal appearance, anyone could blandly see that something was wrong with him. His messy brown hair went in every which way, and his pale, almost gray skin was brought out by luminescent lighting. His eyes where dark, unlike his mother’s and he wore a white t-shirt and scrub pants that had been provided to him by the hospital. The clothes he had worn before where so shredded and blood stained, that they weren’t ‘wearable’ anymore.

The right side of his face bared a few cuts along with his split eyebrow. His right arm was bandaged up all the way up to his shoulder, which had been shredded when his right side had hit the shattered glass.

His injuries appeared to be painful, when really he couldn’t feel a thing. He never could feel a thing. That was just one of the glories about being him. 

One of the many challenges he had to face growing up, was growing up with the rare disease that caused him to be completely numb towards pain. Never before had he felt himself get hurt. He 

Could have lost an arm and felt nothing. That and another major disorder he had faced, was the one that deemed him many insulting nicknames in the short time he attended grade school, before he was moved to home schooling was his Tourette syndrome, which caused him to tic and twitch in ways he couldn’t control. 

He would crack his neck uncontrollably and twitch every once in a while. The kids would tease him and call him Ticci-Toby and mock him with exaggerated twitching and laughing. It got so bad he turned to homeschooling. It was too hard for him to be in a common learning environment with seemingly every kid poking, or more like stabbing fun at him.

Toby stared blankly out the window, his face was empty of any depict-able emotion, and every few minutes his shoulder, arm, or foot would twitch. Every bump that the car tires hit, made him stomach turn.

Toby Rogers was the boy’s name. And the last time Toby remembered riding a car, was when it crashed.

Thats all he thought about. Unconsciously replaying everything he had remembered before he blacked out, over and over again. Toby had been the lucky one, when his sister hadn’t been so lucky. 

When the thought of his older sister came, he couldn’t help but let his eyes begin to tear up. The horrible memories replayed in his mind. Her screaming that had been cut off when the front of the car was smashed in. 

It all went blank for a moment before Toby opened his eyes to see his sister’s body, her forehead pierced with glass shards, her hips and legs where crushed under the force of the steering wheel, her torso pushed in from the late inflated air bag.

This was the last thing he had seen of his dear older sister.

The road home continued on for what seemed like forever. It took so long to get home due to his mother wanting to avoid passing the sight of the crash.

When the surrounding gave into a familiar neighborhood, they had both been more then ready to get out of the car and step back into their own home.

It was a older neighborhood, with quaint little houses all next to each other. The car drove in front of a little blue house, with white window panes.

They both quickly noticed the old vehicle that was parked in front of the house, and the familiar figure who stood out in the driveway. Toby felt automatic anger and frustration take over him at the sight of his father. His father who wasn’t there.

His mother pulled the car up into the driveway beside him before turning off the engine and preparing to step out and face her husband.

“Why is he here?” Toby said quietly as he looked back at his mother who reached to open the car door.

“He’s your father Toby, he’s here because he wants to see you,” His mother responded with a monotone voice, trying to sound less shaky.

“Yet he couldn’t have driven up to the hospital to see Lyra before she died,” Toby narrowed his eyes out the window.

“He was drunk that night honey, he couldn’t drive-”“Yeah when is he not,” Toby pushed open the door before his mother and stumbled out onto the driveway where he met his father’s gaze before looking down at his feet with a stern expression.

His mother stepped out behind him and met her husband’s eyes before walking around the car.

His father opened up his arms, expecting a hug from his wife, but she walked passed him and put her arm around Toby’s shoulder and influenced him to begin walking inside.

“Connie,” her husband began to say under a raspy voice, “What, no welcome home hug, huh?”

She ignored her husband’s obnoxious words and walked passed him with her son under her arm. “Hey, He’s 16 he can walk by himself,” his father began to follow them in.

“He’s 17,” Connie glared back at him before opening the door to the house and stepping inside.

“Toby, why don’t we get you in your room to rest okay? I’ll come get you when dinner is ready-”“No, I’m 16 I can walk by myself,” Toby said sarcastically, and glared back at his father before stumbling up the small staircase and turning into his room where he slammed the door violently.

His little room didn’t have much in it. Just a small bed, a dresser, a window, and his walls had a few framed pictures of his family, back when they where a family. Before his father became an alcoholic, and acted violently towards the rest of his family. Toby remembered when he was arguing with his mother and he grabbed her by the hair and shoved her to the floor, and when Lyra had tried to break it up, he pushed her and she hit her back on the corner of the kitchen counter. Toby could never forgive him for what he did to his mother and sister. Never.

Toby didn’t care how much his father beat him down, he couldn’t feel it anyway, what he did care about was how he intentionally hurt the only two people he cared about.

And when he waiting in the hospital, where his sister took her last few breaths, the only person who didn’t rush there, was his dad.

Toby stood by the window and looked out onto the street. He could have sworn he saw things out of the corner of his eye, but quickly blamed it on the medication he had been put on.

When dinner time had come around and his mother called up to him, Toby came down the stairs and hesitantly sat down at the table across from his father, and in between his mother and an empty chair.

It was quiet as his parents picked at their food, but Toby refused to eat. Instead he just watched his dad with a blank stare.

His mother caught onto his stare towards his father and elbowed him slightly. Toby looked over at her slightly and look down at his uneaten food, in which he didn’t touch.

Toby laid in bed, he pulled his covers over his head and stared at the window. He was tired but there was no way he would fall asleep. He couldn’t, there was too much to think about. He had been debating on wether or not to follow his mother’s directions and forgive his father, or continue holding a grudge with his boiling hatred.

He heard his door creak open, and his mother padded into the room and sat on the bed next to him. She reached over and rubbed his back, which had been turned to her.

“I know it’s hard Toby, trust me, I understand... but I promise you it will get better” she said softly.

“When is he going to leave?” Toby said with a innocent tone in his shaky voice.

Connie let her gaze fall down to her feet. “I don’t know honey, he's staying as far as I know,” she replied.

Toby didn’t respond. He just continued to look forward at the wall, holding his damaged arm near his chest.

After a few minutes of silence, his mother sighed, before she leaned in to kiss his cheek and stood up to walk out of the room. “Good night,” she said as she closed the door.

The hours passed slowly, and Toby couldn’t quit tossing and turning. Every time he let his imagination take over, he heard the screeching of tires, the screaming of his sister, and he could uncontrollably jerk in bed. 

He threw off his covers, laying on his back, he pulled his pillow over his face and cried into it. He could feel his chest rise and fall as he let out each shaky breath as he cried. He could hear his own pitiful weeping. He would have been screaming and crying if he didn’t press his pillow over his face. 

After a few seconds he threw the pillow off his face as well and sat up, hunched over, holding his head and breathing roughly, tears streaming from his eyes. He couldn’t help but cry. He tried to keep it in, but he couldn’t help but whine and whimper as he sat there shaking. He inhaled before he stood up and walked around his bed to the window and peered out, taking deep breathes trying to calm down. 

He rubbed his eyes and looked out at the group of tall pine trees across the street. He stopped suddenly, and his gaze slowly centered on something standing under the street light. He heard 

Ringing in his ears and he couldn’t look away. The figure stood beside the street light, about 2 feet shorter then it, long arms draped at it’s sides as it stared up at him with non-existing eyes. The figure had no features what-so-ever. No eyes, 

No mouth, no nose, yet it held Toby’s hypnotized stare, seemingly peering into his very being. The ringing in his ears grew louder and louder each second he stared before suddenly it all went black.

The next morning Toby woke in his bed. He felt different. He wasn’t tired at all, and when he consciously woke up, it felt like he had been lying there, awake for hours. He had no thoughts flowing through his mind. He sat up slowly and stumbled over to the wall, but when he stood up he automatically felt dizzy. He stumbled to the doorway and walked down the stairs. His parents were sitting at the table, his father was in-tuned with the small t.v. that sat on the countertop, and his mother reading the newspaper. She quickly looked over when she felt Toby’s presence  looming behind her.

“Well, good morning sleepy head, you’ve been sleeping forever,” She greeted him with hesitated smile.

Toby slowly looked over at the clock and noticed that it was 12:30 p.m.

“I made you breakfast but it got cold, I was going to wake you, but I felt you needed sleep,” her expression fell from happy to worried as her son resisted responding to her. “Are you alright?”

Toby stumbled over and sat by his father. He felt as if he was on idle, and had no control over his actions. He was seeing everything he did, but it didn’t seem to register in his brain properly. He reached out to to his father’s arm, but his hand ended up getting slapped. His father turned to him abruptly and pushed his chair over with his foot. “Don’t touch me boy!” He yelled.

His mother stood up, “Alright knock that off! That is the last thing we need!”

The days went by, and things continued on as they where. Connie spent most of her time cleaning up the house, and her rude husband spent most of his time ordering her around. It was just how it used to be before the crash.

Toby never really left his room. He would sit by his bed, and tremble. His mind would wonder, but his thoughts changed to fast to be remembered. He would pace around his small room like a caged animal, or stare out the window. The unhealthy cycle continued.

Connie continued to be pushed around by her husband, being way too submissive to him, and Toby remained in his room.

Before he could think twice, he would begin to chew on his hands, tearing the flesh from his fingers. He would gnaw his hands until they bled. When his mother walked in on him while he was doing so, she reacted horribly. She rushed him downstairs and grabbed the first aid, wrapping his hands in it. She demanded that he wouldn’t leave her side from then.

He isolated himself so much that he grew to hate being around others. His memory grew glitchy as well. He’d start missing memory of minutes, hours, days, and so on. He would begin talking nonsense, about things completely unrelated to conversations he would have.  

He’d go off about seeing things, sharks in his sink as he washed the dishes, hearing crickets in his pillows, and seeing ghosts outside his bedroom window. All the nonsense landed him in a counselors office. His mother grew too anxious about his mental health, she decided it would be good for him to talk to a professional about what he was feeling.

Connie walked Toby into the building, holding his hand and guiding him in. She walked him up to the front desk and began talking to the lady who sat behind it.

“Mrs. Rogers?” The lady asked.

“Yes that’s me,” Connie nodded, “We’re here to see doctor Oliver, I’m here with Toby Rogers.”

“Yes, right this way.”

The lady stood up and lead them down a long hallway. Toby looked at the framed artwork down the halls and tuned in to the sound of the lady’s high heels on the hardwood floor. She opened the door to a room with a table and two chairs. “If we can get him to sit in here for a few minutes, I’ll get the doctor,” She smiled and held the door open.

Toby stumbled into the room and sat down at the table. He looked over at his mother and the lady before the door slowly shut behind them. He looked around the room before he held up his tightly bandaged hands and began to bite at the bandages to unwrap his hands, but was interrupted as the door swung open and a young woman in a black and white spotted dress and light blonde hair stepped in, holding a clipboard and a pen. “Toby?” she asked with a smile.

Toby looked up at her and nodded.

“Nice to meet you Toby. My name is Doctor Oliver.” she put her hand out for him to shake but hesitantly pulled away when she noticed his bandaged hands. “Oh,” she smiled nervously before clearing her throat and sitting in the chair across the table from him.

“So I’m going to ask you a few questions, try to answer them as honestly as possible okay?” she placed her clipboard down on the table.

Toby nodded slowly and held his restrained hands in his lap.

“How old are you Toby?” she asked.

“17” he responded quietly.

She wrote that down on the paper that was clipped to the clipboard.

“What is your full name?”

“Toby Erin Rogers”

“What is your birthday?”

“April 28th”

“Who is your immediate family?”

Toby paused for a minute before answering her question, “My Mom, My Dad, and…” he stopped, “M-my sister”

“I heard about your sister dear… I’m really sorry,” her expression faded into a sad, pity-filled look.

Toby nodded.

“Do you remember anything from the crash Toby?”Toby looked away from her. His mind went blank for a moment. He looked down at his lap, and in the surrounding, he heard a faint ringing sound. His eyes widened and he froze in his place.

“Toby?” the counselor asked. “Toby are you listening?”

Toby felt a shiver go down his spine until he froze once again and slowly looked over out the little window through the door, where he saw it. A dark featureless figure, peering in at him. He stared, eyes widened, the ringing growing louder and louder until suddenly the loud voice of the counselor broke his trance.

“Toby!” She yelled.

Toby jumped and fell sideways out of his chair and back up into the corner.

Doctor Oliver stood up, holding her clipboard to her chest. A surprised look in her eyes.

Toby met her eyes again, his breath hitching as he twitched.

That night Toby laid in bed. His eyes dazed as he stared straight up at his ceiling. He could feel himself begin to doze off, when he heard the scattering of footsteps down his hallway. 

He sat up and looked towards the doorway, his door wide open. There was no light, everything was lit by the luminescent blue glow of the moon through his window, leaving a cold lighting. 

He stood up and slowly made his way towards the doorway, when suddenly the door, which was previously wide open, slammed in his face. 

He gasped and fell back. His was out of breathe when he hit the ground and he began breathing heavily, his eyes wide open. He waited for a few seconds before getting back up on his feet. 

He reached out and grasped the cold door handle with his bandaged hand and creaked it open. He looked out into the dark hallway and tiptoed out of his room. The window at the end of the hallway lit up the darkness with blue moonlight as he padded his way down. 

He could hear footsteps rustling around him, and faint giggling let by the pitter patter of small feet, which sounded like a child had run in front of him, giggling and running around. The hallway was a lot longer than he had remembered. It seemed endless… like the ride home from the hospital. He heard a door creak in front of him.

“Mom?” he called out in a shaky voice.

Suddenly a door slammed behind him and he jumped and turned around. Behind him he heard a long eerie groan from behind him, that sounded to croak right in his ear. 

He turned around as fast as he could and was suddenly face to face with none other than his dead sister. 

Her eyes were clouded white, her skin pale, and the right side of her jaw only dangling on by tissue and muscle, glass protruding from her forehead, and black blood leaking down her face, her blonde hair pulled up back in a ponytail as it always was, wearing her grey t-shirt and athlete’s shorts which were dirty and spotted with blood. Her legs where bent in ways they shouldn’t be. 

She stood, emitting a long croaking noise, only an inch away from Toby’s face.

Toby yelped and fell back. “AH!” he started to crawl backwards away from her, not able to break the eye contact he held with her, blank, dead eyes. He dragged himself backwards until he backed up into something.

He stopped for a second. Everything was dead silent except for his heavy breathing and crying. He slowly looked up to meet the blank face of a tall dark figure that stood over him. Behind the tall dark mass where rows of children, looking to range from 3 to 10 years, their eyes completely black and dark black blood leaked from their eye sockets.

He screamed and stood up as fast as he could only to be tripped by dark black tendrils that wrapped around his ankle. He fell straight on his stomach and got the wind knocked out of his chest. He tried to scream out but he couldn’t make a sound. He wheezed out, before it all went black.

Toby woke up with a start. He screamed out and sat up as fast as he could, completely short of breathe. He wheezed out and held his chest with his bandaged hands. It was just a dream…. just a dream. He laid back down on his bed and rolled over on his side. It felt like a giant weight had been lifted off his chest as he took in deep breathes. He stood up and padded over to his window. He saw nothing. Nobody was out there. No ghosts. No figures. Nothing.

He heard the rustling and coughing of his father out the doorway. His door was closed.

He walked over and opened it. Looking out into the hallway once again. He padded down the hallway and into the kitchen where he found his dad standing and having a smoke in their living room.

Toby waited a second and watched him from around the corner before a burning feeling started deep in his chest.

Deep, boiling, anger took over him. He heard the little imaginary voices in his head.

“Do it, Do it, Do it,” they chanted.

He turned away and held his arms. He felt like he actually had control over himself, unlike he did for the past few weeks since he got home from the hospital. He actually had complete thoughts for just moments before they were clouded by the chanting of the little voices in his head.

“Kill him, he wasn’t there, he wasn’t there, kill him, kill him,” they continued on.

Toby trembled. No. No he wasn’t going to do it. What, was he going crazy? No. He won’t kill anyone. He can’t. He hated his father, but there was no way he was going to kill him.

That was it. The last thought he had before he fell into an idle state once again. The influence of the voices in his head was too much. He began to silently walk up behind his father. He reached over the counter to the knife holder in the kitchen and pulled out a the largest knife that had been resting in the case. He gripped it in his hand. He felt a sensation take over his chest. He let out a snicker. 

“Heh… heheh… hehehehehe! HAHAHAHA!” he began laughing so hard he had to gasp for breathe. His father turned around abruptly before he felt a brute force shove him to the floor. He grunted as the air was knocked out of him. 

“What!” he looked up at the boy who stood over him, grasping the kitchen knife in his hand. “Toby what are you doing!” he went to sit up and put hand arms out in front of him in self defense but before he knew it Toby was on top of him. He went to grab at his neck, but his father reached out and blocked his hand by grabbing onto this wrist.

“Stop! Get off of me you little fucker!” he yelled and with his other hand he threw an off center punch towards Toby’s shoulder, but he didn’t stop… The look in Toby’s eyes was not sane. It looked as if a demon had taken control over him. He yelled back and went to stab the knife into his father’s chest but he blocked him and grabbed onto his wrist once again. He went to shove him back, but Toby kicked out his feet in front of him and landed a hard blow straight to his face. His father recoiled and pulled his arms away to cuff his face, but Toby got back up and drove the knife straight into his shoulder. His father let out a loud cry and went to pull the knife out, but before he could, Toby threw his fist straight into his face. 

He began to pound his fists into his head, laughing and wheezing. He cracked his neck and grabbed the knife and ripped it out of his shoulder. He drove it deep into his dad’s chest and repeatedly stabbed into his torso, blood spilling out and getting splattered everywhere. 

He didn’t stop until his father’s body went still. He threw the knife over to the side and leaned over his body, coughing and panting. 

He stared at his smashed in face and sat there twitching, until a loud scream broke the silence. He looked over to see his mother standing a few feet away, covering her mouth, tears streaming down her eyes.

“Toby!” she screamed, “Why did you do that!?” she cried. “W-why!” She screamed. Toby stood up and began to back away from his father’s bloody corpse. He began to back out of the kitchen. He looked down at the blood soaked bandages on his hands and looked up at his mother one last time before he turned and ran out of the house. He ran into the garage and slammed his hand against the control panel on the wall and pushed the button to open the garage door.

Before he ran out his father’s two hatchets that had been hanging on the tool rack above a table full of jars, filled to the brim with old rusted nails and screws. One hatchets was new, it had a bright orange handle and a shiny blade, the other was old with a wooden handle and a old dull blade. He grabbed both and looked down at the table and his eyes met a box of matches, and under the table was a red gasoline tank.

 He held both of the hatchets in one hand and grabbed the matches and gasoline before running out of the garage, down the driveway and up the street.

As he approached the street light that he could see out his own bedroom window he heard police sirens in to distance. He turned around and the red and blue flashing lights came rushing down the street. Toby stood for a second, before he pulled open the cap on the gasoline tank and ran down the street, spilling gasoline all over the street  after him and he turned to run into the trees.

He poured the last bit of gasoline out before he reached in his pocket and pulled out a match. He struck it against the box and immediately dropped it. In an instant, flames burst out around him. The fire caught onto the trees and bushes around him and before he knew it, he was surrounded by fire. 

The silhouettes of police cars where visible through the flames as he backed away into the forest around him. He looked around but his vision was blurred, his heart was pounding and he closed his eyes for a moment. This was it. This was the end.

Toby felt a hand on his shoulder. He opened his eyes and looked over to see a large white hand with long boney fingers that rested on his shoulder. He followed the arm that was attached to the hand up to a towering dark figure. It appeared to be wearing a dark black suit, and it’s face was completely blank. It towered over Toby’s small frame and it looked down on him. Tendrils 

Reached out from it’s back. Before Toby knew it, his vision blurred and he was surrounded by the sound of ringing in his ears. 

Everything went blank.

That was it. That was the end. That was how Toby Rogers died.

A few weeks later Connie sat in her sister’s kitchen. Her sister, Lori sat next to her drinking a cup of coffee.

About three weeks ago, Connie lost her husband, and her son, and a few weeks before, she lost her daughter to a car crash. Since then she moved in with her sister. The police were keeping her busy, they had just finished cleaning up the case, and the story had been released two weeks ago, and the focus of the world seemed to have shifted to completely new stories.

Lori switched on the T.V. to a news broadcast. On the T.V. the news reporter began introducing the new headline.

“We have breaking news! Last night there has been a reported murder of 4 individuals. There are no suspects yet but the victims were a group of middle school kids who had been out in the woods late last night. 

The kids had been ‘bludgeoned’ and stabbed to death. The investigators had discovered a weapon at the crime scene which appears to be a old, dull bladed hatchet, as you can see here” The pictured changed to show snapshots of the weapon exactly as it was left on the crime scene. 

The Whitechapel File — Chapter Five: A Conversation with Watson (Author’s Note: Sorry — I reworked this for AO3 and added Watson talking to Aaron, and I hope you like the rework of the new Chapter Five: A Soul in Ruins.)

Watson sat in his armchair, eyes reflecting the firelight. “Sir Cameron Gull spoke of Aaron Kosminski?” he asked.

Sherlock nodded. “Aye. He did indeed speak of Mr. Kosminski.”

“Do you think it was him?”

“I need more data,” Sherlock replied, striking a match and lighting his pipe.

Watson gave a quiet nod. “Such is the nature of humans,” Sherlock added between puffs.

“Care to explain?” Watson leaned back.

“Violence can be found in nature — animals are violent,” Sherlock began. “War exists among other creatures too. Humans merely gave their barbarism a name, like one would a pet. Cruelty has become the gift we’ve given ourselves. In the end, we are all in the gutter, floating beneath a sea of stars, doing our best to be good.”

Watson frowned thoughtfully. “I don’t think human nature is violent,” he said after a moment. “People can be empathetic.”

“Aye,” Sherlock said dryly, “but even empathy can be used for gain — to play people like one plays a fiddle.”

Watson sighed. “I’ve seen that often.”

“As have I,” Sherlock muttered. “Politics, in particular, are as dull as rusted iron.”

Watson looked up. “You mentioned Joseph Barnett earlier. He stood out to you?”

“He did.” Sherlock paused. “I wish to speak with him myself.”

“And me?” Watson asked.

Sherlock turned his piercing gaze upon him. “I want you to speak with Mr. Kosminski.”

Watson blinked. “Why?”

“It’s simple, my dear Watson,” Sherlock said with a faint smirk. “Divide and conquer.”

John made his way to the lodging house in Green Street. It smelt of boiled cabbage, unwashed bodies, and despair. He climbed the narrow stairs with a lantern in one hand and my medical bag in the other, Sherlock's instructions still ringing in his ears. Speak with Mr. Kosminski. Observe everything.

The door was ajar. Inside, the room was little more than a cell. A narrow straw mattress lay upon the bare floorboards, stained and sour-smelling. The single window was grimed with years of neglect, admitting a sickly grey light that did nothing to dispel the gloom.

In the corner, huddled against the wall, sat Aaron Kosminski. His dark hair was matted, and his eyes darted like those of a cornered animal.

He could not have been more than five-and-twenty, yet he appeared a man already half-consumed by his own mind.

His frame was painfully thin, the bones of his wrists and collar prominent beneath yellowish skin. His dark hair hung in greasy, matted strands about his face, and his beard was unkempt.

The stench of unwashed flesh and stale urine hung heavy in the air. I noted with professional dismay that his fingernails were black with filth, and there were sores upon his knuckles where he had scratched himself raw. 

His eyes, when they lifted to mine, were dark and restless, moving with the quick bird-like jerks of a dying creature that hears sounds that only the living hear in a dream.

“Mr. Kosminski?” John said gently, keeping his distance.

“My name is Doctor Watson. I wish to speak with you, if I may.”

For a long moment he made no reply. Then his lips moved, murmuring rapidly in what John took to be Yiddish or Polish. Suddenly the words shifted into broken English.

“They watch. They always watch. The women… the red women. The spider spoke to me. They call to the instinct.”

His gaze sharpened, fixed upon me with sudden intensity.

“You are one of them? Sent by the doctors? They put things in the food. I will not eat it. Not from their hands.”

John glanced at the corner where a few crusts of bread lay scattered, some clearly retrieved from the floor. My stomach turned, but he kept his voice steady.

“I am a medical man, Mr. Kosminski. I have come only to talk. Do you remember a woman named Mary Jane Kelly? Or a man called Joseph Barnett?”

At the name Kelly, his whole body twitched. One hand slipped beneath the thin blanket beside him and emerged clutching a small barber’s razor, the blade catching what little light there was.

He did not brandish it at me, but held it close to his chest, turning it over and over as though it comforted him.

“Kelly…” he whispered. “Pretty hair. Pretty voice. But the blood… the blood sings. The instinct tells me. It tells me what must be done.” His eyes suddenly brimmed with tears. “I am a good man. I said no to the spider yet. Why do they make me hear these things?”

John watched him for a moment longer, the razor still turning slowly in his filthy fingers. There was nothing more to be gained here — only a deep, abiding sadness. This was no calculating monster; this was a soul in ruins.

“I am sorry for bothering you, Mr. Kosminski,” John said quietly. “I shall trouble you no further.”

He did not reply, only rocked gently and muttered once more about “the instinct” and red women. As he turned to leave, he took two half-crowns from his pocket and placed them carefully on the edge of the mattress, well within his reach but not so close as to startle him.

“Perhaps for some bread,” he murmured, more to himself than to him.

{Author Note- Sorry, I’ve been busy working on my novel.}

Sherlock remained seated long after Mycroft left, his mind spinning with possibilities. The name Cameron Gull whispered through his thoughts—a murderer in Parliament? It wouldn’t be the first time someone of influence used their position as a shield.

Rising, he fetched his notebook from the mantle and began scribbling observations, linking Frances Coles’ murder to the previous Ripper killings. Similarities existed—the throat slashed, the body left in a public place—but there were inconsistencies, too.

“Too clean,” Sherlock muttered. “Too contained.”

Sadler was suspicious, certainly, but rage alone didn’t make a man a precision killer.

He lit a cigarette, smoke curling in the dim light as he glanced toward Watson’s now-empty chair. His friend would have offered measured thoughts, but even Watson had grown weary of the Ripper.

Later that night, Sherlock visited the Metropolitan Police archives under the pretense of reviewing case files. In a quiet office lit by a single gas lamp, he found Inspector Abberline poring over old photographs.

“Holmes. Inspector Lestrade said you’d be here,” Abberline greeted without looking up. “Didn’t think the Ripper would pull you back in.”

“I’m not here because I want to be,” Sherlock replied, “but because I must.”

Abberline handed him a sheet—an image of Frances Coles, taken post-mortem.

“If this was the Ripper,” the inspector said, “then he’s changing. Less mutilation. Less theatrics.”

“Or it isn’t him at all.”

Abberline raised a brow. “You think it’s a copycat?”

“Perhaps,” Sherlock mused. “Or someone who wants us to believe it’s the same killer.”

His eyes flicked to a list of suspects.

“Tell me, Inspector… What do you know of Sir Cameron Gull?”

Abberline looked away. “Enough. Too many ties. He’s connected to the City elite—power, money, influence. The sort we’re not allowed to touch without consequences.”

Sherlock tapped his fingers together. “But you believe he could be involved?”

“I believe men like him think they’re above the law. And if you’re not careful, someone’s going to make you disappear.”

The next morning, Sherlock rose early and made his way to Sir Cameron Gull’s estate. The grounds were vast, walled off from the noise and grime of the city. A butler greeted him at the gate and led him through marble halls adorned with velvet curtains and ancient portraits.

Sir Cameron waited in the drawing room, pouring tea with deliberate ease.

“Mr. Holmes,” he said, glancing up. “I must admit, I didn’t expect the Queen’s bloodhound at my door. I hope you’re not here about poor Miss Coles.”

“Only tangentially,” Holmes replied. “I’m more interested in you, Sir Cameron.”

A thin smile touched Gull’s lips. “And what have I done to warrant your attention?”

Holmes tilted his head. “It’s not what you’ve done. It’s what you’re protecting.”

The smile faded.

“Tread carefully, Mr. Holmes. You’re not dealing with street murderers and opium fiends anymore.”

“No,” Holmes said, voice low. “Now I’m dealing with a man who helped a monster hide behind a mask of civility.”

There was a pause.

“I suspect you know who the killer truly is.”

Sir Cameron flushed with anger.

“I do not know who the killer is,” he snapped, glaring. “Why would I protect a murderer? I’d lose everything I’ve worked for. Only a fool would do so.”

“Only if that fool is being blackmailed,” Holmes said calmly, watching closely. “Perhaps by someone with… compromising information.”

Sir Cameron’s face drained of color.

“You’ve been with one of the women, haven’t you?” Holmes pressed.

“No,” Sir Cameron replied too quickly, beginning to pace.

Holmes studied his movements silently.

“If I talk… he’ll find me,” Sir Cameron muttered, voice trembling. “He always does.”

Then, almost involuntarily, under his breath: “That damn hairdresser…”

Holmes stiffened. “Hairdresser?” he repeated, stunned.

Sir Cameron’s eyes widened—then narrowed with rage.

“Get out,” he said coldly. “Now. Leave, you bastard.”

The next morning, Sherlock stood beneath the awning of a modest shop nestled between a tobacconist and a dressmaker. Its sign creaked softly in the breeze:

“Fryzjerstwo i Golenie – Gentlemen Only.”

Inside, the air was thick with pomade and sandalwood. The quiet hum of conversation mingled with the clink of razors. A sharply dressed man with oiled black hair and a manicured mustache looked up from his client.

“Mr. Holmes,” the man said, voice tinged with a faint Indian accent. “A pleasure. We don’t often serve detectives.”

Sherlock gave a curt nod. “And I rarely visit hairdressers. But we all must make exceptions.”

The barber smiled—clearly catching the edge in Holmes’s tone. He had dark skin and slick black hair, and wore a crisp white button-up shirt, black work trousers, and worn brown leather boots.

“Then please—sit. A trim? Or something more… confidential?”

Sherlock took the offered seat, eyes flicking around the room. A young boy swept hair into a corner. Two patrons sat silently behind raised newspapers. Holmes’s gaze settled on a door in the back—left just slightly ajar.

“Sir Cameron Gull spoke of a hairdresser,” Holmes said quietly. “Someone he feared. Someone who ‘always finds him.’”

The barber paused, comb suspended mid-air.

“I see,” he said softly. “Then you must mean Aaron Kosminski.”

“A Polish name?” Holmes echoed. A flicker of thought passed over his face. I believe Watson knows the family…

The barber nodded toward the back room. “He hasn’t been in today. But he’s… curious. Talented. Dangerous. And very well-connected.”

Holmes narrowed his eyes. “And why would a hairdresser strike fear into the heart of a man like Sir Cameron Gull?”

Sherlock remained seated for some time after Mycroft left, his mind already spinning with possibilities. The name Cameron Gull repeated like a whisper through his thoughts.

A murderer in Parliament? It wouldn’t be the first time someone of influence used their position as a shield.

Rising from his chair, he fetched his notebook from the mantle and began scribbling observations, drawing links between Frances Coles’ murder and the previous Ripper killings. There were similarities, certainly—throat slashed, the body found in a public space—but there were also inconsistencies.

“Too clean,” Sherlock muttered to himself. “Too contained.”

Sadler was suspicious, no doubt, but rage alone didn’t make a man a precision killer.

He lit a cigarette, the smoke curling in the dim light as he turned to Watson’s chair, empty now. He would have appreciated his friend’s measured thoughts—but Watson, too, had grown weary of the Ripper.

Later that night, Sherlock paid a visit to the archives at the Metropolitan Police headquarters under the pretense of reviewing case files. There, in a quiet office lit by a single gas lamp, he found Inspector Abberline poring over old photographs.

“Holmes Inspector Lestrade said you met be here,” Abberline greeted, not looking up. “Didn’t think the Ripper would pull you back in.”

“I’m not here because I want to be,” Sherlock replied, “but rather because I must.”

Abberline handed him a sheet—an image of Frances Coles, taken post-mortem. “If this was the Ripper,” the inspector said, “then he’s changing. Less mutilation. Less theatrics.”

“Or it isn’t him at all.”

Abberline raised a brow. “You think it’s a copycat?”

Sherlock considered this. “Perhaps. Or someone who wants us to believe it’s the same killer.”

His eyes flicked to a list of suspects.

“Tell me, Inspector… What do you know of Sir Cameron Gull?”

Abberline looked away. “Enough,” he said darkly. “Too many ties. He’s connected to the City elite—power, money, influence. Not the sort we’re allowed to touch without consequences.”

Sherlock tapped his fingers together. “But you believe he could be involved?”

“I believe men like him think they’re above the law. And I believe if you’re not careful, someone’s going to make you disappear

The Whitechapel File Chapter Three {Pov Sherlock Holmes}

Before heading to The Ten Bells, they had spoken with the landlord, gathering what little information he was willing to share. The Ten Bells public house came into view as Sherlock and Watson approached.

"When you said we had to catch a train, I thought you meant—" Watson began, only to be cut off.

"It took twenty minutes to walk here on foot," Sherlock pointed out matter-of-factly.

They stepped inside. The dimly lit pub carried the scent of stale ale and pipe smoke. At the bar, James Thomas Sadler sat slumped over his drink—a disheveled man with an unkempt beard.

Sherlock strode up to him without hesitation.

"Mr. Sadler," he began, his voice crisp, "you returned to the guest house close to three o'clock in the morning, looking even more battered than before. Profuse blood stains covered your clothes, and you appeared visibly distressed. You told the landlord that ruffians had assaulted you, stripped you of your gold watch, and subjected you to a severe beating. You then asked to spend the night, but the landlord found your story suspicious and refused you lodging. Instead, he advised you to seek treatment at the London Hospital in Whitechapel."

Sherlock's piercing gaze locked onto Sadler, studying every twitch and flicker of emotion.

"Now, Mr. Sadler," he continued, lowering his voice, "would you care to tell us the truth?"

"I did not kill Frances Coles, Mr. Holmes," Sadler said, his tone sharp as he fixed Sherlock with a wary glare.

"And yet, you returned with your clothes covered in bloodstains," Sherlock countered smoothly.

Sadler slammed his hands onto the bar and shot to his feet. "I was attacked!" he growled, his eyes flashing with anger.

Sherlock remained unfazed, his keen gaze dissecting every detail of the man’s face—flushed red with frustration, his eyes twitching, his breathing uneven.

Watson tensed beside Holmes, ready to intervene if needed. The other patrons in the pub turned their heads at the commotion, a few muttering under their breath.

"Attacked, were you?" Sherlock mused, tilting his head. "By whom? Surely a man bloodied and beaten so severely would have no trouble recalling his assailants."

Sadler clenched his jaw. "I told the landlord what happened. A gang of ruffians jumped me near Royal Mint Street. They took my watch, beat me, and left me for dead."

Sherlock steepled his fingers.

 "And yet, you failed to report this alleged assault to the police. Curious, wouldn't you say, Watson?"

"Quite," Watson replied, crossing his arms. "Most men would seek aid or justice."

Sadler exhaled sharply, glancing between them. "What are you implying?"

"I'm implying, Mr. Sadler," Sherlock said, his voice quiet but cutting, "that there is more to your story than you are letting on. And I intend to find out exactly what."

Sadler’s hand twitched toward his pocket. Instantly, Watson stiffened, his fingers hovering near his coat where he kept his revolver.

Sherlock, however, simply smirked. "I wouldn't, if I were you."

Sadler let out a heavy sigh before sneering, “Fuck you, Holmes.”

Watson departed for home as the sun dipped below the horizon, leaving Sherlock to make his own way back. Upon arriving at Baker Street, he found his elder brother waiting for him.

Mycroft Holmes was a man of heavier build, with thinning black hair that had begun to betray the weight of stress and responsibility. 

The strain of fatherhood had aged him prematurely,  deepening the bags beneath his piercing gray eyes.

Dressed in a fine black silk suit and polished brown leather shoes, Mycroft greeted him coolly. “Brother, Mrs. Hudson let me in.”

Sherlock lowered himself into his armchair, studying his brother with curiosity. “What do you wish to speak about?”

“Jack the Ripper.” Mycroft's voice carried an uncharacteristic weariness, a hint of exhaustion that caught Sherlock off guard. “The rumors?” Sherlock prompted, his keen eyes narrowing.

Mycroft exhaled sharply. “Yes, these damn rumors. They claim that Sir Cameron Gull, son of Sir William Gull, is Jack the Ripper.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “They suspected his father as well?”

Mycroft’s jaw tightened. “His father was a seventy-one-year-old man in poor health. Cameron, on the other hand, is a thirty-one-year-old member of Parliament. If the public believes we have a murderer lurking in Westminster—a man who preys on ‘ladies of the night’—it would be disastrous.” He paused, then fixed Sherlock with a pointed look. “So, prove that he is not the killer, brother.”

Sherlock studied him for a long moment. “And if he is?”

Mycroft’s expression darkened. “Then it will be even worse.” He straightened his coat. “I will pay for your services.”

Sherlock, for once, looked genuinely surprised. “I will find the killer.”

I am thinking of continuing one of my writing samples and naming it The Whitechapel File. As a history enthusiast and a fan of Sherlock Holmes, I have always been fascinated by detective work. In fact, Sherlock Holmes was one of the reasons I wanted to become a detective—but I never did nor will I ever. Honestly, I think I would suck at it.

I’ve spent time researching old unsolved cases and developing my own theories about them. This passion also ties into my love for Gravity Falls, a show that captivated me with its mysteries. I didn’t watch the analysis videos about the series until I was older—long after it had ended.

Here is the next chapter of my story. (Warning: Murder scene and some blood ahead.} {I added this to a blog named The Whitechapel File}

-Chapter One {John Watson}

Watson, momentarily taken aback by Sherlock’s abrupt shift, straightened his coat. “You intend to take the case, then?”

Sherlock tapped a long finger against the letter. “The Whitechapel Murderer—if indeed it is he—has struck again. Scotland Yard will blunder about as usual, and the press will hound them for answers. I would rather not wait until another poor soul meets the same fate.” He stood abruptly and paced toward the window.

Watson followed his gaze outside, where the fog rolled thick over Baker Street, dimming the glow of the street lamps. “Do we have any leads?”

Sherlock smirked. “We shall begin where all mysteries unfold, my dear Watson—at the scene of the crime.”

Chapter Two: The Crime Scene (Sherlock’s POV)

They arrived at Swallow Gardens just before dawn, where a group of constables struggled to keep curious onlookers at bay. The body of Frances Coles lay beneath the dark stone railway arch, her throat slashed. Blood had pooled onto the damp cobblestones, seeping into the cracks like ink on old parchment.

Inspector Greg Lestrade, looking weary and cold, noticed them and sighed.

He was a lean, thin, and sharp-featured Irishman with a sallow complexion. His dark brown eyes, framed by messy red hair, carried a mixture of exhaustion and irritation. He wore a navy-blue suit with a high collar, a dark tie, and a brown leather overcoat. His polished shoes, now speckled with mud, hinted at his long hours spent on the streets.

“Holmes, I suppose I should have expected you.”

“Indeed, Inspector,” Sherlock replied. “And what have we here?”

Lestrade handed him a bloodstained handkerchief. “Found near the body. No sign of a struggle. A witness claims to have seen a shadow moving away just before the body was discovered, but no clear description.”

“This is between Chamber Street and Royal Mint Street,” Sherlock murmured, scanning the surroundings. “I heard she was still alive when found but succumbed before medical help could arrive.”

Lestrade nodded. “Aye.”

Sherlock’s gaze sharpened. “Who was the last person seen with her?”

“A man named James Thomas Sadler.”

Sherlock crouched beside the corpse. Frances Coles had minor wounds, but a noticeable injury on the back of her head suggested she had been thrown violently to the ground before her throat was cut—at least twice. The first incision ran from left to right, and then the blade was drawn back again, deepening the wound. Otherwise, there were no mutilations, leading some to believe that her assailant had been disturbed by Ernest Thompson, the man who found her.

His fingers hovered just above the wound without touching it. “A clean cut—precise. Not the hurried work of a mere thug.” His sharp eyes flicked toward Watson. “Would you say, Doctor, that this wound was inflicted post-mortem?”

Watson knelt, carefully inspecting the edges of the gash. “Difficult to say. The bleeding suggests she was alive when it happened, though she may have been unconscious.”

Sherlock nodded, deep in thought. “A practiced hand. Someone who has done this before—perhaps even enjoys it.”

Lestrade shifted uncomfortably. “You believe it to be the same man?”

Sherlock stood, dusting off his coat. “I believe we are dealing with a killer who is methodical and deliberate. But whether he is our infamous Whitechapel fiend… Jack the Ripper—” He trailed off, his piercing gaze sweeping the alleyway.

Then, with a flicker of excitement, he turned to Watson. “Come, we have a train to catch.”

Watson blinked. “A train? Where to?”