12TH January, 1895

Dr. Watson had returned from his trip to the country. He had returned to a house without the presence of Holmes. Thinking that Holmes was out for a case, he made himself at home and proceeded to wait for his flatmate. The morning rolled by with no sign of the detective. He had enquired about him to Mrs. Hudson, who claimed that he was out of London for a case. Feeling slightly disheartened, he had taken a seat on the couch and immersed himself in a newspaper. By afternoon, he had fallen into a light doze, so he was startled when the doorbell rang. Stifling a yawn, he went to the door where Mrs. Hudson was standing with a card in her hand. He frowned and took it.

On the card, it was written, "Mister Thomas Vatler, Vicar from Sussex."

He wondered whether he was some client of Holmes, who had come here, not informed of the man's absence. He decided to admit the man, letting the curiousity take over.

He nodded at Mrs. Hudson, and she went to fetch Mr. Vatler.

"I assume that you are the friend of Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Dr. John Hamish Watson?"

These were the first words spoken by the visitor. He was wearing a fur coat over his expensive clothing, a hat perched atop his head of black hair, brows taut, not showing any negative emotion, hands held loosely at his sides, no signs of offense there either. His ice blue eyes scanned Watson.

"Yes, I would be, might I take the liberty to enquire how you came to know of my name?"

The vicar shook had an amused look on his face.

"Mr. Holmes talked highly of you when asked."

Watson looked startled. Holmes had talked highly of him? During a case?

"You seem surprised," Mr. Vatler noted.

Watson blinked and looked at him.

Vatler leant against the wall, observing the man of the shorter stature in front of him.

"Well, nevertheless, Mr. Holmes had mentioned that if anything were to happen to him, the first person who should be informed is you."

He paused at those words, making Watson's heart thunder madly in his chest. What did he mean by, "If something happened to him"? What had happened to Holmes? He looked back to the emotionless face of the vicar.

"And you were someone we could trust as much as him," Vatler continued, hovering over him like an eagle, making the shorter man distinctly uncomfortable.

"Well, I am glad to know about his trust in me. I would rather you get straight to the point to deal with the matter at hand quickly and efficiently," Watson finally said, irritably, tired of the man's drama.

Vatler smiled and swept his hat off his head off in one swift move sat down on the armchair opposite to Watson. He smiled, which made the hair at the back of Watson's neck stand up. There was something about his very presence that made one uneasy and keep up his guard.

Vatler seemed unperturbed by the other's discomfort. He leant forwards in his armchair, chin on his steepled fingers. Watson sunk down on the one beside himself and clasped his hands in his lap, trying to maintain a steady eye contact with the man.

"So, as you said, my dear doctor, I will indeed get to the point," he said with a lazy smile before his eyes turned serious, "But before that, you might want to know the curtains. We don't want any nosy busybodies here."

Watson gave him a look before getting up to close the curtains. He paused before the window, eyes scanning the street out of habit. It was strangely deserted. He sucked in a breath before pulling the curtains over the window, feeling Vatler's eyes on him.

He turned around, but did not move from his spot.

"So, gentleman, would you mind narrating the circumstances under which you contacted Holmes for aid?"

Vatler looked at him for a long time before leaning slightly back, lean calloused fingers striking a soft rhythm to keep himself steady as he narrated a most curious tale.

"It was December when the incidents began, the sudden disappearances and the dense fog. First it was the chickens, so we assumed it to be some common thief. It was very cold, and we were well off enough to manage without a few chickens.

So we let those incidents pass, hoping that the person who was stealing them was using them for good, that is, his survival. But then one night, the entire house was woken up by a scream from the cook. We ran there, with sticks to beat up whoever was the cause of her fright. But we found no one. Only the cook had fainted. Some of the servants were ordered to take her back to her room, while I asked a few more to accompany me for an inspection of the place.

We went there, some carrying lanterns, and other bearing sticks. There was nothing out of the ordinary there so we decided to head back, but one of the men came running back, his eyes wide with horror. He had been struck speechless by what he had seen. Amazed by his severe reaction, we followed him to where he lead us. It was behind a cowshed.

A few drops of blood showed us the site of the mishap. We stared at the site in horror."

Here he paused to wipe his face and Watson took that time to carefully observe him and absorb the information. The man was a bit younger than him, he would put him in his late thirties, and he looked affected at the memory of whatever had chanced.

"A cow was found dead on the floor of the cowshed, looking incredibly pale. Two bloody pricks on the neck was the only sign of injury found on the dead animal. Her eyes stared at nothing in terror, possibly at the intruder who had been the cause of her death.

The person in charge of the cowshed was called. He was devastated. It had been his favourite. He, however, claimed no responsibility for the death. The cook had woken up and we questioned her. She claimed to bear no memory of the incident, only a sense of absolute terror. Since it was only a cow, it was futile to report anything to the police. They wouldn't believe it and there was no way to prove that it had been murdered. They would just pass it off.

This continued for the entire month. Cows, horses, goats etc etc, found dead randomly. A phenomenon I observed to be common in all of these was the thick mist that appeared during the estimated time of murder. We needed to do something. The livestock dropping dead wasn't a very profitable thing.

We called a doctor to examine the animals for any potential signs of illnesses that could have caused this. A few days later, the cook was found dead with two holes in her neck, her body deprived of blood. I remember it as fresh as yesterday. That had happened on the second of January. The police were called but they couldn't fanthom a reason for this.

Deaths like this kept occuring throughout the town and the police had met a dead end. The murders occured every alternate day. The people, who were killed were random, with absolutely no visible connection between them. I was familiar with the name of Sherlock Holmes, from reading his exploits in your words. So, when the police suggested his name, I didn't question it.

He arrived on the tenth. A very calculative and logical man, at par with your description of him. He had noticed that something was severely off and had asked to be left alone in the fields that day. We complied with his request. Before leaving he had given us a note that should be given to you if something went amiss. That was concerning and upon being informed of that, he had merely shrugged and shaken off all offers of taking someone with him.

That was the last that we ever saw of him, a lantern in his hand, heading into the perilous night. Morning came with no sign of him. Worried, I sent my men to search for him. Secretly, I had been afraid that they would return with his dead body. But they returned empty handed. I was shocked. That meant that he was still alive, hopefully.

However, he never turned up, the entire day went without him showing up. His belongings were sparse but they hadn't been stolen. We still keep the hope that the man might be alive. The deaths grew fewer and finally stopped after his disappearance."

The colour had drained from Watson's face, the more he heard the vicar's story, the more shocked he grew. His chest felt empty and flashes of the time after Holmes's "death" clouded his vision. Panic and horror rose in him with a crushing feeling.

"How can you be so sure that he is alive without a trace? He might have DIED!!!!!!"

The last word was shrill and he straightened up, hands curling into fists as the odd pain of the Jezail bullet wound flared up.

Vatler did not flinch but his face adopted a countenance of immense sorrow and guilt.

"I am truly sorry for the fate of your friend," he stated, bowing his head, "But I have a letter to give to you as well."

He walked up to a trembling Watson and handed the letter over to him.

He took it with shaking hands.

On it, was written,

"My dear Watson,

If you are reading this letter, then that means that something has happened to me. I would provide details, but I must confess that I am unaware of a lot of things myself. As I write this note to you, I feel as if I am heading to my eventual doom.

The message that I wish to impart is that, whatever happens, do not panic and do something that you are likely to regret. I know for a fact that you won't and thus I can be at ease.

I end this note as I can hear the footsteps of the servant approaching to call me."

Yours Truly,

Sherlock Holmes."