Sherlock Holmes sat smoking his pipe, staring vacantly out the window. He'd been bored as we had not been blessed with even a small case in nearly three months. He'd been annoying, but I couldn't blame him. I must have been difficult for him to keep that huge brain satisfied with the ordinary, things created for brains like my own (and I am a fairly bright man). He said something to me once that rather touched me. We had been sitting for tea, which he hardly touched, when he said,
"My dear Watson. It's so wasted." His face was forlorn; he was in a mood. Though I suspected what he meant, I asked,
"Whatever do you mean Holmes?"
"My mind. My thoughts. My methods. What good are they if there's no good to be done with them?" Never mind that a month before he had saved the life of a young woman, and a week before that of a young man, or days before government papers that could prevent war! The poor man truly believed that if he wasn't doing any good every moment, it was as if he'd never done any good at all.
For this reason I was patient with him. I cannot say, however, that I was not thrilled to hear a knock upon our door.
Holmes perked up instantly. He leapt off his chair with agility I had not seen him use in at least two months and opened the door.
"A case!" he cried. The poor soul on the other side of the door was horrified by this eccentric greeting.
"Is Dr Watson in?" it said meekly. Holmes' face rapidly fell. He looked at the man and must have seen what I saw—a pale face, a shivering body, fatigue: the look of a patient. Indeed he was a regular. Holmes hunched over, his own fatigue settling back over him. He moped back to his chair.
I let the patient in—it was George Greenwood, a regular of mine. The poor man seemed to always be coming down with something.
"Have a seat, my dear man. You can trust Holmes as you would me." He took a seat and thanked me. He was quite a handsome young man—lean, with curly blond hair. It was a shame he was always so ill. His eyes had taken to sinking deep into his face.
"I'm sorry I'd closed up today. How are you feeling?" I asked. Holmes sank into his chair and lowered his chin to his chest. I couldn't see his eyes—his hair was wild and covered his face. Smoke drifted up from nowhere, seemingly, giving me an eerie feeling. The scent of the blend was comforting, however, so I smiled at poor Mr Greenwood.
"Not very well I'm afraid, Doctor. It's come back again. Poor Henry has to care for me. I'm afraid I'm becoming quite a burden. Is there anything more you can do?" It was always the same illness that plagued Mr Greenwood, and try as I might I could never positively identify it. I always gave him something for the pain and something for the fever and instructed rest. There was not much else I could do. Henry was a dear friend of his that roomed with him, rather like Holmes and myself. Before I could comfort the poor man, Holmes' head shot up. He nearly jumped to the end of the chair and leaned forward. I hate to speak ill of him, but he looked quite insane.
"Who's Henry?" he asked with urgency. Mr Greenwood looked startled. He looked at me, I nodded. Holmes was up to something. I simply did not know what.
"I live with a friend of mine, Henry Blake. We attend Cambridge together." Holmes nodded.
"And you're on holiday now. What do you both study?" he asked. Mr Greenwood did not appear to be enjoying the interrogation, but was too weak and tired to argue. Besides, he trusted me, and I had told him all was well with Holmes. That may not have been entirely true, but he was a good man.
"I read Classics. He reads Chemistry. With all respect due to you as Doctor Watson's friend, I fail to see how this is relevant." Holmes looked at me, positively delighted—such a change from just twenty minutes ago.
"My dear Watson, did you hear? I'm to be respected for choosing your company."
"Yes, yes Holmes. Are you onto something? Can you help the poor man?"
"Of course I can." He turned again to Mr Greenwood. "Tell me about your life, and that of your friend Henry's. How did you meet?"
George Greenwood leaned back tiredly and began:
"We met at Cambridge, actually. We were roomed together and took an instant liking to each other, and choose to live together now. We couldn't have known each other before then, of course. I went to more privileged schools than he. His family was somewhat poor, but it hardly mattered. He's incredibly bright, Henry." Holmes stopped him.
"You call him Henry." The young man blushed.
"Well yes. That's his name, and we're friends."
"Watson's name is John, and we are the dearest of friends, but I do not refer to him by his first name." It was so like Holmes to argue over the trivial, just to embarrass a poor young man.
"The poor often call each other by their first names. He said it would make him feel odd for me to call him Blake."
"Ah," Holmes said. He smiled smugly, apparently reaching an entirely different conclusion. "Continue."
"Well," said Mr Greenwood, "as I said, Henry is incredibly bright. He's in the top of his class now. He researches in our apartment. He's always doing chemical experiments I don't understand." I couldn't help but smile and say,
"Just like us, dear Holmes." He smiled back.
"No, Watson, you understand." I was embarrassed for Mr Greenwood. I hoped he wasn't insulted by the implication that I was more intelligent than he, but he thankfully put it off as me, as a medical man, having some training in chemistry.
"Does he ever try to explain the experiments to you?" Holmes asked. Mr Greenwood shook his head.
"No. He knows I would never understand. I'm not stupid, but my brain isn't meant for scientific matters."
Holmes stood up from his favorite armchair. The fire was going out, making the shadows of Holmes' rather extreme cheekbones seem very prominent, and his pipe smoke seem like a mist. I would not blame Mr Greenwood if he was a bit frightened of Holmes at that moment.
"May I have your address, Mr Greenwood? I think I should like to pay your Henry a visit. With Watson, of course."
"May I come?" Mr Greenwood asked.
"I think you should stay. Things may be said that someone in your delicate condition may be...fatigued by. Come Watson." Mr Greenwood nodded sadly. I came close to Holmes.
"Bring your revolver. We may need it," he whispered in my ear, taking care that Mr Greenwood did not hear. I nodded and took it from the top drawer in my desk, tucking it away into my pocket.
Holmes found a hansom, and we both entered. We rode on in silence for a few minutes before I simply couldn't take it anymore.
"What do you think is wrong with Mr Greenwood?"
"Mr dear Watson! Isn't it obvious?"
"To you, I'm sure, but not at all to me." He smiled patiently and, I think, somewhat arrogantly.
"Very well. You realize of course that they're musical."
"I don't follow."
"They're illegal lovers, Watson," he said quite plainly.
"Now Holmes! There's no reason to come to that conclusion," I said.
"There's every reason, but that's beside the point. Mr Greenwood is wealthy. Mr Blake is his lover. Surely in his will, and of course he has one, with his health, he has left some money to his dear friend. He would say it was for Blake's research or his share of the rent, but the plain truth is it will be a large amount granted entirely because the poor man is affectionate toward this monster." I was shocked.
"But that doesn't explain-"
"Then you weren't listening. I would do your mind no favors telling you more. Work it out yourself." His chin fell to his chest again.
"But Holmes!" I cried. But it was no use. He wouldn't say another word until we had reached our destination, a very nice flat. I thought the entire time.
As we stepped out of the hansom, it came to me.
"He reads Chemistry!" I declared, perhaps too loudly. A huge, joyous smile spread across Holmes' face. For once I had made the man happy.
"Precisely, Watson! He said Blake was caring for him. Either his medicine or his food would have some sort of poison in it. I'll check his lab."
"But how?"
"Why, brute force of course, Watson." He knocked lightly and politely at the door. A young, fit man with coal black hair answered.
"May I help you gentlemen?" he said.
"Why yes," Holmes said, "As a matter of fact you-" He didn't finish. He punched the young man directly at his right temple! I was shocked and brought out the gun, though I could hardly use it at this point, with no proof. The man was woozy, and tried to punch Holmes sloppily—a mistake. The great detective blocked with skill, and with stunning agility kicked him in the solar plexus. The man doubled over and passed out. Holmes shook himself, as if to loosen himself up.
"Right. Now the search. You look downstairs. I'll look up. Call if you find anything of interest." I nodded and began my search, and it wasn't long before I came to a safe.
"Holmes!" I cried. He rushed down.
"Ah! I've found the chemistry lab. He's not quite so bright as young Mr Greenwood seems to think, but above average for certain. I believe I found the cause, though I didn't have to look hard. Would Barium poisoning be a possibility, Doctor?"
"I suppose so. Perhaps not quite."
"Ah, well. There's plenty more up there. It could have been any number of things. I suggest you take a look whilst I open the safe." I nodded and moved on upstairs. I found the lab at once—it was a mess, much like Holmes'. I found the cause nearly at once—powdered Cadmium. I snatched the vial and rushed to Holmes.
"Cadmium! Probably in medicine. What I prescribe tastes foul, I'm afraid."
"Excellent work, Watson!" He held up a piece of paper. "And I've found the will. Just as I suspected—300 pounds, to cover his share of the rent and for Mr Blake to continue his education. Will the poor man be okay?"
"I do hope so, Holmes. After so much exposure, there will surely be a few long term symptoms at least." He nodded sadly. He was deeply touched by the suffering of my patient.
"Go to him, and help him as you can. Wire Lestrade. I'll stay here with our villain." I nodded and did as he said.
I am pleased to say that the man was imprisoned for attempted murder, and has since died there. Mr Greenwood has finished school and now teaches grammar school Latin and Greek, luckily with no side effects other than treatable kidney issues. He remains a friend of mine, and is forever grateful to Sherlock Holmes.