AN: My first try writing in this style. I'm not completly happy with it, because it was very hard for me, but here you are anyway. I'll update when I remember.

Chapter One

As I dig through the annals of our work for further cases that become chronicling, this stands out as an excellent example of my dear friend's methods of deduction and examination. His theories and abilities have already been told at length, but this example is so fine that it would be a shame to leave it unrevealed.

As I presented it to my friend, however, it became apparent that my opinion was not shared.

'Do just as you like,' he responded, waving a languid hand through the smoke of his pipe. When I expressed my shock at his unaffected languor, he responded with the incredible statement that his powers were hardly tested to the limit in this case, and indeed they were almost detrimentally slow in this instance.

Despite my friend's unenthusiastic feelings, however, the case deserves a place in the annals of the great detective Sherlock Holmes, and I shall therefore relate it as best as I can whilst devoid of my friend's burning intelligence.

One day in a sunny August, an unfathomable crime occurred which was scarce regarded by the rest of London as having any significance at all. It was marked by barely a paragraph in the evening papers, and was furnished with only scarce details. I passed over it entirely and would never have given it a second thought had not Holmes, with his infallible eye for detail, spotted it and flung down the paper with an exclamation.

'Is something the matter, Holmes?' I asked, for I was somewhat accustomed to my room-mate's eccentricities.

'I believe,' answered he, 'that I have found myself a case.'

I was relieved to hear this, for without anything to exert itself upon my friend's formidable mind became stagnated and he had often in the past turned to unsavoury means of entertainment as a result. I was, however, bewildered as to how Holmes could possibly know that a case existed for him and indeed that he would be engaged upon it. I therefore asked him such.

'My dear Watson,' he responded, 'you are well aware that I am given any cases that bewilder the police. Undoubtedly this will do so, for the details in this paper, scanty though they are, tell me that there is rather more to this incident that meets the eye.'

'But are you sure that the police will engage you?'

'Well, well, I don't insist upon it. I feel certain that it will be the case, but you may feel at your liberty to disagree.'

There the matter appeared to rest, at least for a day or so. Holmes was nonetheless reenergized by the prospects of exerting his brainpower, and indeed was almost lively as he lounged around the rooms. The sound of a violin soared through all my waking moments, underpinning life at 221b Baker Street, and a new chemical experiment appeared overnight on a workbench.

On the Wednesday, news arrived as Holmes had predicted. The pageboy showed up our visitor, Mr Lestrade of Scotland Yard, who took a seat with a face like thunder. As he lit a cigar, he wasted no time in getting down to business.

'It's a dashed queer business we have here, Mr Holmes,' he opined. 'No doubt you've heard.'

'Do tell, Mr Lestrade, for the benefit of Watson here.'

He glanced at me with a kind of unwilling admission. I am afraid that I have such little input into the cases of Sherlock Holmes that many of his visitors are reluctant to regard me as even necessary to existence.

'Well, Mr Holmes, it concerns the death in suspicious circumstances of one Mr Arthur Bradley. The case has not been much publicized, so-'

'He was stabbed, was he not?'

'He was indeed.'

'And you have not yet found any clues? Dear me. What are our police forces coming to?'

'That is hardly fair, Holmes.'

'Perhaps. And yet-'

Holmes had lit his pipe and was smoking furiously, having sunk into something of a brown study. Suddenly, the ascetic features were mobilized with that disturbing suddenness peculiar to him.

'Mr Lestrade, have you any ideas concerning the weapon?'

'Only the basics.'

'These being?'

'The post mortem has established that the sole cause of death was stabbing. A single wound, caused by a blade not more than one inch in width.'

My friend sat up.

'Well, I should be very happy to help you. Watson, I would be obliged if you would call for a cab. I suspect that we can accomplish more by visiting the location of the incident.'

Lestrade rose. 'If you will excuse me, Mr Holmes, I have another appointment. You are, of course, welcome to the crime scene at anytime. The address is 5 Yeomanry Street, in the Whitechapel area.'

He doffed his hat to us and left. As his footsteps receded down the stairs, Holmes sprang up with one of his remarkable bursts of energy.

'Come, Watson,' he cried, 'Let us visit the home of the late Arthur Bradley. I am sure that this case has a great deal of potential.'

I followed him down the stairs and into the now waiting cab. I had learnt by now that it was no use questioning Holmes during the early stages of a case, for he tended towards the secretive and his answers were cryptic at best.

When we arrived at 5 Yeomanry Street, I confess I was a little disappointed. It was the smallest and grubbiest building I had seen for some time, standing in a row of similar houses in a dingy street, full of squalor. Grubby faces showed at dirty windows, before being whipped out of sight behind grimy curtains. The few greasy-faced urchins who had been playing in the street at our arrival quickly removed themselves, leaving the area seemingly deserted.

The constable currently in residence to guard the area let us in at a knock. The interior was more than matched to the unprepossessing squalor of the exterior, and the sputtering fire that burnt in the grate of the dark kitchen leant very little warmth to the room.

'We would be very much obliged to you, sir, if we could see the room where the body was found,' Holmes explained after presenting his card.

'Very well, Sir,' the constable replied, leading us up a flight of aged stairs. They creaked under our feet as we ascended.

The room where the body had lain was as unattractive as the rest of the house. As I glanced around, even my mediocre intelligence could deduce that the late Mr Bradley had been an artist. Holmes' eyes were darting everywhere and, I felt sure, taking in far more detail than my cursory inspection.

On a desk in the centre of the room lay a shapeless mass of some grey substance. Moving across the room, I saw that it was clay, dried and hardened over the days. It was stained with a horribly familiar reddish substance.

'Why, Holmes,' I exclaimed, 'there is blood over that desk! Surely that is where the man was killed?'

'I think that in this instance you are correct, Watson,' he responded. 'And I can further tell you that the clay was in the process of being worked when the murder was done.'

This was beyond my ingenuity.

'You see, here, how the blood marbles the clay? It could only have dried into it like that whilst damp.'

Holmes swung his gaze around the room.

'I wonder, Watson,' he said thoughtfully. 'These paintings all seem to feature one lady. If you look closely, you can see the similarities.'

I peered at the works scattered about the room. Sure enough, the female figures had a marked similarity between them which would have been more pronounced had the late Mr Bradley excelled further at his craft.

'But what bearing can that possibly have upon the case?'

'Well, we shall see.'

Holmes then proceeded to subject every item in the room to the most abject scrutiny. I and the constable stood by during this procedure, moving to one side whenever Holmes required us to do so. Finally he stood up, signalling that he had ceased.

'I have found very little of further note,' Holmes informed us, 'save that the victim had correspondence with one Ronald Hartwood on an irregular basis, and with one Malcom Princely on a marginally less frequent occasion.'

'These factors have already been checked, sir, and are under investigation by the Yard,' the constable informed us deferentially.

'And, of course, there is the curious matter of the marks in the clay.'

'What marks?' I queried. Holmes stood aside.

'Pray examine it for yourself.'

I did so, and was astonished to see a queer set of marks engraved deeply into the clay as if pressed in.

'Why, what can they possibly be?' I cried.

'I have a suspicion,' said Holmes, 'and yet I am not quite certain of my idea.'

'If you will permit, sir,' the constable interjected, 'What marks are these?'

We showed him the marks, which had been hidden by a sheaf of papers over the desk which Holmes had moved aside.

'There was no mention of these earlier,' the constable remarked. 'Well, blow me down if you haven't got yourself one over on us again, sir! Our thanks for this.'

When he had bustled off to communicate the news, Holmes turned to me.

'You see, Watson? Our police are wonderful beings, but they are so often guilty of that most basic error- simply failing to look.'

I refrained from comment, knowing that my friend was rather more in favour of the police than he made out.

'Do you think that there is any particular hope for this case then?' I enquired as the cab rattled back to Baker Street.

'Hope? My dear fellow, when is there not hope?' Holmes replied, and would not be drawn further on the case that day.