The second Afghan war brought honours and promotion to many. But for me it meant nothing but misfortune and disaster. I returned to England with my health irretrievably ruined and my future bleak. Under such circumstances, I naturally gravitated to London. That great cesspool into which all the loungers and idlers of the empire are drained.
It was the mid-1800s and Dr. John Watson walked the streets of London with very little motivation. He had not been back from war long and he was eager to have a sense of normalcy in his life again, but with a newly bum leg and no place to live it was a lot easier said than done. He stopped and turned at the sound of his name, coming from the mouth of a man so vaguely familiar. He remembered the man as Mike Stamford and they shook hands when he caught up to him and they dipped into a nearby pub to catch up after many years apart. Mike told of his somewhat boring, normal life in London while Dr. Watson recounted a very watered down version of his tour in Aphganastan, relaying how lucky he was to have made it home when so many of his fellow soldiers did not. He took a swig of his drink and looked away from his friend, a hint of survivor's guilt showing through his guarded demeanor as Mike nodded his understanding.
"So, what now?" Mike said.
"I need a place to live." John replied, taking another swig of his drink, "Somewhere decent and affordable prices. It's not easy."
Mike chuckled, "You know, you're the second person to say that to me today."
"Hmm? Who was the first?"
Dr. Watson almost regretted asking when a half hour later Mike was leading him through the dark tunnels of the morgue at Bart's, the sound of distant whipping echoing off of the candlelit walls. John let slip his astonishment from his lips and Mike simply gave him a knowing smile, "It's an experiment, apparently. Beating corpses to establish how long after death bruising is still possible."
John rolled his eyes and continued on, obviously not impressed. Mike followed just next to him as he spoke, "Is there a medical point to that?"
"Not sure."
"Neither am I. So," John sucked in a breath with a hiss, the pain of his bad leg getting to him the longer he was on his feet. "Who is this friend of yours, then?"
Mike stopped walking and John turned to him with a questioning expression, but the knowing smirk on his friend's face told him all. He followed him into the door they stopped by and the whipping noise grew louder with every step. Mike called out to the man when he came into view. He was putting all of his might into beating the corpse that was lying on the table in front of him with a riding crop. He didn't answer at first and John cleared his throat.
"I do hope we're not interrupting." He said, his voice slightly elevated. With one last whip, the man stopped, looking at them with and obvious elevated heart rate, his breath wavering from the energy exerted in his so-called "experiment". He gave John a once over and buttoned up his waist coat.
"You've been in Afghanistan, I perceive." He stated. John furrowed his eyebrows and Mike introduced them.
"Dr. Watson, Mr. Sherlock." He was obviously laughing at John inwardly. Sherlock tossed the riding crop he was holding to John, who caught it without hesitation, receiving a smile from him as a reward.
"Excellent reflexes." He said, "You'll do."
"I'm sorry." John glanced between Sherlock and Mike, hoping some of the confusion would clear up but it was to no avail as Sherlock continued.
"I may have a suite of rooms near Regent's Park. Between us, the three of us could afford them."
"Rooms? Who said anything about rooms?"
"I did. I mentioned to Stamford this morning that we were in need of a fellow lodger. Now he appears after lunch in the company of a man of military aspect with a tan and a recent injury. Both suggestive of the campaign in Afghanistan and an enforced departure from it. The conclusion seemed inescapable."
"We?" John was finally able to spit out, finding himself completely in awe at the man standing before him. Sherlock raised an eyebrow but suddenly a smile graced his hard features and John and Mike turned to see a woman with her red hair pinned up under her hat, as most women wore those days. A confidant smirk balanced with the kindness in her silver eyes gave John a sense of strong loyalty as Sherlock approached her.
"Mr. Holmes, we're going to be late!" she smiled, picking up his coat and hat from the coat rack in the corner of the room, helping him into his coat when he reached her.
"Please, gentlemen, allow me to introduce my wife, Miss Charlotte Holmes."
John blinked in surprise at first, completely shocked that someone such as this Mr. Holmes would have a wife, but Mike jabbed him in the ribs and he looked over to find his friend with his hat over his chest and slightly bowed to Miss Holmes. He blushed at his disgraceful manners towards a lady and immediately removed his hat, giving a slight bow to the misses.
"Forgive me, Miss Holmes. It's lovely to meet you."
Mrs. Holmes gave a knowing smirk and a small nod and curtsy, taking Sherlock's elbow and looking up at him with the most loving eyes John had ever seen. Sherlock looked back at him and finished up their conversation, "We'll finalize the details tomorrow evening. Now, if you'll excuse us, we have a hanging to attend in Wandsworth. I'd hate for them to start without us."
"Hanging?" John asked.
"He takes a professional interest." Miss Holmes offered.
"I also play the violin and smoke a pipe. I presume that's not a problem." Sherlock said.
"Uh, no, well…"
"And you're clearly acclimatized to never getting to the end of a sentence. We'll get along splendidly. Tomorrow evening, 7:00 then." He was about to lead himself and his wife out of the morgue but he stopped just before rounding the corner, turning back to John, "Oh, and the name is Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street."
"Good evening, gentlemen." Miss Holmes curtseyed and Sherlock led them away, out of the morgue, leaving John completely in shock and very confused. He looked to Mike for some answers, but all he did was shake his head.
"Yes, he's always been like that.
Outside, Sherlock took his position on the street side of the sidewalk with Charlotte on his left arm, calling a horse cab to take them to Wandsworth.
"Is that going to be the new tenant at Baker Street?" Miss Holmes asked as her husband helped her into the carriage as it came to a stop in front of them. He climbed in behind her and closed the door, instructing the carriage driver where to go before settling in beside her.
"It is, yes."
"Oh, he seems lovely."
The carriage took off and Sherlock adjusted his coat, settling in for the ride as he spoke, "He is. His company will be pleasurable. All though, his leg injury is all in his head. We shall have to work on that."
Over the many years it has been my privilege to recall the exploits of my remarkable friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes along with his wife, the Miss Charlotte Holmes, it has sometimes been difficult to choose which of his many cases to set before my readers. Some are still too sensitive to recount, whilst others are too recent in the mind of the public. But in all our many adventures together, no case pushed my friend to such mental and physical extremes as that of The Abominable Bride.