CHAPTER 1

THE BOX

I watched, amused, as my companion shifted languidly in his chair and reached for his pipe. Holmes was deeply absorbed in an old leather-backed volume, and his eyes continued traveling the yellowed pages while his pale, slender fingers explored the currently bare side- table, where his pipe usually lay. I raised the newspaper I myself was perusing, and peeked over the top of the pages, watching my friend's eyes intently. It was a few more moments before realization stiffened his features, and he drew back his hand, looking up at me sharply. I couldn't help but chuckle.

"Watson!" Holmes reprimanded. Laughing heartily this time, I retired the newspaper to my lap and gestured towards the mantle, indicating the pipe's current location. My friend's brow furrowed briefly, clearly marking his agitation.

"Would you be so kind Watson," he began quietly, "as to fetch me my pipe? It seems some careless chap has accidentally misplaced it."

"My dear fellow," I began, indifferent to Holmes' apparent sarcasm, "it is but a short venture to the fireplace. You haven't been out for days, and I'm sure your body would be better for the exercise." Holmes snorted derisively.

"Forgive me. I am grateful for your concern. However, would it not have suited your purposes more adequately to have moved the pipe into the far most corner of the kitchen? It takes at least a fifteen foot journey to properly stretch out one's legs." He grinned at me, and his aquiline features seemed to relax somewhat.

"Only if those legs are as long as yours!" I retorted good-naturedly. Holmes opened his mouth, but quickly jerked it closed again as heavy, irregular steps were heard approaching the door to our quiet little Baker Street parlor. I glanced at my companion, who had deposited his book on the empty side table and sat perched in his seat, as if ready to spring up at a seconds notice. Not two seconds later, a thud rattled the floor slightly, and a crisp rat-at-tat knocked against the wooden doorframe. My companion and I rose together, and after receiving a curt nod of assent from Holmes, I advanced to the door and thrust it wide open.

"Good afternoon," said a strongly built, sandy-haired man with heavy boots. He extended a wiry, calloused hand, which I clasped and shook in greeting. The two other plainly dressed men behind him simply nodded, and Homes' attention and mine was quickly directed to a sturdy wooden box behind them.
"Either of you gentlemen Mr. Sherlock Holmes, of 221B Baker Street?" Asked the sandy-haired man, his large brown eyes lazily examining our faces. Holmes stepped forward, and bowed slightly.

"I am he. Thank you for safely delivering my statue." Statue?! I thought, thoroughly dazed. When did Holmes ever order a statue?!

After the statue box had been properly deposited in the center of our sitting room, and a few words of business exchanged, Holmes gave each of the movers a half-sovereign for their trouble, and ushered them out the door. As soon as I heard the the footfall descending the stairs recede, I turned to fully face my companion, who had undoubtedly observed my incredulous state and hastily began to speak.

"No doubt you are wondering how I came to presume ownership of this package," he said, gesturing towards the mysterious box. His eyes fixed upon the ceiling and I saw in them a familiar flash of enrapture and wit. Wait...is this box a new case?

"You are quite right to wonder. I certainly had never laid eyes upon this very special box, not until these very recent moments." Holmes stretched his lithe figure and in a single bound, leapt over to the fireplace. Pulling out his smooth leather tobacco pouch, he was finally able to lift his beloved pipe to his lips. He breathed in deeply and his fingers on the stem twitched with excitement.

Oh yes. We had a new case.