Sherlock Holmes in: The Vanishing Smile By Haley Moore

From the journal of John H. Watson M.D Chapter 1 It was an early Spring day in the year 1911. London's usual hub-bubs hassle-and-bustle lingered in the air everywhere I went. Drunken bunglers scurried every which way, pestering ladies, poverty stricken homeless men, and women lined the dust colored cobble-stoned streets I was so accustomed to. Cabbies driven by the mastery of the horse hurriedly delivered customers to their destination. I had been used to this sight my whole life. My mind was full with recent events such as the woman whose baby I had just delivered the day before, my medical practice I had been considering of retirement due to other events which acquired other more extreme attentions, but mostly the wife I had acquired only a week before. (Violet Smith by name) We were planning upon having a child, and I was becoming rather anxious to return to my home in Kensington. These thoughts rushed through my mind when all the sudden I had stepped upon the street, and did not even realize it. A cab almost collided into me! I had to take awhile to compose myself, when I looked up, after seeing nothing but stars, and fog, I was looking at my old rooms of 221B Baker Street. Sherlock Holmes, and I had resided there almost a decade ago. When I first laid my eyes upon it, my heart was raising, my hairs perked up, and I was quite certain my head would burst from the rhythmic pounding that was residing in my ears. For the first time in many months, I relished at the sense for adventure, and had an overwhelming sense of nostalgia. I hailed my cab, and told them to bring me to the Sussex downs, where Holmes now lived. In 1904 he retired to his beekeeping, and I had not seen him for a period of six months. When I saw Baker Street once again, I knew that I must see him. When I arrived at my old friends cottage, many feelings crossed my mind. (Mostly paranoia at my cab driver for charging me a most insufferable fee.) Holmes's cottage was a modestly sized one, it had white bricks, and a pine-coloured green door, the large chimney had smoke cheerfully rising from its top, bees, and butterflies buzzed, and fluttered all about, flowers of every colour surrounded the place, giving it a fairytale-like atmosphere. I cheerfully entered the premises. The door was un-locked, and when I entered I noticed Holmes's landlady, Mrs. Hudson had probably left for her Australian cousins birthday, which she always went to. I walked into the sitting room, which was heavily flourished with small drawings of bees, and of pictures, skeletons, strange unknown furniture, which I'm sure I knew nothing about. Maroon walls all over, and three men. One of them was a freakishly small, stout man, with a determined jaw, and an uncanny way of moving. He had what I can describe as a business-like, intimidating atmosphere about him, he had olive black eyes, and a small, rattail mustache. The other man was much taller, almost as tall as the third man. He had sandy brown hair, and blue eyes, a dome-like forehead, and huge muscles. Although he was full of brawn, I was almost certain he lacked brains, for he had a "special" way of speech. The third man was very tall, he had black hair, which was starting to resemble salt and pepper. His features were the most shocking. He had a thin aquiline nose, and face. His girth was so thin he appeared even taller than he actually was, he had long, bony fingers, and a masculine chin. The most striking of his features was his cold, steel gray eyes, which had a diamond-like gleam in them. Unlike the first two, I knew this man well, he was my old companion, Sherlock Holmes. Holmes became aware of my presence, I knew as much when his pale face turned to look at me. The other men followed suit, and I admit to feeling quite embarrassed. "Hello friend Watson!" Greeted Sherlock Holmes.
"If I'm interrupting anything, I apologize for disturbing you." I was about to make a hasty retreat, when Holmes said to me, "Oh, on the contrary my dear doctor, you're right on time. There's an interesting game afoot, and I'd be delighted for you to join. This gentleman here," He continued, gesturing to the short man. "Is Huyghe, Réné the curator of the Louvre, in Paris, France. And this tall man is Scirlik Holt, he's Monsieur Réné's assistant. Monsieur Réné, Mr. Holt, this is my old, and extremely loyal friend, Dr. Watson, whom is the very soul of discretion." The two men shook my hand, and we all settled to different chairs. I sat on a maroon arm-chair near the fire, the two new acquaintances on a sofa in the top left corner of the room, Holmes remained standing near the mantle, and lit his famous calabash pipe. Then it was he who spoke.
"Watson, have you heard of the Louvre"
"Why, of course Holmes." I answered in a sarcastic tone. I believe I should have answered, 'who hasn't?' Holmes took no notice of my tart remark, and continued.
"On April first of last week, a patrolman who was guarding the paintings in the Louvre was doing his daily rounds checking off all the art-pieces, and realized that a very famous painting of a very famous lady, was gone. He called the police, and Monsieur Réné here as well. They searched the building from the ceiling, and down. They even stopped some passersby's, to see if they knew anything, but alas to no avail." It was then that the curator spoke in a thick French accent.
"Wi, this thief has mad fools of us! We do not know how it 'twas done, nor who has done it! But they will pay!" He declared, His face somewhat red, and his words slurred a bit, tears ran from his eyes, showing his wounded vanity. It was then that, I decided to brake in.
"Can somebody please enlighten me as to what was stolen?" I more cried, then asked. Holmes answered.
"The Mona Lisa." I was flabbergasted.
"But surely the security would"
"Yes, my dear Watson, you see," Holmes explained, "There is a new sort of security, the false type. Electricity. Underneath almost everything in the museum, there's a button-like mechanism. When something is removed, the mechanism is triggered, bells ring, and steel walls cover the windows. Apparently someone has managed to thwart both the guards, and the security." Holmes concluded, shortly. Then the assistant curator spoke up.
"You gott'a… 'elp us Mr. 'Olmes." He cried standing from the sofa. The curator motioned for him to sit down.
"Monsieur Holmes, I know you're retired, and you scarcely take clients, but a theft of such a priceless value, is not to be taken lightly, and will cause a scandal. Plaire Monsieur, plaire"
At that moment a race of shock flung across the room, or more literally Réné at Holmes! The curator ran to Holmes, and got on his knees, threaded his fingers, as though he were praying. Tears practically leaped from his eyes. He reminded me of a poor lad in Mark Twain's 'Huckleberry Finn' begging for food. Holmes' usual cold, piercing eyes went soft for an instant, as he helped the remorseful Frenchman to his feet, he spoke. "Monsieur Réné, I am touched by your sincerity. It would be inhuman of me to refuse such a convincing affair. I shall do what I can to discover the Mona Lisa, but I can make no guarantees." Evidently Réné was terribly pleased. He pulled Holmes towards him, and gave him a kiss on each cheek, as is the French custom, Holmes, was, I believe startled at first, but recovered. After the two men left, Holmes turned to me. " Watson, we are catching the 11:15 flight to Paris tomorrow. The game is afoot!" And it was indeed.