The Adventure of the Secret Threat

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any of the affiliated characters or ideas—their creator is the remarkable Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

KS: Welcome to another of my fanfictions! I'm so glad you chose to read. This fic was originally planned to be entirely canon-style, but I think I'm going to take just a few liberties with it. (But, I believe it's going to be in Watson's POV all the way through. It'll be like...a case that Watson wrote up, but never edited down to have published.

This story takes place fairly early in Holmes & Watson's acquaintanceship, but not too early. Maybe '84 or so.

Also, I must warn you that I have only a slight knowledge of London, so some parts have to be made up. I do have a handbook guide to London, complete with maps, but it's new and can't be entirely relied on for a good view of Victorian London.

I only have a little of this story done so far, so I can't say that it will be very good, but I have ideas for it.

But do read and review, and I hope you enjoy.

EDIT: I redid this chapter just a litte bit. I'm not sure if I made it better, but I redid it...XD;

It was a very fine, cool spring day--the kind of day that sets most men's hearts to fancies of a romantic nature and invigorates the body. But for Sherlock Holmes, who was singular among men, this was not the case.

"I cannot believe," said I as I began to cut into the sausage Mrs. Hudson had supplied for breakfast, "that this city, teeming with millions, can be so calm as to have no crimes whatsoever."

"There is plenty of crime, Watson," Holmes said shortly, "but nothing for the specialist. Scotland Yard has been able to handle everything that has come to them. The average London criminal apparently has not seen fit lately to do their jobs well. They have absolutely no ingenuity."

"Be it so, it is a good thing for the average person."

"And a rather unfortunate thing for those above the commonplace…" Holmes said wistfully, looking out the window as he stirred his coffee. "Ah," he said after a moment, his face brightening. "I believe my troubles may soon be over."

I stood and stepped over to see what had captured his attention. I saw as a hansom cab pulled up next to the kerb and watched as Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard jumped out and paid his fare. He began to turn towards our door when the cabby shouted something angrily at the small detective.

I saw even from a distance as Lestrade's brow furrowed, and he turned to reply to the driver. In only a moment a row had broken out; apparently the cab driver was quite upset about something. Lestrade finally fished another coin from his pocket and tossed it up to the man, whose red face lightened as he spotted the glint of gold. The cabby accepted the peace offering and drove away, leaving Lestrade standing alone on the pavement.

"Now, let's see what he wants of us," said Holmes.

But the inspector did not ring the bell, nor did he knock at our door. He stayed out on the pavement, staring at our door, and it took no great deduction to know by his conflicted countenance that he was thinking something over. He drew a folded piece of paper from his pocket and looked over it, then back to our door.

Holmes sighed impatiently through his nose and began to tap his thin fingers against the side of the window-frame.

"Why is he hesitating?" I asked, knowing it was entirely possible that my friend was familiar with the answer.

"He has done this before," Holmes replied. "This happens whenever he thinks that I really have no business in the case, but he cannot make anything of it himself. In my past experiences, the only sort of thing that would make him hesitate in such a way before consulting me is a matter close to the Yard itself…"

When he had said this, Lestrade finally stepped up to the door and rang the bell.

"At last!" Holmes said, turning to face the door and clasping his long, thin hands together, "He has made up his mind. Come, Watson, this might be a case to add to your collection."

My friend's keen grey eyes shone with anticipation, and I could plainly see that this interruption of our breakfast was most welcome. He hadn't had a case in three weeks, and anything that could draw him from the lassitude and blackness of stagnation was welcome to me as well.

We heard our landlady admit the inspector, and soon after that heard his steps ascending the stair. Holmes made his way over to his favourite armchair and sat, stretching out his long, thin legs to wait. The door opened, and Lestrade entered. His left hand was in his trouser pocket, and I could see the corner of the paper he had been holding earlier barely sticking out from the top.

"Good morning, Mr. Holmes." said our visitor.

"Good morning, Inspector Lestrade," my companion replied, pushing forward his cigar-case. "Why don't you give me that paper, since you were in such a hurry this morning to get it to me?"

Lestrade flushed slightly.

"I simply thought that you might like to see it, so I brought it by," he said, declining the offered cigars.

Holmes waved the official detective into a chair. "It's only nine o'clock, and I can see from your shoes that you've come straight here from the Yard, and in somewhat of a hurry at that."

Lestrade took the paper from his pocket, smoothed it out, and handed it to Holmes.

"We received this just an hour ago," he said as my companion examined the paper. "It's a most obscure business. We thought that you might be able to shed a little light upon it."

Holmes spent some time on it, not only reading it but analysing all the minutiae it presented. After he had looked it over, he passed it to me.

"Read it out loud," said he.

I took it and began to do so; this is how it ran:--

"The Yard had better keep its guard up when the Music's time is done."

Lestrade glanced at Holmes to see if he had made anything of it.

"Well, Mr. Holmes," said he, "What do you think of that?"

"Did it come by the post?" Holmes asked.

"Yes."

"Then pray, let me see the envelope."

Lestrade reached into his inner coat pocket and provided the item, which Holmes examined just as thoroughly as the letter.

"It has no sender's address," began Lestrade, "but I brought it by anyways because I knew you would want to see it."

Holmes nodded, setting the papers down. "It was good of you to anticipate it. There aren't many details, but it seems of interest. I will look into it. I will send a report to you to-morrow, for good or for bad, and if any other letters or information comes in, bring them to me at once."

Lestrade put his hat back on and stepped toward the door.

"To-morrow, eh? You seem to have gotten something from it, at least. Right then, I hope you can shed some light on the situation. It truly is a mystery, and if it has anything to do with the Yard—"

"Don't worry, Inspector. I believe I can discover its meaning. Good day."

"Good day, Mr. Holmes."

With that Lestrade left, and Holmes reached for his clay pipe.

"It is interesting enough," said he. "It will break the monotony at least, though it is too early to know if it will do much more than that."

"I can make nothing of it," I said. "There doesn't seem to be anything at all to go on."

Holmes lit his pipe and leaned back in his chair as he gazed up at the ceiling.

"I perceive I saw a little," he said, unremarkably. "I believe that I have enough to start on, and that I understand what the letter means."

"But that is the most mysterious part!" I cried.

"Hardly," said my friend. "The most mysterious parts are who wrote it, their reason for doing so, and what the Yard is to be guarding against. The first and last part may even be cleared soon enough."

"What else?" I asked. "What of the envelope?"

"It was dropped on Smith Street—that much is obvious. That may be of very great or very little importance."

"How did you deduce that?"

"There was a strange mix of well-trodden grey clay, iron shavings, and dust that I've only seen there. I didn't see any of the same mud on Lestrade's shoes, and he could hardly have avoided it, so it could not have been he that dropped it."

"It could have been the postman," I remarked.

"Precisely so, Watson. Whether it was the author, a postman, or some mediating agent will be revealed as more information comes."

"But what of the letter?" I asked. "And its meaning?"

"Of the letter I cannot say too much for the present moment, other than to draw your attention to the fact that it was printed."

"I noticed that. It was, no doubt, done by the person to conceal their handwriting."

"Indeed. Also, the writing was done with a rather soft lead—"

Holmes abruptly stopped speaking, and I noticed a sudden intensity in his features. Knowing better than to interrupt his thoughts, I waited for him to speak. In a moment his face cleared again, but I still saw that distant, abstracted look in his eyes that bespoke a new line of thought.

"But for now, Doctor, if you'll not speak for some minutes, I must think. This may be an interesting case after all."

I nodded understandingly and picked up a volume that I had been reading whilst my friend dove into his smoky, languid world of thought.

Holmes sank back into his chair, stretching his legs out fully as his brow furrowed and chin sank upon his breast. He sat for some minutes, the blue smoke of his pipe curling up in rings and encircling him, intensifying his sharp, aquiline features as he let himself be absorbed totally in the problem at hand.

After a while he sprang from his chair with an exclamation of annoyance.

"I need more data!" he cried. He paced about a few times with his hand pressed against his forehead before disappearing into his room.

He re-emerged several minutes later, rid of his dressing-gown and fully costumed as a common, ruddy-faced labourer.

"I am going down to Smith Street," he said, gathering his pipe, tobacco, and a few other necessities and putting them into his pockets, "I won't be back until late, I expect, so don't wait up on me."

He left, and I heard the hall door shut behind him. I followed his reasoning well enough to know that he was going because the letter had been dropped there, but as to what he was going to do there I did not know.

I went on with my business, wondering occasionally what he was up to. I couldn't help but think as I sat down alone to my lunch and later my dinner that my friend probably would not eat until he returned, as he always despised using the extra energy and focus it took to do so.

At about a quarter past ten o'clock Holmes returned, and as he stepped through the door of our sitting-room I noticed that he looked worn from his long day. A light twinkling in his eye and the manner in which he carried himself told me, however, that his day had not been spent in vain. He went straight to his room, returning a few minutes later as his old self, and without a word to me he walked over and fell into an armchair, his head back and his eyes on the ceiling as he sat in silence.

Knowing that he was going over the events of the day in his head, I waited for him to speak first and just as I expected after a few minutes Holmes snorted a laugh and looked over at me.

"Well, Watson, I've had a day," he said.

"Any success?"

"Some," he replied. "I fear that the mud lead hasn't taken me very far."

"So you haven't found anything out?"

"I did not say so. But there wasn't as much as I hoped for."

"But when you entered, you seemed to look as if you have found something."

Holmes smiled at me. "It isn't so much of that, Watson," said he. "It is…well, rather a strange story." He reached over for his violin. "I suggest you get some rest, Watson. I might wish for you to come with me to-morrow as I try to get to the heart of this matter, and it's already very late."

I rose, ready to do as my friend had suggested. But, a thought came to my mind.

"You aren't going to eat first? Surely you're hungry," I remarked.

Holmes shook his head. "No, I have eaten," he replied. I must have looked at him incredulously, for he continued. "It's been an interesting day, and I suppose I shall tell you about it tomorrow."

"Indeed? Well, good night, Holmes," said I.

"Good night, Watson."

I went to bed, and as I was falling asleep I could hear Holmes scraping at his violin thoughtfully. I wondered as I fell asleep what Holmes could have encountered. I would find out to-morrow.

KS: Sorry if there are repeated things/odd sounding phrases/formatting errors. I had to do a lot of this in document manager, since my Microsoft Office Word no longer works.

And, like I said, I made up a street. Smith Street, as you could tell. xD If that street actually DOES exist...well, mine's a fictional Smith Street. Just as 221B was fictional (and sort of still is...XD).

Review, please!