I have attempted to write this fanfiction in the format of the original Sherlock Holmes books and stories by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Sadly, I do not own Sherlock Holmes, Dr. Watson, or the wonderful Mrs. Hudson. The credit for them goes to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I do own Thomas Gregory, though! Please enjoy reading this little creation of mine and REVIEW! :)
A knock sounded at the door.
I glanced over at my companion lounging in a leather arm chair, deep in thought. He made no movement nor sign of hearing the knock. I stood up, hoping that he would notice and wonder what caused me to rise from my dinner. Much to my frustration, he remained silent and motionless.
Once again, a knock sounded at the door, though louder and harsher than before.
Knowing that my companion would not budge from his seat, and also knowing that our landlady, was ill and therefore not able to answer doors, I walked over to the door and opened it. There stood a young man approximately one and twenty years of age. He had the appearance of one frightened and unsure of what he was doing. His drooping eyelids and the dark circles underneath his tired blue eyes gave away the fact that he had not slept well the night before or possibly the last few nights. He gaped at me with an imploring gaze as he spoke in a hopeful voice,
"Am I addressing Mr. Sherlock Holmes?"
"May I inquire of who you may be, young man?" I asked him.
"Gregory. Thomas Gregory." He answered. "I am need of Mr. Holmes services with a crucial matter that cannot wait."
His decided tone and pathetic demeanor persuaded me to attempt to waken my companion from his stupor.
"Wait here. I will be back in a moment." I told Thomas Gregory as I fully opened the door and led the young man inside the parlor.
I walked into the sitting room, where my flatmate sat before the roaring fireplace. His stare was vacant, his legs crossed, as he leaned back in his armchair lost in thought.
I cleared my throat loudly, receiving no response.
"Holmes." I spoke to the motionless figure in a resonant tone.
He turned his head and stared at me for a moment and then his eyes brightened.
"My dear Watson, what brings you to Baker Street on this cold, desolate evening?"
"I have been here for two days." I told him, not caring to add that I had been with my elderly parents in Bath for five days and had just returned two days ago to seeing him in an apathetic daze.
His brow knit in confusion.
"Honestly?" He asked me in surprise.
I nodded.
"Well," He began stretching his arms as he moved his head from side to side to exercise his stiff neck. "I suppose I have been thinking for far too long. You know what happens when I am bored, Watson. I need some intriguing case to work on or I shall go mad!"
He rose from his seat in exertion.
"Yes, I know what happens. "I muttered quietly. "You lose yourself in thoughts and memories for days until something happens to rouse you."
Holmes' dark eyebrows rose and a smirk formed on his mouth.
"You know me far too well, Doctor."
His deep, comical laugh caught me off guard.
"So, you need a new case, do you?" I asked him, watching his reaction.
He looked at me as if I were an imbecile.
"Well, of course I do!" He bellowed. "I have just said so, only a few moments ago."
He looked at me as if attempting to read my thoughts. "Are you well, Watson?"
"Quite well." I assured him. "Actually, I do believe that I have the answer to your incessant boredom."
"How so?" He asked in a hopeful tone.
"Our answer has been waiting in the parlor for several minutes, because of your slow recovery from your 'trance'." I replied.
Instantly, Holmes' entire demeanor brightened and he was himself once more.
He straightened his suit jacket and glanced at me in excitement.
"Well, what are we waiting for, Watson? The game's afoot!"
He turned and strode out of the room as I followed, relieved that my friend was recovered for the present.