The Start
"The criminal mind is one of the most uncomplicated mechanisms in existence."
This out-of-the-blue declaration came from the sprawled out form of my new roommate one dreary winter afternoon in the year 1881. Holmes had received his telegrams, which he promptly threw aside or transfixed to the mantelpiece in the most untidy manner and threw himself on the couch with a lone letter, which he proceeded to read for a great length of time. After approximately fifteen minutes of close inspection of the correspondence interspersed with incomprehensible mumbling to himself, he waved it languidly about in his hand and spoke those unsolicited words to me, or to the ceiling, depending on your point of view.
"Oh? I assumed you would think otherwise." I responded, not bothering to raise my eyes from the paper I had retrieved from the pile that accumulated everyday by Holmes' feet. The truth being that I was interested in what he had to say, as I always seemed to be, but my thoughts were a tad preoccupied. Christmas was approaching and I was getting the distinct feeling that Holmes neither celebrated the season as others, but also seemed to have no one with whom to do so even if he desired it. He made no move to broach the subject himself, so I was in the throes of a great dilemma; having no idea if I should venture to suggest that we celebrate the holiday together.
His baffling response to my feigned disinterest was an abrupt, "I do." I folded my newspaper to look at him and he elaborated, a small twinkle of satisfaction in his dark eye. "I'm speaking of the average criminal though, old boy. What I claim is very true, generally. Most crimes are committed for a very specific and obvious reason and in a way that is most convenient to the perpetrator, which usually means that the modus operandi is often easy to decipher. Most crimes lack imagination, though occasionally you may come across an impressive production, one that almost makes you nod your head in respect and admiration for the small whiff of criminal mastermind, but that is unfortunately rare indeed." He assumed a cross-legged position on the couch, leaning eagerly forward as if hoping for an argumentative response.
I was more than willing to give him one as I responded a tad huffily, "I do not believe any of the victims you represent would agree with your sentiment, Holmes. Perhaps you should keep that respect and admiration for criminal activity to yourself."
His mouth quirked strangely and the twinkle in his grey eyes grew into full blown amusement. After a moment of observing me, he burst into a fit of uncontrollable laughter at my, presumably, comically stern expression. "I am learning more about you, Watson, as each day goes by. You take every comment at face value." He regained himself. "What I was commenting on, merely, was that some crimes have such an air of imagination and intelligence behind them that, although it is a pity that these rare qualities have been applied to abominable acts, the talents must be respected. In fact, it saddens me at times when I come across a superior mind that has engaged in some illegal or villainous activity because it is such a waste."
"How so?"
"Because such superior thinking and skill, if applied to nobler endeavors, could produce great things. I've always considered some of my worthiest opponents as artists in their own right. It is a great shame that they decided to use their talents in such a way." He stretched out his long legs and held the letter up for me to see, jiggling it lightly as if I would have failed to notice it if he hadn't. "However, as interesting as this little debate is, it was merely a bad attempt on my part at segue into what I really wanted to ask you." It would seem, in the face of my scorn at what he probably considered a very reasonable statement, he now felt the need to play down the conversation and skim over it.
"Well, if you were a bit more expedient in getting to your point, these little misunderstandings could be easily avoided."
He sighed, "Will you allow me to explain?"
I still felt a little annoyed at his attempt to rankle me, but allowed him to switch subjects, since he was obviously anxious to do so. I put down my reading material, mockingly offering my full attention.
He grinned at me but besides quickly and deftly folding the letter with only his thumb and index finger - no mean feat - he simply launched into the particulars of the potential case, "I have received a letter from a Mr. Godwin from the States. It seems he has been waylaid numerous times on his way home from work, I believe he is a lawyer, and is fearful for his life."
"Waylaid in what manner?"
"He was pushed in front of a four-wheeler the first time approximately three weeks ago, which he wrote off as nothing. But other incidents have convinced him that these events are purposeful and sinister," he hissed dramatically. "He claims that a masked man entered his room one night and fought him. The intruder soon fled but Mr. Godwin says he has no doubt as to what his intention was."
"Does he go into details?"
"Not particularly, most of the letter is composed of ingratiating, and I feel, slightly annoying pleadings on his part for me to lend my humble services." Holmes had always been vulnerable to flattery, but only when it was sincere. He handed the letter over to me and stood. I read it as he went to the mantelpiece to light his pipe.
"Why do you suppose the intruder fled, Holmes?" I wondered. "If his intention was murder, what prevented him?"
"It is a tad peculiar, is it not? We can safely assume that if murder was the intention, the mysterious visitor would have come prepared, perhaps with a revolver of some sort. But then, I have not examined the scene or house, nor do I have all the facts of the incident. I will reserve judgment if I choose to look into it."
"You are not sure if you will go?"
He shrugged, "It does seem a petty problem at first glance."
I had only helped my new roommate on one other case so far, the notes which for I was in the process of organizing, but I already new that the cases he accepted had to fit a certain criteria of peculiarity. However, I had also noticed in the last few weeks, that he seemed to be teetering on the verge of that black depression that claimed him when he became too bored or inactive. I silently hoped he would consent to nose around, if not simply to give him something to do besides crawling around in his tatty dressing gown or giving our admirable landlady a near heart attack with sudden and irrational behavior - the worst of which, so far, had been a strange habit of practicing with his revolver indoors.
I could already see the wake of too many long nights out boxing lining his face - a healing lip, a cut above his ear - and I knew he was pushing himself too far to stay out of the languor that gripped him like some mad beast. I often noted that this cycle tended to end in some rather distressing injuries - all of which I knew Holmes could very well avoid with his skills in the ring, but all of which I also knew he allowed his opponent to inflict to keep the matches long and interesting. I was simply waiting for the day he let his guard down just a little too much--
The very thought of that almost made me shudder.
I put the letter on the table and tried to seem nonchalant about the matter, in spite my urge to bound into his rooms and begin packing for him.
"It has no points of interest?" I asked.
He inhaled on his pipe and seemed to contemplate for a bit, "Well, I have never been to States, nonetheless to New York."
Holmes often spoke wistfully about the Americas and his wish to see the United States. I always did wonder why he did not simply take a holiday if he desired to travel there, but Holmes never approached anything in an ordinary way.
"You could always give it your attention and if it seems to be a simple matter or perhaps cleared up quickly, it would not harm you to spend the rest of your time there leisurely." I remarked offhandedly, knowing he didn't need much encouragement to travel abroad.
"Have you been to New York, Watson?"
I shook my head, wondering if that was his way of asking for my company. I had enjoyed myself immensely with him in our last endeavor, but he had never asked me to spend free time with him for no purpose besides watching a few of his boxing matches. And even this I believe he only welcomed because I was willing to split my winnings with him if he won.
"I would probably leave tomorrow. Is that notice too short for you? I would appreciate your company and I know you have nothing keeping you here for the next few weeks."
"I have plenty of things to keep me here," I retorted.
"Yes, yes," he smiled, and I saw that telltale look of satisfaction on his face that I was beginning to recognize as triumph at goading me into an argument, "but I'm sure none of your 'things' will miss you for a few weeks."
I smiled amiably at him, ignoring the verbal bait. "I would love to join you. A trip to States sounds most refreshing." I agreed.
He looked a bit surprised, or perhaps put out that I didn't put up more of a fight. His mouth twitched into that strange half smirk, half confused twist that was so unique to him. The he smiled, bright and wide and sauntered into his room without acknowledging my assent, and pulled out his travel case to ready himself. I pushed myself up from my chair, favoring my leg slightly for it always gave me pain during cold weather, and departed to my own room to pack.
__________________
The days I idled away with Holmes on the ocean liner to America were both comfortable and congenial. Holmes even spent some of his evening's playing cards with the other men in the smoking-room, an American version of poker, I believe. He walked away with more money to his name than when he sat down and the flippant pride in his eyes when he'd knock on my door after a night of gaming was unmistakable. Stretching out his lean, beaten and worn hand to me, he'd display the crumpled up notes and coins in his palm before walking back into his adjoining room without a word, leaving me smiling at his almost childlike need to show me his accomplishments. His winnings were so great, in fact, that by the end of our journey he had acquired the unfortunate nickname "The Wild Card", much to his chagrin.
The fact that we were bound for the States to pursue a case did not seem to come up in the mind of my traveling companion. Even further, he flat-out refused to speak to me about it in any detail.
"I follow the strict rule, self-imposed, of course," he stated, quick to clarify that no other man imposed anything on him, "that discussion of a case's facts before I have seen them for myself is mere speculation and detrimental to the clear mind one must possess when he approaches a problem."
This maxim was declared to me on the last night of our voyage. He stood on the isolated deck beneath the crescent moon , half-shrouded by the lazily rolling clouds. He had disappeared from the foray that was being hosted on the ship and was now alone, playing a beautifully arching solo on his beloved violin. The melody was clear and cutting through the cold sky, in sharp contrast to the muffled playing of the ship's band through the double-doors leading to the ballroom. I joined him there beneath the sentinel, shivering violently against the frosty air. It was not easy for me to endure cold, being much more acclimated to heat, and to make matters worse, my shoulder began throbbing terribly.
Holmes, on the other hand, stood in nothing but his shirtsleeves, apparently oblivious to the chill and wind. He maintained his relaxed posture against the railing, his violin tucked snuggly under his chin, as I approached. He was seemingly unaware of my presence until I was stationed right next to him. He played a few more notes before lowering it to his side.
"The cold hinders your movement, doctor. Perhaps it would be wise for you to retreat back to the warmth of the ballroom."
It presented itself as more of a question than a suggestion, to which I gave a shrug in response. "The band's choice of music is not much to my liking. I've always been drawn to Mendelssohn, so, naturally, as I heard Violin Concerto in E minor wafting faintly through the walls of that smoke-filled prison, I was glad to seek out its source."
"I do Mendelssohn no justice," he replied in uncharacteristic modesty, "and I am surprised to hear you refer to the party as a prison of any sort; I noticed the fine variety of femininity on display. The lady at the table behind us was eyeing you most avidly during dinner. I took my leave in hopes you may summon courage to strike up a pleasant conversation. I see I overestimated your observational abilities." Amused sarcasm was one of the many things Holmes excelled at.
"The dainty thing with the low-cut dress?"
"Indeed." He murmured neutrally, though I do think I caught a hint of appreciation.
"Well, it seems it's not a matter of overestimating me, but rather, underestimating yourself."
"Oh, really? How so?"
"She was eyeing you, Holmes."
His expression betrayed his surprise, "Was she? I was sureā¦"
"I would lay down my medical license on it," I reassured confidently.
He smirked, "Would you now? Well, in that case, I'll take your word for it. I know how protective you are of you hard-earned credentials, doctor."
"Perhaps it is you who should retreat back to the ballroom and discreetly strike up a pleasant conversation."
His nose scrunched up in distaste, "I do not mean to offend your gentlemanly sensibilities, my good man, but my general view of women of that class is that they lack the intelligence to carry on an engaging discourse."
He settled his violin and bow gently on the deck by his feet. When he straightened, he guarded the fiddle with his foot as if protecting it from careless, trampling feet despite the fact we were the lone occupants of the deck.
"They certainly like to agree." I concurred, a little reluctantly.
"Agreeing is in fashion."
Hearing the acrimony in his words, I decide to change the subject. "It is certainly nice out here."
"Like the calm before the storm."
"Are you thinking of the case?"
He lit a cigarette, the red tip illuminating his artistic features for the merest second. "I never speculate on a case before I undertake it officially."
"That's a trifle unorthodox, is it not?" I pondered. "The police often speculate and theorize on facts before they have seen them. It's the bulk of their work."
"The police do many things that are actually a hindrance to their investigation instead of an aid."
"Do they?"
"Indeed, their dilettantish efforts at police work are quite embarrassing to all who dare call themselves detectives."
"The way you speak, one would assume that London is teeming with criminals and ne'er do wells." I responded.
"That is precisely the state of London, doctor. Do you not travel outside your room, old man?"
"Well, then," I huffed, "how would Scotland Yard operate under your direction?"
He gave me a sparkling smile, which in the dark seemed almost as if it belonged to another man altogether. "Would you care to hear some of my philosophies, doctor?"
I nodded and leaned back against the rail, preparing myself for the first of many lectures to follow in my friendship with Holmes.
