Five o'clock in the morning. Rain pelted the windows of 221B Baker Street, steaming the glass, beading the inside ledges with pearly moisture. I dozed for a while, listening to the soothing patter, then jerked upright when water dripped onto my forehead. Mumbling curses and fumbling for socks, I rolled away from the leak. The flat was silent. Empty. Foreboding. I rubbed the ghostly fingers of sleep out of my eyes and glanced up at the clock on the mantle. It had been 12 hours since my closest (and only) friend Mr Sherlock Holmes had left our apartment, armed solely with his wits, fists and revolver. 12 hours since I had heard the deafening rapport of bullets crack the evening hush, and seen the blue lights of police cars flicker and dance across the face of buildings. 12 hours and no sign of Holmes. I shivered in the cool morning air. Holmes was fiercely intelligent. Infuriatingly enigmatical. A genius detective, brilliant musician and a fighter to be reckoned with. He was also an appalling tea brewer (not that I would ever tell him that), hopelessly addicted to nicotine and had one of the sharpest minds in the world. I knew Holmes could look after himself. But that didn't stop me from worrying.
He returned to 221B 15 hours after he had left it. Typical. His heavy knock disturbed me from my position by the fireplace, and I opened the door to find Holmes swaying in the hallway, face haggard and drawn but an ecstatic smile plastered on his lips. He was soaking wet, his white shirt was spattered with blood and a gaudy pink feather was lodged in his dark curls. I stared at him quizzically, eyebrows beetling. Holmes shrugged and staggered past me, grinning manically and weaving on unsteady feet. He finally collapsed into the hunter green folds of his usual armchair with a contented sigh. The armchair was in the very centre of the room - equivalent in position to the sun in our solar system. I poured Holmes some brandy. It was 8 o clock in the morning but he looked like he needed it.
"Holmes."
"Yes?"
"Did you solve the case?"
"I did indeed!" Holmes sat up straighter at the very mention of the mystery that had been plaguing him for the past month. His blue eyes crackled with a rarely seen energy – his deft fingers drummed the embroidered cushions.
"And?" I prompted, impatient to hear the conclusion of the puzzle we had both been working on. "It wasn't the cleaner, was it?"
"The librarian!" Holmes shook his head gleefully. "Everyone thought it was the cleaner but no! It was the gregarious, sociable, ill-mannered, humdrum Miss Redding! What a night!" He sank back into his pillows and let out a wheezy chuckle that instantly alerted my medical training.
"Now that doesn't sound good." I helped Holmes out of his sodden waistcoat. "What happened? Are you alright?"
"Pub brawl." Holmes waved his hands dismissively. "Nasty business. Think I cracked a rib or two but it's nothing to worry about… How was your morning Watson? Save me any biscuits?" I blinked, thrown off balance by the sudden change in topic and startled by his comment. I had indeed spent the morning attacking my secret supply of shortbread, a supply that I kept hidden behind the book shelves because Holmes was a notorious shortbread devourer. Sensing my bewilderment, he laughed good -naturedly. "My dear Watson," he began, yawning like a cat, "there is no doubt in my mind that you were tearing into your 'secret' stash of all butter shortbreads whilst I was out all night in the downpour."
"But how?" I cried, "How did you know?" He laughed shrewdly, but had to stop when his voice rasped and his breath rattled. I gently placed my fingertips on his chest, trying to assess the damage to his rib cage. Holmes winced and continued.
"You may have brushed all the discriminating crumbs off your dressing gown, but there is still biscuit residue on your slippers and over there by the window where you stood gazing at the storm. You also appeared to inhale nine mugs of tea in my absence… Darjeeling? No!" he corrected himself sharply. "Earl Grey. Obviously. And," he raised a slender forefinger, "you read 60 pages of that book you started last December, whilst seated in that chair with your feet on the coffee table." Holmes paused to take a shaky breath and I sat back, astounded. Even injured and exhausted to the point of fainting, he had accurately recounted my entire morning. I gaped dumbly and Holmes smiled, flattered by my admiration.
Holmes and I were locked in a desperate battle of chess that evening, (a battle I was destined to lose – Holmes was a strategic mastermind) when we were interrupted by 4 incessant raps on the door. Both our heads snapped up, game instantly forgotten, and we stared at the door with a crackling mixture of excitement and apprehension. My eyes strayed to the clock on the wall. It was 5.30pm on a Monday night and London was bathed in drizzle, but despite the ridiculously ordinary setting, something amazing, something terrible, had happened tonight, and the person on the other side of the door was going to tell us about it. My spine tingled.
"Client?" I asked softly. Just to confirm. Holmes slowly nodded.
"Believe so." He murmured before leaping to his feet when the knock came again.
"Careful – your ribs!" I called, the doctor in me flaring to life when I saw Holmes grimace in pain.
"Damn my ribs." He growled, then he stalked over and yanked open the door. "Sherlock Holmes." His voice was cool. "How may I help you?"
