[A wax record sets to rolling. Between the pop and crackle, you hear a firm voice. It could belong to any grandfather, and the smile carries across the years and leaps across the snaps with pleasure. Introductions end, business begins.]

To me, it will always be the being. I am not aware that it ever held another name, or a name at all. It eclipses the whole of its profession, so far as Holmes and I were aware, and shames Professor Moriarty to a professional silence.

I have outlived two world wars, gentlemen, and a number of smaller conflicts that seem increasingly irrelevant. Every day threatens to bring a third. And yet I do not think about Stalin, nor do I think about Eisenhower or any of our holdings. I only think about the man, silent within his cell, and wonder if we have done well or if we have done right.

[The old man coughs once, then begins. Occasionally, between the static, you hear the shuffle of pages. This has been written well in advance.]

Sherlock Holmes sat steady within his chair. His thick, brown fingers tattooed along the case, eyes downcast. He looked unnatural these days. Khartoum had browned him, Tibet had burnt him, and in the dim light of evening he looked hardly British. He dug a fingernail between morocco covers and spread the case upon his knees.

I was there. Worry not, this shall not be one of Arthur's contributions.

Instead, I was speechless. Holmes, after so long without a prick of morphia, sat contemplating his drugs. He ran a nervous forefinger down the valve.

"Which is it today?" he asked, never once looking up. "Morphine or cocaine?" Then he glanced upward, eyes bright. "Dear me." He shut the case with all the care of an old man with the family bible, and that infernal grin took over his face. "There is no fear of a relapse today, Watson. Close your mouth. Merely wondering what would lead a lesser mind to opiates, of a sort. I would be much obliged if you would lend your professional opinion." He indicated the mantel. "If you would take a glance?"

I stared at the object. Picture an egg made from a tight-set framework of bronze, burnished so dark as to be black. Four clear panes of glass were set into this framework, and held firm with a gold solder. The dip of the egg rounded into a point and this point carried on until it became a stem. A needle, obviously medical grade, haunted the very end of the stem.

"If you would..." and Holmes wobbled his hand. "Note the smoke."

I took it up by the stem and shook it as though it were a baby's rattle. And indeed, beyond the windows will-o-the-wisps arose and curled and settled back down beyond my sight. I turned the egg over so that the needle pointed toward the celling, and these black traces settled down into the topmost curve of the egg: an uncertain, eddying cough of cigar smoke. I replaced it upon the mantel.

"And its provenance?" I asked, dimly recalling his dictum of possessing all necessary facts.

"One of Gregson's little gifts. Our police force discovered it on a body in Limehouse and, as they always do when confronted with something outside their public school experience, they brought it around to me. Found on a corpse of a young woman. No marks upon her body, no signs of violence-obvious or subtle-and no pin-pricks or signs of injection whatsoever. Well dressed. The autopsy-neither the official nor my own, unofficial contribution to the case-turned up no trace of anything out of the ordinary. Aside from that-" he indicated the egg "-her pockets were otherwise empty and the tags had been ripped from her clothes. She was laid down between a bakery and a chemist; all associated persons claim a total ignorance of her and her history. Now, pray tell, what do you make of it?"

I clicked my tongue to buy another moment, then began, "The genteel addicts always do like to have a new way to consume their drug of choice, and this...decanter" I decided to call it, "is an example of that. The chemist was her lover and her suppler. They had a fight. Likely over something major. He slipped something deadly into her drug, which she took orally, and she expired on the spot. It must be an eastern drug which escapes usual forms of detection."

Holmes steepled his fingers before his face, and he left loose a shot of laughter. "Very good, Watson! You always do bring a case into such focus."

It was obvious what was to come. I tightened my mouth (to prevent myself from repeating the words alongside him).

"You illuminate the countryside, Watson, even when you are wrong."

"And where have I gone wrong?" It was an old dance, as old as the day we met, and I settled into my chair. As he began I poured myself Beaune.

"Invariably, from the first word. Your theory rests on gentlemen we have not met, a relationship we have not seen, and a drug that cannot be found."

"Which is to say, you know nothing either."

"Socrates did very well with that " He leaned back, settling his pipe in his teeth. "But it would be a false modesty to say I know as little as he. Have you noticed anything out of the ordinary with the needle?"

"It seemed perfectly ordinary. Its quality is doubtlessly good enough for the queen's physician. It seemed like it was made from-"

Between furnace-puffs of smoke he asked, "And how are the contents expelled?"

I opened my mouth to speak, closed it, then thought it threw as the moments flew away. The device had no piston. "I have no idea."

"If a logistician will only use his eyes and not his hands, he is as good as a blind man. The needle itself is the piston. When stabbed home with sufficient force, it will inject."

"But-it will all inject at once!"

"Yes. Therefore it is apparent that what is inside is at least non-fatal-immediately. She also could not have sampled your theorized drop without spilling the whole contents. Might we implicate it in her death? It seems likely. But it certainly wasn't the cause, else it would be missing or empty."

Pitter-patters traced across the slope of our window still, and a cat's head peered through. It dismissed us with a kingly glance, then leapt away. Holmes sat, listening, for some time before he pressed his finger to his lips and smiled. In a moment he was standing and across the room, looking down on Baker Street. Without turning, he continued, "My dear Watson. As you have nothing whatsoever to do tomorrow, would you sit up with me? My shipment has come in from Havana, and they must be enjoyed before our smog destroys the craftsmanship."

I rested my head on my palm and stared at his back. "I have not changed my clothes. I have not gotten mud about my trousers. I have not taken my eyes from you to glance at the bric-a-brac. Would you-"

He barked out a laugh. "Simplicity itself. I cheated. You left your datebook on the table."