This is a retelling of ACD's short story "The Adventure of the Retired Colourman", as requested by my dear Ennui Enigma. Thank you, my friend, for your constant encouragement!

As always, all the best lines are sheepishly stolen from Sir Arthur, with my apologies, and are in italics.

000

"I beg your pardon," the stranger muttered as he pushed past them out of the street door to 221 Baker Street. John and Mary, who had been at the doorstep preparing to enter, paused to watch the elderly fellow limp down the pavement, slightly dragging one foot. He seemed like a man who was literally bowed down by care. His back was curved as though he carried a heavy burden.

The Watsons looked at each other. "Were we expecting a client?" Mary inquired.

"Not that I know of," John replied with a shrug. Strange. He knew that Sherlock was immersed in a sensitive case of vital importance—surely he couldn't be taking on a new client at a time like this. After another glance at the pitiable old gentleman who was now disappearing around a corner, the couple entered the house and mounted the steps to Sherlock's flat.

Sherlock himself was immersed in studying both a file folder in one hand and his laptop at his elbow on the desk. Without looking up, he intoned, "Did you see him?"

"You mean the old fellow who has just gone out? Yes, we met him at the door," John informed him.

"What did you think of him?"

"A pathetic, futile, broken creature, I would say," said John honestly.

The world's only consulting detective appeared to be in a melancholy and philosophic mood that morning. He dragged his eyes from his work and looked at his partners in crime. "Exactly. Pathetic and futile. But is not all life pathetic and futile? Is not his story a microcosm of the whole? We reach. We grasp. And what is left in our hands at the end? A shadow. Or worse than a shadow—misery."

"You're certainly in a mood today, Sweetheart," Mary chided gently. John felt the corners of his mouth quiver in a qualified grin as his wife approached their brooding friend and laid a sympathetic hand on his head. "Did the poor old man bring this melancholia upon you, or did you reduce the poor old man to his pathetic and futile state with your enlightened assessment of his pathetic and futile life?"

Sherlock chose to ignore her and looked to John for his reaction. John, in his turn, spoke to Mary instead. "It's this case he's working on for Mycroft that's given him the miseries," he explained. "It should come to a head today, if all goes as it should; and Sherlock will be up for another knighthood for having helped to avert World War Three from erupting from Egypt this year."

"It still might erupt," Sherlock muttered morosely. "But I've done my part to stop it. The last move in the game will take place this evening."

"Oh, yes, the Case of the Coptic Patriarchs!" Mary exclaimed. "John's been telling me all about it. Congratulations, Sherlock, on a job well done! I'm so proud of you for saving the world again. It's just a shame that no one outside of bureaucrats will ever know what a service you've done for us all."

"It isn't over yet," the detective reminded her, a bit tersely. "I must concentrate on orchestrating the events of tonight. In the meanwhile, the Yard have sent this pathetic and futile fellow for a consult, as if I had nothing better to do. Just as medical men occasionally send their incurables to a quack, to get them out of their hair."

"They couldn't have known you were occupied. No one can know about the Coptic Patriarch case," John soothed his friend's ruffled feathers. "Anyway, give the case to me. I can look into it while you finish with the Copts. I may not be a detective, but I can certainly question witnesses and gather facts for you."

"Give the case to US," Mary corrected. "I've got the day off and I'd love to help!"

Sherlock frowned. "I suppose the 'patient' can be no worse than he is, whatever happens," he conceded.

John knew better than to feel insulted. Sherlock was in the doldrums, for certain; working for Mycroft always drove him there. "Tell us about the matter," he urged. "Then we'll be off and you can get back to your Patriarchs."

Handing John the folder he had been holding, Sherlock began. "Josiah Amberley. A retired colourization technician. You've probably seen his work—he'd been colourizing black and white films since the 1970's."

"Ooo, I hate those!" Mary burst out suddenly, and both men turned to her, John in amusement, Sherlock in annoyance. "Well, I do," she insisted in a more subdued tone. "Black and white films were shot differently from colour films. They're meant to be seen in black and white. Colourizing them ruins the effect. It's . . . it's an absolute crime! I hope this Amberley chap goes to prison for the rest of his natural life!"

"It isn't his own cinematic crimes he's asked us to investigate," Sherlock returned dryly. "And apparently not everyone shares your intolerance for colour, as he made quite a hefty little pile from his work to retire on."

"I don't know that we should accept money from such a source," Mary replied saucily, making a face. "Almost as bad as being hired by a crime lord."

John bit back a chuckle. His wife seemed determined to jolly their friend from his ill mood. "Go on," he encouraged Sherlock, his voice shaking with suppressed mirth.

Sherlock sighed and gave Mary a significant look. "If I may," he said a bit caustically, and went on. "Amberley retired three years ago at age 61 and bought a house in Lewisham. Two years ago, he married a woman twenty years his junior. That's her picture," he added, indicating a photograph in the file folder John was holding.

"Good-looking woman," John nodded approvingly. "If the photograph does not flatter," he added as Mary playfully snatched the folder from his hands.

"Gold digger," Mary pronounced as she examined the evidence of the picture.

Sherlock's eyes widened. "Mary! You of all people cannot stand in contempt of a woman who marries an older man," he scolded.

Mary rolled her eyes. "Twelve years isn't twenty," she objected cheerfully. "And if I married John for his money, I was badly misinformed as to how lucrative the detective business might be." John snorted, and the two giggled together until Sherlock's baleful glare sobered them.

"As I was saying," the great detective continued with exaggerated dignity, "A nicely padded financial portfolio, a new house, a new wife, a life of leisure—it seemed a straightforward road which lay before him. And yet within two years he is, as you have seen, as broken and miserable a creature as crawls beneath the sun."

"I'll lay odds the wife is having an affair," Mary interrupted again.

John grinned. "Do stop holding back, Mary," he urged. "If you have an opinion, please share it with us."

"Sorry," Mary tried to look contrite, failing at it badly. "Do go on. I'll be good, I promise," she added; but John wasn't fooled for a minute. He winked at her cheerfully.

"So the wife had an affair, did she? How tediously predictable," he prompted Sherlock, who rolled his eyes again.

"The old story," he agreed grudgingly. "A treacherous friend and a fickle wife. It would appear that Amberley has one hobby in life, and it is chess. Not far from his home there lives a young doctor who is also a chess player; he is called Dr Ray Ernest."

Mary snorted derisively. "Ernest is as earnest does," she teased. "I suppose he was in great earnest about his chess playing."

Sherlock chose to ignore her. "Ernest was frequently in the house, and an intimacy between him and Mrs. Amberley was a natural consequence."

"I should say so," John put his oar in this time. "Our unfortunate client has few outward graces, whatever his inner virtues may be."

Mary nodded wisely. "I suppose they've gone off together to destination unknown, and poor Mr. Amberley wants us to find his dear wife and persuade her to come back."

"You're half right," Sherlock nodded, his spirits seemingly improved by his friends' good humour. "The couple went off together last week, but the service our client requires of us is to recover the old man's life savings, which she apparently carried off in her luggage."

"Gold digger!" Mary cried triumphantly. "What did I tell you?"

Sherlock's eye raised to the ceiling in an exaggerated appeal to the heavens for patience. "Yes, yes, you're very clever," he conceded to her delight, hiding a smile. "You have the address in the folder there. Off you go, then, and leave me to the Copts! I should be finished with them one way or another by midnight, and then you can report your findings to me."

"Report. As to a commanding officer?" John inquired, his eyebrows raised in mock indignation.

"Regale, I meant. Regale me with stories of your adventures," Sherlock amended sarcastically, to the amusement of his colleagues. And, in spite of his best efforts, the corners of his mouth turned up a bit.

"We'll do our best," Mary assured him, in earnest, kissing his cheek. "Good luck with your Coptic Patriarchs. I know you'll be brilliant."

"Naturally," Sherlock said modestly.