Childish Experiments

Chapter 1 - It started with a bang

Watson

It was a fine September morning as I descended the stairs a little later than usual, owing to a patient who had kept me up much of the previous night. Fortunately, the crisis was now past and I had left the man in the tender care of his wife, who was under strict instructions to call me if anything untoward should occur. As a result, I now found myself with an unexpected, if welcome, amount of free time on my hands which I planned to spend by taking a long walk through the city - a peek out of my window during my toilette had convinced me that the weather really was exceptionally splendid - and catching up on my writing for the Strand.

However, when I opened the sitting room door my mood was somewhat dampened by the thick cloud of blue smoke that billowed out to greet me, causing me to cough and search my pockets for a handkerchief. Once I had found one, I turned to send the creator of these fumes an accusing glare, only to find him enveloped up to the hips in his own creation and deeply immersed in some sort of experiment. At the sound of my greeting, he raised his head barely long enough to return a muttered "Good morning to you too, Watson," before his eyes were once again on the beaker filled with a light blue liquid that he was holding in his right hand and which was emitting the offending fog.

Being used to my friend's unsociable moods, I merely shook my head and sat down to the breakfast that Mrs. Hudson had left waiting for me. With a healthy appetite - I hadn't eaten anything since being called to my patient shortly after yesterday's lunch - I took up my knife and fork and endeavoured to start on whatever our good landlady had prepared for us, only to find that both the bacon and the eggs had taken on a distinctly unappetizing blueish hue. With a sigh, I lowered the cutlery back onto the table. After all, I had no way of knowing just what it was that Holmes was analysing, and whether it would be safe to have for breakfast.

Pushing back my chair, I got up and wandered over to the table where Holmes kept his chemicals. Near its edge, there was a broad-bodied bottle that immediately caught my attention. I took it up, causing the liquid inside to slosh from side to side. Wrinkling my brow, I lifted my gaze to the beaker Holmes had now grasped in a pair of tongs - yes, undoubtedly the same colour - and turned my eyes to the bright yellow label that stood in stark contrast to the bottle's Robin egg blue contents.

Then, I very nearly dropped it all.

"'Dr. Edgeworth's Anti-Aging Elixir'? Holmes - surely you cannot believe in this rubbish?"

My friend gave a contemptuous snort. "Of course not, Watson. That the concoction you are currently holding is, as you so aptly put it, "rubbish", is exactly what I am trying to prove."

He took a step back, disturbing the smoke that was still swirling around him and making him by all means look like a man who was taking a walk at the bottom of the ocean. "It is simply abominable, Watson. Unscrupulous peddlers making money off of old ladies' credulity. It must be stopped."

I smirked. "Old ladies?"

Holmes must have heard something in my voice, for he raised his eyes to mine and pressed his lips together in a tight line before answering. "Mrs. Hudson's dear friend Mrs. Adderley came by yesterday after you had left. Apparently she feels 20 years younger since she has started taking it regularly". He turned his attention back to his chemicals. "She has convinced Mrs. Hudson to try it."

My smirk turned into a full-blown smile. There was no love lost between Holmes and Mrs. Adderley, who furnished her house according to her spiritualist's advice and was perhaps the only person I knew who would truly have burned Holmes as a witch - if she'd dared. Part of me thought our down-to-earth landlady only put up with her to annoy the detective whenever she'd had enough of him wrecking her house with his experiments and unconventional target practice habits.

Still smiling, I made my way through the usual clutter to my desk, disregarding the food still on the table - I for one would certainly not stake my health on the advice of Mrs. Adderley - and sat down to continue the manuscript of our latest adventure. As I sat, the client Holmes had taken on yesterday morning came to my mind. "What about the Winters case?", I asked Holmes, turning around in my chair to face him.

Irritated, he raised his head once again. "What about it? Watson, I have told you time and again that to theorize without data is a fatal error. Before the answer to my inquiry arrives, we can do absolutely nothing on that particular matter." Having spoken, he immersed himself once again in his task, the blue smoke meanwhile coming up to his shoulders.

During the next hour, I concentrated on my writing, my attention only broken by Holmes'sporadic exclamations over his experiments - apparently, he had not yet had any luck in his attempts - and by the fact that my thoughts kept returning to the pale but pretty Mrs. Winters as she sat on our settee with a distressed look on her face, now and then affectionately caressing the small toddler on her lap (the two older children, we had been told, had been left at home with the servants) while her husband told us of the vicious threats to leave London the family had received.

My concentration stayed nearly unbroken, that is, until a loud bang suddenly shook the room and the subsequent tremors forced me to hold on to my desk while I watched my ink pot topple over and spill over the morning's work, effectively ruining it.

However, this particular misfortune couldn't have been farther from my mind, for glancing in Holmes' direction, I had failed to behold him upright behind his equipment, a state of affairs which the ever-present smoke could only partly account for and which worried me greatly.

With a cry of "Holmes!" I started in his direction and upon rounding the corner of the table was brought up short by what I saw: A little boy, looking a bit dazed perhaps but by all appearances perfectly unhurt, who stared up at me with large grey eyes partially obscured by a thick shock of black hair.

"Watson? What are you shouting about so?", said a voice I was well acquainted with - though now it sounded an octave higher than it usually did. Then it continued, still irritated but now slightly unsure: "And why are you so tall?"

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Disclaimer: Unfortunately, neither Holmes nor Watson belong to me. They're all ACD's.