A story I wrote a few years ago for my English class.

Watson and Holmes are, of course, borrowed from Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

The Black Dot Killer - I


Sherlock Holmes sat sprawled out across his usual chair, his back to the door, scanning the headlines of one of the various newspapers upon his lap.

The tilt of his head told me that he was in deep concentration, focusing on some subject that held his attention within the pages.

I gently shut the door, not making a sound, wondering if I could for once catch the famed Sherlock Holmes unawares.

"Good day, my dear Watson," Holmes muttered as soon as the door shut, his eyes still locked upon the headlines.

I rolled my eyes in disbelief. I should be used to Holmes' almost unnatural ability to deduce things, having known him over thirty years now, but it still catches me unawares at times.

"Good day to you, too," I said, placing my hat and jacket upon the coat-hanger beside the door. "May I ask how you knew it was I who entered?"

"Why, of course," Holmes said, his gaze still locked upon the newspapers. "Upon opening the door, the newspapers upon my lap were blown by just the slightest of a breeze. Since I knew that there were no windows or other opening within the room, I deduced that the door must have just been opened. Now, there are only a few people in the entirety of London who would open my door without first knocking: a drunk, a criminal intending me harm, or my dear friend Watson. Since I did not smell any trace of alcohol, I deduced it was not the former of the three. And, upon assuming that it was in fact my dear friend Watson and upon calling out his name and receiving an answer in the sound of his voice, I reasoned that it was, in almost all probability, yourself."

Holmes finally tore his gaze from the headlines and turned his head in my direction. "And it appears I was correct."

"Indeed," I said, my voice betraying a hint of sarcasm. I took a seat upon one of the two chairs beside him. "So, are there any new cases warranting my interest?"

Holmes' expression turned dark and he tossed me the newspaper he had been reading, front cover exposed. I caught it and quickly scanned the headline. It read:


May 4th, 1910

The Black Dot Killer Claims Another Life

A week and a half ago today, a man by the name of Dr. Jackson Philmore was delivered a scrap of parchment with a black dot written upon it. He was a successful man in his late fifties, with a wife and three kids, and had recently helped manufacture a piece of the now-famous Model-T automobile. Two days later, his body was found amongst the shrubbery of the river, and the cause of death was determined to be by a knife wound to the abdomen. Nothing was stolen, and it appeared that this was the work of some lunatic killer.

Now, yesterday, Mr. Charles Ebren was found dead in an alleyway along Prayton Street. He was in his early twenties, newly-married and with no children. He worked for a printing press, and had recently achieved the great honor of being promoted to head of the company. The cause of death was apparently a sharp blow to the head with what the police believe to be a pipe of some sort. His wallet was stolen, and the crime looked, for all appearances, to be a case of robbery and murder. However, after questioning his wife, it was discovered that Mr. Ebren had received a scrap of parchment with a black dot written upon it in the mail just the day before. He had said that he believed that it was only some kind of practical joke, someone trying to make him look bad after his newly acquired position at the printing press.

Sadly, though, upon light of his death, it seems that there is indeed a Black Dot Killer on the loose. So far, the police have been unable to make any connection between Dr. Philmore and Mr. Eberaun. The ages, lifestyles, family, location, and occupation all appear to be different, and the police are hard-pressed to come up with anything linking the two men.


I looked back from the newspaper and stared Holmes in the eye. "I'm surprised that you have not yet tried tackling this case yourself, or do you believe it to be beyond even your skills?"

"On the contrary," Holmes said, "I haven't had enough time to even think about going after this case. I've been trying to solve the case about the Siberian hushpuppy for the longest time, but now that that's all cleared up I'll have time to focus my attention elsewhere. Hopefully I'll be able to solve this case in time to save the next victim of this labeled "Black Dot Killer."

"So you believe there to be more murders?"

"Oh, definitely, assuming the murderer continues to follow his pattern."

I raised one of my eyebrows. "So you've already found a pattern to how this murderer works?"

"Oh, of course; is it not obvious?"

"I seem never to grasp what you yourself think as obvious, so I must say no. I believe that only you, Holmes, can make the intricate connections between trivial facts and the solving of a case."

"Ah, Watson," Holmes sighed as he repositioned himself within his chair, "you have to realize that connecting the seemingly simplest of details together is the clue to solving almost any crime. The only reason you cannot make these connections is because you cannot deduce what I do from these random facts."

A heavy rasp sounded upon the closed door behind Holmes, and the private detective's right eyebrow curved sharply upward.

"For instance," he said, standing up from his chair, "what can you deduce from the man who has just knocked upon our door?"

I gazed slack-jawed at Holmes for a few seconds, and then exclaimed, "Now really, Holmes, how in the world might I be able to deduce anything from someone who I haven't even seen yet?"

"By thinking, my dear Watson," Holmes said as he made his way to the door. "The weight with which the knock was carried out suggests that this is most likely a man and not a woman. It also suggests that this is a man on a mission, most likely a client with some trouble that he would like to bequeath upon us. Also, the fact that neither of us heard his approach across the leaves suggests that he has a commendable skill in stealth." Holmes' hands were now resting on the door handle. "Now, what profession could you possibly think of that would require stealth, Watson?"

My brain quickly examined and crossed out a dozen or so possibilities. Finally, giving up, I said, "An assassin."

Holmes smirked at the comment. Then, with a twist of his wrist, the door swung open and in stepped a finely-dressed man. He looked to be a businessman in his mid thirties, and he wore a dark, glossy suit and pants. His skin was deeply tanned, and a charcoal mat of hair was curved over his face in a distinctive loop.

"Mr. Holmes?" he asked my friend in a low, monotonous voice.

"Indeed I am," Holmes said cheerily as he closed the door, motioning to the vacant chair beside his own. "Please, have a seat."