Chapter One: The Facts Thereof

Holmes had disappeared early that morning, leaving not a clue of his whereabouts.

He had not informed me of any present case he had been working on. As it was common, only yesterday I spied him lying on the sofa, his seven-percent solution on the dresser beside (a familiar practice when idleness and unemployment got the best of him). Crooked, sighing heavily, and muttering to himself, I had posed for him to join me for a walk. He rose from his position, walked toward me, and at the frame, Holmes had shut the door in my face.

I had known Holmes to wallow from time to time, for the man who had been my colleague and my friend for more than five years had the most severe of lows. But to lash out like that—it was simply uncharacteristic of my comrade. The following morning—as it was customary— I had my coffee, went upstairs to check on him, and discovered his absence.

So perhaps it was a newly acquired mystery he was in pursuit of solving. Then why was I not informed? Was it a completely private affair? Perhaps a governmental inquiry, of which he was bound to secrecy? And could not I, his most confident of friends, be trusted with the case he was involved in?

Mrs. Hudson, who seemed ignorantly cheerful of Holmes' absence—for his peculiarities, I fear, get the worst of the landlady— had stated that she heard soft footsteps in the middle of the night, and rising out of bed to see what was afoot, she peered into his room. His bed empty, his coat removed from his rack, his trilby unseen.

"Surely he's on the track of some crook, only the Lord knows where," Mrs. Hudson dismissed resolutely.

"None that I am aware of."

"Oh, you know the man," kneeling to pick up a clump of dust on the main hall floor. "That Mr. Holmes. Peculiar, peculiar. I wouldn't be surprised if he came in through the door at this very instant."

But he did not. In fact, the next night had passed and still there was no sign of him.

I had left a note to Landlady Hudson that I had gone in search of fifty-percent of the monthly rent, and that I would return no later than two in the morning. I went to the usual spots. Hyde Park; the bars of the West End; the former residence of Ms. Irene Adler of which he was fond of standing about. Still not a clue.

I considered putting an ad out. But what would the papers say? "Consulting Detective Missing." The Newsmen'd all declare the crooks had gotten the best of the smartest man in London. Just think, how many men—some were esteemed and well-liked men—had Holmes sent to prison? But what if he was hot on the trail of some dastardly criminal? Surely then, the lawbreakers would be warned that Sherlock Holmes was in the works, covering every dark corner of London!

And what if in those places I searched for him, he was masked, disguised, obscured from my sight? Could he have been feigning his identity in pursuit of a criminal? I tried to remember those sharp and piercing eyes, his beakish nose, or that square jaw that could be hidden behind a thick beard as I scanned denizens of the late London streets.

It was late, and the lurkers became more prevalent as I hustled back to Baker Street. In the morning I would call the top men of Scotland Yard-- for Gregson, Lestrade, Hopkins, Jones. The men whom my friend had equal disdain and admiration for. In the afternoon, there was some word back—Mrs. Hudson had gathered the telegraphs, responses made almost immediately after my inquires. All on one singular telegraph, typed:

Doctor Watson: Gregson and Hopkins on assignment in Liverpool; Lestrade investigating a series of train robberies in Wales; Jones on vacation Normandy.

The Diogenes Club was my last option. Sherlock's brother, Mycroft, led a quiet life there, and his mysterious connections with the British Government were in one word: ineffable.

I entered the dark, smoky club, and was immediately greeted by the guard at the front door. The old receptionist at the front desk, unable to recognize me as a Diogenerian, hissed a command, and the doorman thundered toward me. As the large man began to coerce me to the door, a larger fellow passed behind, booming silently past the front desk.

"Mycroft!" My voice echoed through the hall of the club, bouncing off its large oak walls.

Mycroft shot a glance and pointed to the sign that read overhead the archway entrance. In gold-paint lettering:

RULE NUMBER ONE:

Absolutely no talking—of ANY nature!

Violators subject to expulsion and fines!

Mycroft sighed. He motioned to a side door, a small recess in the wall that read "Stranger's Room." The door man and the old man merely rolled their eyes and let me pass through.

The door opened, I followed him through a maze of tables and chairs. This room emptied into a series of small doors, seemingly closets for the housekeepers. Pressing one hand on the peculiar brass knob and the other on its frame, the door gave way silently, revealing a small workman's tunnel. It smelled of oil and dampness. Mycroft hesitated before squeezing his outsized frame through the lightless tunnel. Following, I closed the door behind and went forward. I stayed decidedly close to Mycroft until I heard a click, and flame light filtered back into the tunnel.

We were in Mycroft's office. A large office, covered on all sides with large, monolithic chandeliers that lit the room dimly. The desk in the center of the room looked a mess, and I stepped over a multitude of papers and factfiles as I delved.

Mycroft let out a loud, unrestrained huff as he sat behind his desk. He motioned me to take a seat on the only chair in the room, a hard back with iron grips and bars attached to them.

"Now, Dr. Watson, what is it I can do for you? If it is that abominable brother of mine trying to squeeze governmental information through me, I fear I have nothing to say, even to his friends."

I paused briefly, causing him to look at me through the disheveled desk with impatience.

"He is missing."

Mycroft scoffed, "Sherlock…missing?"

"Missing," I replied. "Mycroft, this is a crisis. He has been gone for three days. Sherlock Holmes does not simply disappear without cause."

"And so you say positively there is not a cause?"

"Well, I cannot say anything positively."

"Then perhaps Sherlock has disappeared with a cause."

"Perhaps--and perhaps not! Can't you alert your top men?"

"Absolutely not," Mycroft retorted, glancing at the stack of papers in front of him. "This may be a crisis to you, but it is not enough to declare a state of emergency within my department or any other department, John."

Like his brother, Mycroft studied me top to bottom as he made his slow, decisive inquiries.

"Were his clothes in his apartment?"

"Everything, all but his jacket and trilby missing."

"And his pistol?"

"Still in its case."

"And the state of the apartment—?"

"As it was the day before. Nothing out of place"

"And the windows, were they—?"

"There were no clues in the apartment," I interrupted the agent. My words spewed and sharpened in the office resolutely. "Nothing he said before hinted at his disappearance. He gave no trace of his whereabouts, none. No clues."

"But the clues are there, Watson!" Mycroft warned. "If I know my brother, the clues are there!"