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Chapter One - The Morning at 221B
It was mid morning in London and a decidedly average morning at that. Doctor John Watson sat, as was his custom and the custom of most gentlemen, with a newspaper, engrossed in current affairs. Although never one to shy away from excitement and adventure, the doctor had to admit that he enjoyed these calm relaxing moments and was heartened by the recent lack of crimes; a rarity in these dark and depressing times. The light smile that graced his lips gave him a tranquil, peaceful expression. Nothing but contentment.
Yet as he looked over his morning paper at his companion sitting across from him the smile faltered. It was no secret to Watson that, while he himself took pleasure in these quiet periods, the tedium of languishing idle at home was enough to drive his enigmatic friend to madness. From the soft, melancholy expression on his face right at that moment, Watson reasoned that madness was not far away.
The paper forgotten, the doctor continued to covertly watch his friend. Watson had to admit that, for a man in his mid thirties his friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, was aging better than he had expected. Although by no means youthful in appearance he had a certain vitality about him that for all his medical training, Watson could not explain. His skin was smooth, if a little too pale for the doctor's liking and he had keen sharp eyes that shone brightly, especially when in hot pursuit of some master criminal. Holmes's body was lean and agile and, despite his abuse of it he had great strength and stamina, able to spring into action at any moment.
Yet the figure sitting opposite him at that moment was a mere ghost of his keen and athletic companion. As far from the champion boxer that he was as any victim of the infectious opium dens dotted around London. He sat hunched up in his armchair, his large feet resting on the seat and his knees tucked under his chin. Sharp and intelligent eyes looked dull and expressionless. No, today Mr Sherlock Holmes looked a great deal older than thirty four.
He hadn't moved for a good long while, and Watson had begun to suspect the work of the cocaine bottle.
At times like this his friend was prone to mood swings ranging from bouts of extreme melancholy to fits of childish temper. It was also at times like this that Watson had learned (the hard way) to remain silent. Holmes would not appreciate idle small talk.
So, feeling it was wise to leave Holmes to his bad mood, Watson went back to his paper, only to be startled when Holmes let out a sigh and stood suddenly, the armchair creaking violently as he hoisted his weight off it.
"Problems, Holmes?" Watson asked, as he decided to try his luck with conversation. Holmes turned towards him sharply but did not speak immediately. Contemplating his next words.
"I have begun to despair of the criminals in London," he said, that earlier sigh still lingering in his voice, making an unattractive whining sound. He took his pipe off the mantelpiece and filled it with tobacco.
Watson was inclined to agree with him, although for completely different reasons he suspected. For most, crime was a constant reminder of the weakness and ill nature of mankind. For Sherlock Holmes, it was a game and one he played with relish.
" I can see why an intelligent man would turn to crime," Holmes added in an almost offhand manner as he fell back into his seat and slumped down low, his long legs stretched out before him.
"Holmes!" Watson said indignantly, "that's an awful thing to say."
Watson's indignation raised a faint smile from Holmes.
"Calm yourself, Watson," Holmes replied soothingly, exercising his uncanny knack of making even the most patronising of pacifications sound comforting. "I was merely suggesting," he continued, smoke drifting out of his mouth and swirling through the still air, "that a man of intellect with no outlet for his talents must feel stifled…" He paused. Watson could see an increasingly familiar look of sadness creep over Holmes's features. "As I feel stifled."
Watson was at a loss for words, knowing that whatever pearls of wisdom he had to give would be of no comfort. This was a man tortured by his own intellect, an intellect that demands satisfaction and if it does not receive it then it plunges its owner into that black endless pit known as depression. As much as Watson admired Holmes, he could say honestly that he did not envy him one bit.
Silence passed for a few moments, Holmes wallowing quietly in his own self pity while he drew on his favourite pipe, filling the air with its noxious fumes. Watson could only look on and pray for an end to his companion's black mood, even if it meant shattering the tranquil peace he had found for himself.
"We have a visitor," Holmes said randomly, his face never changing and his position in his chair never moving. Watson looked blankly at him, neither hearing nor seeing any evidence of a guest.
Yet sure enough the faint sound of the doorbell floated up the stairs to the room they were in and a few seconds later Mrs Hudson entered, a flicker of horror creeping onto her face as she surveyed the room, noting the strewn about newspapers and ash on the dark carpet. She was a woman of great patience and, despite her obvious age, youthful spirit. Her features were kind and gentle even when she was sternly talking down to Holmes, who was by far her most troublesome and her most exciting tenant. She would never let him know, but her fondness for Mr Sherlock Holmes was immense, and she was happy to put up with disorder and erratic moods. So long as he always paid the rent.
"You have a visitor Mr Holmes," she announced in that famous stern tone signalling her disapproval, probably with the state of the room or the smell of noxious tobacco, "a gentleman and a lady, Captain and Mrs Harris."
"The day improves, Watson," Holmes announced drawing on the remains of the burning tobacco.
"If you ask me," Mrs Hudson chipped in, not caring that nobody had asked her, "I'd say they'd had a proper fright." She turned then to Watson, the more understanding of the two men and also a medical man, and continued. "She's as white as a sheet and she's so thin and frail, and he looks like a broken man..."
She had more to say but was cut short by Holmes who had suddenly risen from his chair and dropped his pipe noisily back onto the mantelpiece.
"Well show her in Mrs Hudson, show her in," he said with more impatience than the elderly landlady deserved. It earned him a disapproving glare from her but she left obediently to fetch the mysterious visitors.
In a whirl of clothing and warm water Holmes changed from the gaunt thin depressive figure he had been all morning, to the sharp intelligent gentlemen consulting detective. There was in his face a softer, albeit shallow geniality, which he often adopted when greeting clients. It was quite remarkable, this chameleon-like ability and no matter how many times Watson saw it he was always surprised.
A few seconds later the door opened and in stepped a man, tall with thick dark hair that was swept back from his face. He was slightly tanned and his face was smooth and clean shaven save for a small moustache that Watson guessed was a fairly recent addition to his face. A lot of military men who reached command positions at an early age, grew moustaches to give them a more mature appearance.
"Captain Harris," Holmes greeted gently.
As Mrs Harris stepped over the threshold she looked in alarm at the state of the floor, which was still covered in all of the morning's newspapers. Watson looked at her apologetically and began to scoop them up, while Holmes glared at him.
"Mrs Harris," Holmes continued, "Please take a seat, for I observe that you have had a trying time recently."
As she sat on the edge of the settee Watson noted that her cheeks, which should have been rosy and plump at her age and on such a day, were sunken and ashen. Her eyes seemed dark and red rimmed from crying and her expression was rather distant. Although she was dishevelled it was clear that she had money as her clothes were made from the finest material, trimmed with expensive lace and of the style that only the most well to do and fashionable women wore. 'How's that for deduction, Mr Sherlock Holmes?' he thought to himself.
"Oh," she said with a sob lingering in the back of her throat, "I have, Mr Holmes, very much so." And the sob broke free and soon a few stray tears escaped and rolled down her pale cheeks. Holmes sat and leaned forward in his chair.
"Then, Mrs Harris, tell me your troubles and I will see how I can help you," Holmes said in his softest voice and the calming effect was almost instantaneous. Watson was always surprised by his cold, calculating companion's capacity for kindness and remained in awe of his skill for putting people at their ease. Sometimes Watson wondered what success Holmes would have as a suitor and tried to picture how he would set about romancing a young lady. The thought unnerved him so he chose not to contemplate it anymore.
"Mr Holmes," Captain Harris spoke up, sitting next to his wife on the settee, "I have been away at sea for the past five months and have been separated from my family. Little did I know that when I returned home, I would be greeted by such a tragedy."
"Please," Holmes said, trying to remain patient with the grief stricken couple but failing miserably, "state your problem."
"Well," Mrs Harris spoke up, her voice still thick from holding back tears, "it all began last month."