Unusually, Sherlock Holmes was still in his dressing gown, eating breakfast, that rainy March morning in 1890. The usual sounds of the street vendors and charwomen had subsided somewhat, and the detective's keen hearing was not unduly taxed, therefore, by the sound of a carriage at the entrance to 221 Baker Street.
"If I am not mistaken, Watson," said Homes between bites of his now-cold toast, "those leaden footsteps upon the stair belong to our old friend Inspector Lestrade."
And indeed, introduced as such by Mrs Hudson the landlady, the soaked Scotland Yard sleuth stepped into the room.
"Mr Holmes, I see am interrupting your breakfast," he said, by way of greeting.
"Your keen powers of observation have not diminished a jot since we saw you last, my dear Lestrade," smirked Holmes. "I am indeed indulging my Bohemian habits and irritating my long-suffering landlady by prolonging this repast to an hour when most have long since begun at their jobs. Am I mistaken in understanding that your presence here has something to do with your work, Lestrade?"
"You are not mistaken, Mr Holmes," admitted Lestrade.
"Well, then, Inspector, you had better be seated and wait until I have adequately prepared myself to assist you in your latest predicament!" exclaimed Holmes. Sweeping his hair back from his forehead and wrapping his robe around him more tightly, he briskly abandoned the breakfast-table, and strode purposefully toward his own room. Yet he was stopped in his tracks by the Inspector's next words:
"You may do as you wish, Mr Holmes, and take your time in doing it, for it is not you I have come to consult. I wish to see Dr Watson about a medical matter."
Holmes uttered an indistinct, but discernibly indignant syllable and retreated, while Watson - who had up to that point been happily ensconced in the cricket page of the morning edition of The Times - looked up, astonished. "Me?" he asked. "Could you not have waited to come to my surgery during regular hours, Lestrade?"
"Oh no, Doctor. This is not a personal matter. I would like to have your professional opinion in a little murder case the Yard is investigating."
"Surely, 'little murders' are my area of expertise?" cajoled Holmes, emerging fully-dressed back into the sitting room. "In fact, I like to flatter myself that even large murders enter under my jurisdiction occasionally. See here, Lestrade, if this is about the Fanshawe case—" Holmes poked a headline on the front page of Watson's discarded newspaper with his long, tobacco-stained finger.
Lestrade fixed Holmes with a look that was full of disdain. "The Yard does not need you to find us our suspect this time, Mr Holmes. Instead, we need Dr Watson to recover her to us."
"Recover?" repeated the doctor.
"Our own consulting physician suspects that it is a case of amnesia brought on by hysteria. But we would value your opinion," replied Lestrade.
"But I have very little experience in matters of the mind," protested Watson. "I was trained as an army surgeon! If it was a matter of extracting a bullet, or amputating a limb, then I would be your man!"
"Come, come, Watson, you must see sense through your usual modesty. It is clear that you possess certain skills with which the other members of the Royal College are not blessed," observed Holmes, who was leaning against the fireplace, his arms folded across his chest. "Your military training makes you sympathetic to the procedures and organization of the police, and your gentle manner can calm the victims of a crisis."
"Precisely," assented Lestrade, without looking at Holmes. "So you will help us, doctor?"
Flattered thus, Watson had no choice but to gracefully accept the invitation.