Chapter Two – Something rotten in Denmark
I awoke the next morning with a dreadful throbbing in my neck since I had not heeded my own advice regarding not falling asleep in an armchair. The sun was up and pale trickles of sunlight seeped through our windows, forcing me to squint as I dared to open my eyes.
Watson was already up, or at least had been at some point during the night. I could tell since a warming blanket rested upon my figure -Damn the man twice over for giving me mental images of him leaning over me to place the blanket over my shoulders- and as I rubbed the back of my neck to ease the tension in my muscles I glanced at the clock to confirm my already established suspicion; it was almost past noon. I confess I was somewhat irked by the fact that I had not been roused by my companion when he must have walked about in the sitting room. An underestimation of my own exhaustion from last night must have been made.
I had thought my stamina, and my own awareness of my stamina for that matter, had been in better shape than that. Such blunders were not to be tolerated, my body must keep up with my mind or else it is useless.
"Ah, you are finally awake. Good morning, Holmes," said a chirpy voice from somewhere to my right.
Immediately I lost my train of thought; a damned distraction is what he is.
I did not reply to my companion's lively greeting, I merely tugged the blanket closer to my body and tried to bury myself in the armchair.
My frame of mind in the morning was somewhat poisonous I knew; Watson had been kind enough to point this out to me. Several times.
Watson chose this time to walk into my line of view with a spry stance that told me that he had been up for some time; there were no lingering traces of sleep over his figure. He had been out of the flat too, there was a thin layer of dust on the lower part of the man's trousers and a slight redness in his palms informed me that he had been carrying something heavy. The rigidity of Watson's shoulder confirmed my deduction; the weighty burden had upset his war injury.
"Shopping, Watson?" I murmured as I closed my eyes once again, the world was still too bright for my liking.
"No, I just picked up a few things." I could practically hear the mischievous smile; the man was up to something.
"What things?" I asked, maybe with a hint of suspicion.
"Ordinary things."
The innocence in his voice would make a five year old envious. But I persisted, a miniature smirk had somehow found it's was to my lips.
"How ordinary?"
"Shall I answer on a scale from one to five or should we call in an expert on the matter?"
"Possibly. Or you could just tell me what these mysterious items are and I will be able to classify them myself."
"I could, but that would take all the fun away, won't it?"
My smirk evolved into a smile and I defied the sunlight by opening my eyes to look at my companion. He was sitting down by the table now, looking at me with eyes brighter than the sun.
Damn the man.
We would have continued our verbal sparring match if the door to our own rooms hadn't been almost broken off its hinges by a wiry young man who was, something not even a Yarder could miss, in great distress.
I sat up straight instantly, all fatigue gone in a flash. I had been without a case for far too long and in its absence my mind frayed to far more painful quarters. Last night was an excellent example of that. I needed a distraction and this man looked ready enough to give me one.
"Are you Mr. Sherlock Holmes?" he asked with wild eyes, not bothering with polite greetings.
Thank God for that.
His accent was most peculiar; he was a Dane if I was not entirely mistaken.
"I am Sherlock Holmes, yes." I replied as I tossed the blanket aside. Maybe a tad dramatically but I paid it no mind at the time.
"Please, you must come right away. There is no time to be lost, there is a cab waiting outside ready to take us where we need to go. My father has money, you will be richly rewarded but only if you come straight away."
As he said this, our strange visitor wrung his hands anxiously and his eyes darted from me, to Watson, to the floor, back to me and then to the window. Whatever this young man had experienced, it had upset him terribly.
I did not like being kept in the dark, accepting a case with no information beforehand. But I was hardly short on information from this lad.
His trousers were wet, but he did not smell of salt water. It was obvious that he have been out fishing very recently; there were fish scales on his shirt and under his fingernails. And since there are no lakes in London to my knowledge, the man must have traveled here from the countryside. There were also slight traces of watered down blood on his sleeves. My guess was that he had found something far more interesting than fish in the water. Probably a body or something equally bizarre, or else he would not have come to me. I would lie if I did not confess myself intrigued. And, as pointed out before, I really needed a case. But instead of answering right away, I turned to Watson.
"Watson, I am aware I promised you there would be no gallivanting today but I'm afraid fate has other plans. This man seems to be in need of some unofficial support and I am inclined to accept his plead. Will you come with me?"
"Of course I will."
Of course he would. If I had asked him to follow me to China to battle an evil warlord Watson's only question would be when the train would depart. The man's thirst for adventure and his trust in me are ostensibly bottomless, a combination that will surely harm him in one way or another eventually. I would never place Watson in harm's way intentionally, I would rather take poison, but this does not keep me from inviting him to come with me on my cases despite the fact that I know they can be, and often are, treacherous. We have been in dire situations enough times for me to recognize how truly lucky we both have been over the years.
So why do I take Watson with me on my cases? The answer is simple.
I am a selfish man and I want him by my side, I cannot imagine working -or living for that matter- without him. I confess I don't know if it is my audacious profession that keeps Watson's appreciation of me intact but I am not willing to risk losing him if it is indeed so.
I turned to my client once again.
"Well then. Let's be off!"
Our new client had taken a cab of his own and after having told our own driver to follow the man's cab, I sat back down with Watson by my side.
Blissful silence reigned over the little space we shared. I love Watson for an infinite number of reasons and one of them is his grand gift of silence; when nothing needs to be said, he keeps silent. A very rare talent that I appreciate immeasurably, there are few things that I loathe more than mindless prattle. Another reason why I love him is his voice, ironically enough. It is an exquisite voice and if I had been in a poetic mood I would describe it as similar to the sound of waves; amazingly soothing and soft but always with a calm authority that tells of great strength and power lying just below the surface. I often let him read my correspondence out loud to me, as to give me an excuse to hear him speak. I am fully aware of how pitiable that sounds but that's life when you don't own your own heart.
We rode through London's busy streets; I didn't bother looking out the window since I knew exactly where we were anyway. I snatched my cigarette case from my pocket and took out two cigarettes, offering one to Watson who accepted. I made sure there was no contact this time. I was distracted enough already.
And apparently, I wasn't the only one who was distracted. Watson looked out the small window with distant eyes and the cigarette I had just given him was resting between his finely formed fingers, unlit.
"Is anything the matter?" I asked at length.
He looked up at me, a bit startled as if snapped out of a daze. He hesitated before answering me, which surprised me.
"No, nothing. Just that I would have liked to have gotten some more information about our client before rushing to his aid. He did not even give us a name."
"You never have a problem when I drag you out to places you have never been to before."
"No, but that is different, I trust you."
He was foolish to trust me but I would lie if said his faith didn't mean a great deal to me. A very great deal.
"Well, to put your mind at ease, I can tell you with certainty that our client is a Dane and has recently moved here. He lives on a large estate outside of London with his family. He does not have an occupation but he is highly educated. He is also a painter and a fisherman."
Watson smiled and tilted his head a little at me, an expression I had cataloged years ago and grown very fond of.
"And what trifling matters helped you form this theory? Apart from the fact that he was from the North, even I could pick up on that accent."
"The fact that he has recently moved here is evident from his clothing. They were plainly not manufactured here so they must be from his birthplace. The lad is still young, still growing. If he can still fit into his clothes from Denmark he can't have been here very long. Yet, he speaks very good English, and his attire is of the highest quality. Rich family then, and as any affluent family living outside of London the estate is sure to reflect the wealth. They most likely have a lake on the premises to but of that I cannot be certain. Regarding the unemployment and the man's hobbies, simplicity itself. The thin mark on his right index finger from the fishing line shows me that he uses his rod regularly. Also there were fish scales on his person when he came to us today. In addition, the small stains of acrylic paint points towards a painter as well. But that young man doesn't strike me as the type of fellow who could retain two extensive hobbies while also holding down any sort of occupation," I explained, relishing the expression on Watson's face as I did so.
"Remarkable, as always. Why do you think we have been called to his house then?"
"I have theories, but only that, nothing conclusive. I need facts, which I will hopefully receive when we reach our goal. In due time, I trust, all will be revealed."