Part 02 – Holmes

Watson ended up falling asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. Despite being totally concerned about Gladstone, which he was indeed, Watson was a man of routines; His body knew that if he missed any precious hours of sleep things would get vicious.

That didn't keep his mind from feeling guilty, though.

The night was shrouded in bad dreams, but the most striking came early in the morning when Watson found himself being chased by a giant Gladstone who intended on eating him with some fava beans and a nice Chianti. The ground was shaking and he was out of breath! Gladstone was a mere foot away–

"Watson!"

Watson sat up abruptly, knocking his head on something hard that let out a scream

"Really? This close to my face this early in the morning?" Watson exclaimed, massaging his forehead.

"Element of surprise, etcetera. Don't tell me you saw that coming." Holmes shrugged it off like he didn't care and began to leave. "We have a letter of dire importance, by the way."

It was probably news of Gladstone, Watson assumed.

He hastily put some clothes on and rushed to the sitting room where Holmes awaited with the letter ready at hand.

DEAR MR. SHERLOCK HOLMES, I come to you at my most desperate time. I work for Mr. Robert Bloom as his butler and a week ago he instructed me on preparing his offer of marriage to a lady close to his heart. I organized a especial lunch for the pair and was handed a sapphire ring to place within the lady's dessert.

Holmes laughed. "Isn't that original, Watson?"

I did as I was told and the day of the proposal arrived. Yesterday, to be precise. However, something terrible came to pass! The lady ate her dessert and found nothing! Mr. Bloom was horribly distressed, for the ring was rather large and impossible to go unnoticed. The baker is a very reliable one and placed the ring in the pastry as directed. We have been robed, Mr. Holmes! I shall surely be sacked if I do not find this ring, please aid me to the best of your ability to find the scoundrel who stole from us.

Yours,

Alphonse Morrow.

"That's absurd," Watson said, rubbing his chin.

"Quite so! Who names their child Alphonse?"

Watson glared menacingly at Holmes, who folded the letter carefully as if he hadn't noticed.

"I do not see how this relates to Gladstone," Watson went on.

"At your first glance, it doesn't. But, you see my dear, dear Watson, we are talking about bakeries and desserts," said Holmes as he paced about the room with his hands behind his back.

"No more fat dog jokes!" Watson cried.

"Oh, please! I'm past that," Holmes said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "No, this is a fat Watson joke, for I wish you to tell me how close is this bakery from our home."

Watson snatched the letter off Holmes' hand. The butler had added a footnote with the name of the hired bakery. Watson ruefully realized he knew where it was located.

"It's close," he said sourly. "Two blocks at the most."

"Marvelous! We are off!"

St. Clair Bakery was a friendly little shop with a french feel to it with a glass window up front that displayed some of the bakery's specialties. Watson had been there more times than he would have liked to admit to.

"Have you been here before?" Holmes asked suddenly when they were approaching the shop.

"Yes."

"How many?" he inquired, gently, as to hide his mischievous intentions.

Watson glared. "Plenty, if that's what you want to hear," he said. "You can go in, I will wait out here."

"Nonsense!"

Holmes gallantly opened the door and waved for his friend to come inside. Watson squinted and walked in with some resistance.

"Dr. Watson!" exclaimed a stout man behind the counter. "How good it is to see you, doctor. The usual for you, doctor?"

Holmes let out a throaty laugh and Watson very carefully – but not at all gently – rested the tip of his cane on his friend's foot, who had to stifle a cry.

"It's good to see you too, Mr. St Clair. Unfortunately, today we are here on business," Watson said, leaning on the counter-top.

"Not bad news, I hope!" the shopkeeper exclaimed, with a sideways glance at Holmes.

"With bad news," Watson conceded. "This is my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Our dog, Gladstone, has disappeared."

Mr. St Clair raised an eyebrow and nodded, as if unsure what emotion to convey. "Oh," he said.

"He's an English Bulldog, caramel and cream colored, small," Watson explained.

"Well, I wouldn't say 'small' is a very suitable adjective, Watson," Holmes interjected as he paced about the bakery staring at the displayed confections. "Oh, look, Watson! Look at these chocolate tarts. They look delicious."

"Why," exclaimed the shopkeeper. "Those are Dr. Watson's favorites if I'm not mistaken. He always orders a batch of those when he comes around. And some camomile tea, is it not, doctor?"

Holmes turned to his friend with a sly grin. "Is it not, my dear Watson?"

"Yes," Watson answered stiffly with a bite to his lower lip. He was being stalked, then. "It is so."

Holmes spun on his heels to stare back at the shopkeeper.

"But this is not at all why we are here, my good man. We need to know what you sold to a Mr. Morrow yesterday morning," Holmes explained. "He is the butler of Mr. Bloom and he was preparing a special lunch for his employer."

Mr. St Clair looked obviously flustered as he pointed to a trey in his glass and wood counter.

"Éclairs, sir, he ordered dark chocolate éclairs," he said.

Watson stared slightly shocked at Holmes.

"Those are Gladstone's favorites," he said with a tinge of sadness in his voice.

"I know, I know," Holmes answered before returning his attention to the shopkeeper.

"Mr. Holmes, this is very awkward to me, you'll understand, sir. But you're not the first to come around today asking about éclairs," Mr. St Clair said. "I had at least five other gentlemen asking around. All ordering dark chocolate éclairs, but none of them interested in my fresh batch, they wanted ones from yesterday's! This got me very concerned, for I knew what I put in Mr. Morrow's éclairs. I began to wonder whether something had gone terribly wrong with the proposal!"

"Then you did hand the éclairs directly to Mr. Morrow?" Holmes insisted, with Watson close at his shoulder staring in a very distressed manner.

"Yes I did, sir!"

"And did anyone else know about the contents of the éclair?"

"Only my pupil," he said decidedly. "But he's not – he's not in today!"

The shopkeeper's expression suddenly changed and he looked just about ready to faint.

Holmes looked back at Watson with a smile. "I have formed my conclusions."

"But how did all of this come to pass, Holmes? It's unfathomable!"

"Not quite. It so happens Gladstone, who is always ready for a good meal, takes to the streets when searching for food every now and again," explained Holmes.

"Or when he's running from you!" Watson interjected.

"Impossible. Gladstone is the only one in that house to realize the importance of our experiments," he scrutinized. "Anyhow. On that day he went out and smelled his favorite pastry! His instinct was to attack, only he didn't know that the man carrying the sweets had already stolen them from the shop he worked at. Upon seeing Gladstone eat the éclair containing the ring, the man sweeps him away to his hide out."

"Which just so happens to be on a street exactly parallel to ours!" Watson concluded, finally experiencing the delightful feeling of a cleared up case.

"Allow me to describe how this is going to go," Holmes said as they walked together to the pupil's house

"Suit yourself." Watson shrugged. All he cared about now was taking his Gladstone home, no matter the cost.

We are going to arrive in front of the man's house. He lives on the second floor, but we will be denied entrance right away; He will have forbidden visitors. We will shout for him to come down and be a man, but he will appears dangling Gladstone on the open window. You will cry in despair, but I will comfort you with a manly, friendly hug.

"Damn you! Let our dog go, you scoundrel, excuse of a man!" I shall shout.

"What shall we do?" you will cry in a distressed voice.

Upon hearing Gladstone's whine coming from inside the building, I shall candidate myself to climb up there and rescue him. You will try to stop me, claiming it is just too dangerous. I, however, live for the danger and will grasp your shoulders and tell you so. You will, with a single heartfelt tear and a heavy heart, bid me farewell.

"Your friendship is my world!" you will cry.

I will then climb to the second floor and beat the man to a pulp. He, however, had time to active a destructive bomb.

There will be an explosion! Believing me dead you will fall to your knees and cry.

Just then, I come out the front door– with Gladstone in my arms and the ring safe in my pocket!

"Oh, Holmes!" you will cry in high pitched stupor, running to me. "Thank Heavens you are safe!"

"And that," Holmes said, with his hands in his pocket and a puffed chest, "Is how it will happen."

"Why must I cry so much?" Watson inquired, staring at Holmes perplexedly.

"Because you're the girl, of course."

He scoffed and prepared his insults when Holmes flung his arm in front of Watson and kept him from taking another step.

"Watson, we're here," he whispered, though they were in the middle of a crowded street with heavy traffic.

"I can see that. What do we do now?" Watson asked.

"We put our previously decided plan to work!" Holmes declared. "Prepare yourself!"

As farfetched as Holmes' plan had seemed before, Watson couldn't help catching one final deep breath before plunging himself into action. A feeling of impending danger caught him unprepared, but he was quick to ready himself to do whatever he must to have his dog back.

Watson turned to Holmes to inspect what their first move would actually be and he found his friend looking very strange. Whenever Holmes concluded a case he was always at his most concentrated, yet Watson had never seen him look so totally angry. His face was nearly contorted with apprehension and he seemed ready to strike.

"H-Holmes?" Watson stuttered.

Holmes didn't even listen, his hand was already inside his coat, pulling out a pistol.

He had remembered to bring his pistol! That was... unprecedented.

The front door of the house suddenly opened and a man walked out. To their surprise he had an overweight English Bulldog in his arms. The man looked as positively foul as Watson had pictured him in his mind, but not for the same reasons, such as intrinsic evilness and such. He was carrying Gladstone way ahead of himself, as if in disgust.

"Gladstone!" Watson cried, which meant Holmes was partially right in his description of how things would go.

Holmes charged ahead of Watson and went to the man, pistol in hand and cocked.

"It's over. Hand over the dog and prepare yourself to be punished by the law! I have called for the police and they are on their way," Holmes announced in a ferocious manner that was unlike anything Watson had ever seen.

"Go ahead!" the man exclaimed, trusting Gladstone in Holmes' arms. "You take this sack of gas! Lock me up, lock me up tight and good but never let that thing in my presence again! He chewed the legs of my chairs, peed on my chaise longue–"

Holmes rolled his eyes.

"My Gladstone isn't that bad," Watson said with shaky certainty in his voice, taking the dog from Holmes. "Is he?"

"He defecated in my hat!" the man screamed.

Holmes turned hastily to Watson and nodded. "Yes, the dog can be pretty bad," he said, taking a step back to put a hand on Watson's shoulder. "But he's our dog. And despite all his flaws, you seem to love him. That's why he's such a better dog when around you, Watson."

Watson had ran out of words at the most important moment of their quest, but it was all right. They had retired words for this sort of thing a long time ago.

Watson simply smiled.

The police arrived shortly and Holmes took that opportunity to enter the thief's house in search of the ring. He clearly already knew where to find it, so it took only a moment to pick a hat out of the man's closet and trust it to the Inspector's care.

"Jesus Christ, what is that smell?" the random Inspector asked, before taking a good look at what he was holding. When he finally saw the poo, he had to use all his might to keep from vomiting.

"You may search that when you've got the time, Inspector. The ring is somewhere in– there," Holmes explained with a grin and a wave towards the hat. "Enjoy."

Watson had been watching the whole ordeal a few feet away with Gladstone safe in his arms and getting petted every which way.

"Finally happy, are we?" Holmes asked as he walked towards the two of them, beaming. "I was very worried about you."

Watson laughed and began to answer: "I suppose–"

"Who's a good, fat dog? Huh?" Holmes said, grabbing Gladstone by his flabby cheeks and squeezing. "My little poop machine! You sure taught that evil man a lesson, didn't you? I was so worried!" Watson stood and stared, speechless. Holmes added in a high pitched, cutesy voice: "Didn't you?"

Watson looked the other way.

Think of a nice things, John, think of the sea and mountains and bunny rabbits, he thought to himself.

"You were right about one thing, Holmes," Watson said in a strained voice, tightening his grip on Gladstone. "I think we should go home before I destroy my back."

Holmes let go of Gladstone, his fingers covered in drool which he promptly cleaned off on the back of Watson's jacket.

"Oh, God! That's a brand new jacket!"

"It's just a little dog spit, Watson, don't be such a girl!" Holmes mocked with one final pat of Gladstone's head. Returning to baby-talk mode, he added: "Let's take my baby home!"

"Our baby! I mean– dog!" Watson interjected. "Now let's go before your start cooing in public and we never get into Good Society again!"

Holmes laughed. "We are not in any Society."

"And whose fault is that, now?" Watson asked.

"I've no idea," Holmes answered sincerely.