TWO COGS

It was with some trepidation that I furnished my good friend and loyal companion with a new watch, so to speak. In fact, relations between us had been cool to say the least, ever since his departure from Baker Street. And yet it seemed only right to acknowledge, in some way, his years of unfailing service prior to his infatuation and seduction.

It was clear from his test of my deduction skills that the watch, belonging to his late brother, meant a great deal to him. Therefore when it stopped working he kept it for several months regardless. Logic and sentiment seemed rather at odds in this situation, and in the interests of tact I refrained from mentioning the fact that he turned up late for almost everything. This presented difficulties when I required him to assist me on cases, as I had to waste time and brain energy on organisation, which would usually be Watson's forte.

Therefore I hit upon an ingenious solution, if I say so myself. Mycroft put me in touch with a friend named Bernard Pick; the best watchmaker in London. It was somewhat immoral but to obtain the watch without Watson's permission I was compelled to burgle his house while he slept. I have a toolbox in which I have a universal key and some cork-soled shoes. In this way I crept up to his front door, quietly unlocked it and went in. The fire was still glowing in the hearth, and there was a cooling mug of cocoa on Mary's desk. However, Watson's dressing gown, which hangs on the bathroom door during the day, was not there, indicating that he and Mary had retired. Watson's coat was draped over the back of his desk chair. I felt in the pocket and pulled out the watch. Its hands read seven thirty-five, which they had done for the past four months.

I slipped the watch into my pocket, and at nine O'clock the next morning, I found myself standing on the doorstep of Bernard Pick's shop. It was obvious what a popular watchmaker he was, by the worn state of the front step and the extreme smoothness of the bell rope. Bernard himself came to the door. He was a near-sighted man, and although he appeared to be unsteady on his feet, his hands were as still and precise as glass.

"Ah Mr Holmes – the younger Mr Holmes!" he greeted me. I returned his greetings and stepped inside.

The shop looked more like a living room. There was a sheepskin rug in front of a hearth, and on the rug lay an elderly basset-hound who had been born and bred in London, judging by the almost complete wearing down of its claws. Against one wall there sat a large wooden table, upon which hundreds of tools and watch pieces lay.

I walked round the room, examining curiously. "You are a man of habits," I commented, seeing the groove in the wall which showed the furniture and its positioning had remained the same for years. "You married, but your wife has died and you have not re-married, as I can see from your wedding ring that remains on your finger, coupled with the lock on your wife's desk, which has gathered several years' worth of undisturbed dust.

"It's true what they say about you then," said Bernard Pick, with a note of distrust in his voice. "Pray, what can I do to assist you?"

"I have a watch here belonging to a dear friend," I told him, producing Watson's watch for him to see. "It stopped working and I wish to have it restored for him."

Bernard Pick took a tool from his table and prised open the back of the watch. "Note the pawnbroker's numbers on the back, for they tell the story of his brother's changing fortunes over the years," I said. I then pointed to the grooves and scratches on the casing of the watch and explained their significance.

"This is a hallowed watch, my friend. I would ask that you preserve its state as best you can in the mending process," I said.

"I can only do my best," murmured Bernard Pick.

"But it is mendable?"

"Oh yes," he assured me. "These two cogs," he pointed, "…Through time and stress, appear to have bent each other out of shape, thus jamming the works."

"Then it is simple enough to fix without significant alteration?"

"Yes," he said. And with that he took a miniature pair of pliers and prised out the offending cogs. "We won't even need to replace them," he said. "All we need to do is this," and before I could protest he gave each cog a quick yet highly precise tweak. "There!" he exclaimed. "That should sort the blighters!" Within seconds the cogs were screwed back into place and immediately the clock began ticking. "All we must do now is ajust the time!" He glanced at his own clock – a mahogany-framed, roman-numeraled specimen that had a place on the wall over the mantelpiece, and in an instant he had adjusted the hands of Watson's watch to match.

"Excellent," I ejaculated.

"Easy," he retaliated.

"How much do I owe you?" I enquired.

"For you Mr Holmes," he replied, "Nothing. It has been a pleasure meeting you in person after hearing so much about you from your brother."

"Oh I am sure he exaggerates greatly," I murmured.

"He said you were stubborn, unfeeling, obsessive and competitive."

"In that case he understates!" I said, laughing."

"He also called you a good and loyal friend."

"I hope so," I replied, as Bernard Pick showed me out the door.

On Christmas day I produced the watch for Watson. "I thought this would never work again!" he exclaimed.

"Two cogs," I said, "Had jammed, stoppering the system. A friend of mine simply re-shaped them so that they could work together once more. Elementary, he might say. See it as a Christmas gift."

"Well, it is a wonderful gift indeed," Watson said, beaming down at the watch. "I would never part with it, even if it never worked again, but I am glad there are a few years of life left in it yet." And with that he picked up his glass to propose a toast:

"To two cogs!"