From Mrs. Pencil: An old client asks Holmes for help.


Sherlock lay on his stomach watching a beetle crawl across his floor. It was the first bug he'd seen since the winter chill hit (excepting, of course, the spiders that lurked in the corners of their house—spiders didn't seem to care a whit about seasons).

He was nine years old, and home for the Christmas holiday.

Mostly, though, he was bored.

Footsteps in the hall caught his interest and he lifted his head.

"I'm going to tea at Mrs. Parkinson's," Mother said, peering through his door. "Would you like to come, Sherlock?"

"No, thank you." He sat up. "I'd rather stay here."

He was not bored enough to endure Mrs. Parkinson pinching his cheeks.

"Very well. I'll see you in a little while. That new book is on your desk." Mother stopped in long enough to kiss his head, then vanished out into the neighborhood.

Sherlock sighed.

Just as he mustered the motivation to open up the new book, someone knocked at the door.

He jumped up.

"I'll answer it!" He called. The housekeeper didn't respond. Dashing down the stairs, Sherlock stopped in front of the looming front door.

The knock came again and he jumped.

Straining, he pulled the door open and peeked out.

His eyes widened.

"Amelia?"
"Sherlock!"

She pushed into the house and proceeded to hug him. She smelled like tea and flowers. He gave her one quick pat on the back, then snaked out of her grasp.

Her red hair framed an equally red nose—but not just from the cold. Her damp eyes suggested she'd been crying.

His gaze narrowed. "What's the matter?"

Straightening, Amelia sniffled. "It's Captain. He went missing yesterday and we can't find him anywhere."

Sherlock frowned. "But it's so cold. Surely he wouldn't want to stay out-of-doors."

"I know." Pushing her curls away from her face, Amelia reached for his sleeve. "Do help me look for him, Sherlock. You can find him."

A pang shot through his chest and he tugged his sleeve away. "I don't think your brothers would want my help."

"They don't have to know," she insisted. "They're dreadful sometimes, but I know you're not bad. You're the smartest boy I know. Please?"

The image of Captain's fluffy ears and soft brown eyes floated before his mind.

Amelia watched him hopefully, biting one lip.

From the kitchens, the housekeeper called, "Sherlock, who is it?"

"Just… a friend, Nanny! I'm going out."

"Bundle up first!"

Amelia grabbed his hand again, her face lighting up. "So you'll help?"

A small smile crept onto Sherlock's face. "I'll help. And I know just where we ought to start."

Many years later.

I had just settled in for a spot of reading when a knock sounded from below.

"Watson, could you answer that?" Holmes called.

Rising stiffly, I suppressed a sigh. The Detective was, undoubtedly, in the midst of a very sensitive and important bit of work. (That, or he couldn't be bothered to speak with anyone at the present moment.)

"Alright, then," I replied. Smells of cinnamon still hung on the air, leftover from another of Mrs. Hudson's baking spectaculars. If there was one thing our dear housekeeper cherished, it was the Christmas season, with all the confections and pastries it implied.

Another knock broke the evening's quiet. I hurried to the door and swung it open, pulling my dressing gown tighter against the chill.

The streetlights illuminated the pale, drawn face of a woman.

My eyes widened and I straightened at once. "Madam, I apologize for keeping you out in the cold. Please, come in."

"It's quite alright." She wore a dark green overcoat, her hands tucked into the pockets. Stepping inside, she looked upstairs uncertainly. "This is the residence of Sherlock Holmes?"

"It is," I confirmed. Closing the door, I glanced down and my cheeks reddened. "I beg your pardon, I'll just step upstairs and change."

She shook her head. "That won't be necessary. I'm in a bit of a hurry, you see. Could I speak with Sherlock?"

My eyebrows rose at the familiar address. "Of course. Excuse me."

(Under normal circumstances, I would have shouted up the stairs for him to come down. But in such company it seemed impolite.)

Halfway up the steps, I paused. "I'm sorry, my name is John Watson. Might I ask your name?"

"Amelia," she said, her hands now clasped together. "Amelia Pembrooke."

"Thank you."

I burst into Holmes's office. He dropped a glass bottle and dove to catch it. Scowling, he rose and set it on the table. "What is it, man?"

"We have a client," I said quickly. "Perhaps you know her?"

"I know a great many people, Watson." Dusting himself off, he straightened. "Who is she?"

"Her name is Amelia Pembrooke. Do you—"
I broke off at his expression, a mix of puzzlement and surprise. He swept past me without a word and met the woman in the sitting room.

"Sherlock!" She rose when he entered and reached for his hand. "Oh, I'm so glad to see you."

Holmes nodded. "It has been quite some time. What brings you all the way to Baker Street?"

Tears rose in Amelia's eyes. "My daughter, Elizabeth. She's been missing for four days, no one can find her anywhere. I…" She swallowed hard. "I thought that if anyone could help, it would be you."

I stood as a silent onlooker. Holmes's expression grew soft and grave all at the same time. He nodded again, this time firmly. "Of course. Who has been conducting the investigation?"

Mrs. Pembrooke gave details and answered questions, penning down her address for Holmes to contact her. He even offered her tea, but she simply embraced him and left as quickly as she'd come.

Holmes and I were left in the sitting room alone.

"Who is she?" I asked, curious.

His gaze flicked to me, but he was already deep in the midst of thought. "A childhood friend."

So rarely had I heard him use such a term, I nearly choked.

"Don't look so surprised, Watson," he said, quirking an eyebrow. "We grew up in the same neighborhood. I once helped her locate her missing dog. The stakes, however, have increased immensely. There's no time to waste."

All thoughts of a restful evening abandoned, we threw ourselves into the Game with a fervor I had seldom seen, even from such an ardent detective.

When Elizabeth and her mother were reunited, I was brought to ponder once more on the childhood of Sherlock Holmes.

Elizabeth was the precise image of her mother, red curls and blue eyes and a gentle smile. I could almost picture, beside her, a shy little boy with dark hair—a self-proclaimed brain with legs—holding her hand in search of a lost puppy.