A/N Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, and other associated characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
Holmes and I lived together for many years, and there are stories that, up until now, I have been unable to relate to the public. But since time has passed, some of these cases and adventures have become de-classified, so to speak. This particular case has weighed heavily on my mind since it was closed, and I feel it must be shared with the public.
Holmes and I had known each other for over ten years, and most of those years, we had spent living together in the apartment at 221B Baker Street. It had come to be that I could discern what type of mood Holmes was in by the way he looked, smoked, or even how he paced. I had become accustomed to the fact that he would spend entire nights, awake and pacing in his room, trying to sort out facts and thoughts in his head. But there was something different on the night in question. I awoke in the early morning hours, before the sun had risen, to the sounds of Holmes pacing in his room, which was adjacent to mine. This would not have been so unusual, had it not been for the way that he was pacing. It was a sort of nervous, feverish step, and it was not something that I had heard often. Holmes was not a man who was easily shaken, and I was unsure as to what could possibly be bothering him this much. I pulled the bed-clothes off and arose to see what was troubling my friend.
I moved slowly, trying not to make a sound. I did not want to disturb him, for fear I might interrupt a train of thought that he was following. As I neared his door, I noticed it was slightly ajar. I looked through the opening and found my friend in a piteous state. His tall, lean figure seemed to be withering away before my very eyes. His cheeks were sunken in, more so than usual, and it looked as though he hadn't eaten or slept in days. He hadn't shaved in equally as long, and his appearance was that of a man at death's door. His normally piercing gray eyes had become dull and lifeless. Fatigue and anxiety were weighing heavily upon him, and I feared the worst.
I moved slightly to get a better look at him, and he must have heard me, for he collapsed into a chair and motioned me into the room. I slowly opened the door and approached my friend.
"My God, Holmes, what is troubling you? You look as though your very life hangs upon the solution of your present case."
"I fear it might." His reply was quiet, almost a whisper.
As I looked upon his face, I noticed that he was not returning my gaze. His eyes were upon the floor, and I thought I saw a hint of a tear in the man's eye. I was startled by this discovery, for Holmes rarely showed emotion, and save for one or two occasions, I had come to accept the fact that he was devoid of emotions entirely. Not more than a moment after I noticed the glisten in his eye, he leapt out of the chair, shouting.
"I should have seen this coming! I should have been able to do something!" His energy spent, he collapsed back into the chair. I was shocked to see such a vehement rage come from such a broken man. I walked over towards him and seated myself on the corner of his bed. There I waited for him to tell me what was causing him such distress. A good portion of time passed before he even moved, and when he did, it was only to stretch out his long legs, and cross them. Then came the familiar steepling of his fingers, and I knew he was ready to voice his current situation. When he spoke, it was very quietly, and I found myself leaning towards him in order to hear what he was saying.
"Something awful has happened Watson, and I fear that I am at an absolute loss as to how to remedy the situation." He paused for a few moments, to compose himself, then he went on. "Mycroft has been abducted."