Prompt: Watson improves his deduction skills, from cjnwriter

The death of my friend Sherlock Holmes was a hard blow, made harder by its suddenness, for no one expected an energetic man not yet forty years of age to meet such a demise. Though it had been long years since he and I had shared rooms, he still had been my closest friend, and I freely admit I spent many months in the stupor of grief, wondering if there was something I could have done to prevent the outcome, revisiting Reichenbach Falls in my dreams, and seeing remnants of Holmes everywhere. Mary, bless her, was my greatest supporter during this time, for I was most adrift and unable to even imagine what my life would be from then on.

I had, as anyone who knew Sherlock Holmes would, developed a keen interest in crime, and was perhaps more excited than I should have been when Inspector Lestrade began asking me to fill in as police surgeon on those occasions their regular doctor could not work. I was grateful for the extra work, but more so not to lose my friends at Scotland Yard without Holmes. For they were friends, now; however much Holmes disparaged their abilities he had come to appreciate those officers we had worked with most, and they and I were now united in shared grief.

"What do you make of this, Doctor?" Lestrade asked me one afternoon I had been called in to help at the station. A murder victim lay on the examining table, a deep wound clearly visible in his chest. "Stabbed?"

I examined the wound closely and nodded. "The knife was twisted as the murderer did his work. It was savage work. Revenge, perhaps?"

Lestrade sighed. "Perhaps if we knew who the fellow was, we would have a clue. He had nothing that identified him."

The thought that this young man should go unidentified and his murderer therefore go free was deeply upsetting, perhaps because of my own recent loss. Holmes, I was sure, would have found some clue as to the man's identity, and it dawned on me that perhaps Lestrade had missed something in his own examination. I often tried to follow Holmes's example and use what deduction skills I possessed for my own enjoyment, and flattered myself that I was improving. I began to examine the corpse more closely, though I could see nothing at first that gave me any clue as to his identity. I had learned with Holmes that things many others would overlook were often the key to solving the case, and so I determined not to overlook anything. I was rewarded when I found a small dark stain on the man's right hand. "Look," I said, pointing it out to Lestrade.

"It is nothing," Lestrade said. "An ink stain, perhaps."

"Yes," I said. "But in a most peculiar place." When Lestrade looked at me in confusion, I said, "Well, if one writes with a fountain pen, it is likely to stain one's fingers. This fellow has the ink stain on his palm, from resting them on something dabbed with ink. I would guess that he is employed somewhere with a printing press, perhaps a newspaper or a publisher."

Lestrade smiled. "I don't suppose you've written a monograph on the different types of ink and could tell us which one that is?" he asked, before growing more solemn. "Forgive me, Doctor Watson. It's just that you reminded me of Mr. Holmes just then."

I smiled sadly. "Yes, I know," I said. "I try to follow his example." Lestrade raised an eyebrow at me, and I confess I began to laugh. "Perhaps not in everything."

"Well, you have given us something to go on, at least," Lestrade said. "Though we're still no closer to finding out who he was."

"Where was he found?" I asked.

"Just by Potter's Row," Lestrade said. "In the alley just off the corner."

"Potter's row," I said. The name was familiar to me, and thought for a moment before I remembered why. "There is a publisher on that street, a small one with its own press. I remember, when I was trying to sell A Study in Scarlet. This young man undoubtedly worked for them."

Lestrade was already reaching for his hat. "If I visit them with a photograph, they will almost certainly know who he is. Thank you, Doctor. You have given me an excellent start to my investigation."

"You're welcome, Lestrade," I said. I left feeling distinctly pleased. I may not have been anything like Holmes, but by using what he had taught me, I had at least helped Scotland Yard identify a murder victim and with any luck, they would now be able to find the murderer.

In Holmes's absence, it was the best that could be done.

Sherlock Holmes followed Inspector Lestrade and I into the house, for all appearances distracted and gazing up at the sky, though I knew he was deeply engaged in his investigation. At times, his methods appeared strange to those who did not know them, but since his return, most people seemed so in awe of him that they were content to let him do as he wished. "It makes things much easier, Watson," he had said to me. "While I would do what I needed to regardless, I now no longer have to spend time convincing anyone that my methods do, in fact, work."

We were greeted inside by the lady of the house, a formidable, haughty woman dressed in so much taffeta it appeared to be more armor than dress. She appeared most upset about our intrusion into her home, and Lestrade began attempting to reassure her. "The death of your servant, Mrs. Lanser..." he said.

"It was only a fall!" the lady protested, though color rose to her cheeks, and I saw Holmes take note of her tone, which had a slight note of panic to it.

"That may be, madam, but we are obliged to investigate any suspicious death that we are informed of," Lestrade said. "That is why I have engaged the services of Sherlock Holmes. You must know of his discretion in matters such as these. The same, of course, applies to his friend, Dr. Watson."

"Excuse me," I said to the lady. "Have you been out walking today?"

Mrs. Lanser looked surprised at my question, but then said, "Why, yes, I always walk in the garden before midday. It energizes me."

I thanked her and allowed Lestrade to take the unfortunate lady into the parlor. "I believe she is lying, Holmes," I said.

"Why is that, Watson?" Holmes asked.

"Because she has not been walking in the garden," I said. "I noticed as we passed that her garden paths are a most peculiar red-colored dirt, yet I saw on her shoes and the hem of her skirt numerous grey smudges. Clay, wouldn't you say, Holmes?"

"Excellent!" my friend cried. "You are doing very well, Watson. Go on."

"Well," I said, "That grey clay matches the area where the servant's body was found, does it not? You said it was a unique type found near riverbeds in this area."

"I did," Holmes said. "It is indeed the same type of clay. You have unearthed two things of importance, Watson. The type of clay, and that she lied about it when asked." His eyes gleamed with approval as he looked at me. "You are improving, dear fellow."

I flushed with pleasure. "I have had the advantage of learning from a master," I said. "But it was while I worked as police surgeon that I was able to put it into practice. Lestrade says that I more than once noticed something they had missed. Do you mean you did not notice the clay, Holmes?"

"On the contrary, it was the very first thing I noticed," Holmes said, and at my disappointed look, he smiled. "But you have got it very early in the case, and I wager Lestrade will not notice it at all."

I laughed. "He was most impressed whenever I was correct in my deductions," I said. "

Holmes sniffed derisively. "They are easily impressed at Scotland Yard. But come, Watson, or else we shall leave this investigation in his dubious hands."