London, 1902

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle paused, lifting his fountain pen up to his face so that it barely touched his lips. "What else could I add to the piece?" he wondered as he glanced about his room, noting the sheets of paper that were sticking out of every nook of his writing cabinet. "I really must see to those," he mused, silently chastising himself for letting his cabinet fall into such a state of disarray. Whenever he started working on a story, the smaller, habitual acts of cleanliness and tidiness ceased to exist. There was only his fountain pen and his paper. He shook his head, forcing himself to return to the story. Was there something else that could be added? He would have to make a note and ask about that.

He waved his pen around in the air absentmindedly as he thought back to all the stories he had heard regarding the former case, trying to deduce whether or not he had covered every base and had remembered every detail worth putting into the story. His other hand, the one not holding the pen, slid across the maple desk to grab a fresh sheet of paper so that he could make his note.

Arthur had just finished penning the note when there was a sharp tap at the door. With a smile, the author sat back in his chair and crossed his left leg over his right knee. "Come in," he called.

The door slid open and in walked one of Arthur's closest friends. With his lean figure and thin face, the man did not seem much different from anyone else one might meet on the street, but if one was close enough to see his eyes, they would notice the difference almost immediately. His eyes sparkled with intelligence that was borderline brilliancy, and they bore into a person, analyzing one's problems before one even had a chance to introduce themselves. His name was Sherlock Holmes, and he was, in Sir Arthur's opinion, one of the greatest men that had ever lived.

Sherlock's thin face seemed to stretch as he smiled at his friend. "Been working furiously on the new story, have you?" he asked.

Sir Arthur nodded and replied, "Yes, but how the devil did you deduce that?"

Sherlock shrugged out of his coat and hat, hanging them on the peg next to the door. "Simple, my writer friend. Your desk is in an uncharacteristic disarray, your mustache is lopsided from stroking it when in deep thought, and you have black dots of ink on your lips from where you've pressed your fountain pen into them."

Arthur chuckled, shaking his head. "You, my friend," he said, "never cease to amaze me. Your logic astounds me."

Sherlock just smiled, his arrogance not permitting him to protest the compliments. "Which one are you working on now?" he asked instead.

"The Hound of the Baskervilles," Arthur responded. "It's almost finished, but I have a couple of questions for you." He handed Sherlock a sheet of paper with two sentences circled. "Are those two sentences correct?"

Sherlock read over them, his keen eyes darting back and forth as he picked apart the construction of the sentences. "Yes," he said with a nod, handing the paper back to his friend. "Those are correct."

"Good," Sir Arthur said, replacing the marked up sheet of paper with a clean one that he had already copied just in case the sentences had been correct. He shuffled the papers and tied them with string, patting the bundle with a smile. "That should be in publication very soon," he said.

He stood, motioning for Sherlock to take a seat as he himself sat down in one of the chairs by the fire. "Would you like a light?" he asked, motioning to the pipe that had appeared in one of his friend's long, white hands.

"Yes please," Sherlock responded, nodding. The light was given and the friends sat back, Sherlock puffing away at his pipe.

"So how is Irene?" Sir Arthur asked, always inquiring about his favorite lady.

Sherlock smiled as his wife's name was mentioned. Irene Holmes, formerly Mrs. Godfrey Norton, had been the only woman that Sherlock had ever looked twice at. At the time, she had simply outwitted him, and for that, he had been resentful, but once her husband had died on a sailing expedition, the two had become closer, eventually marrying and settling down to married life on Baker Street. "She's fine," he responded. "She helped me tremendously in a new case we worked on together." He waved the pipe in his hand at his friend. "That was one reason I came to see you. It was interesting enough to make into a story."

"Really?" Sir Arthur asked, leaning forward in his chair expectantly.

Sherlock nodded. "It had to do with a kidnapping and a ransom that was most ingeniously done." He sat back in his chair and drew in a long breath before he began his tale.

When he had finished, Sherlock sat back in his chair, puffing on his pipe as he watched his friend's face for any signs of interest. "Well?" he asked. "Is that one story-worthy?"

Arthur nodded excitedly. "Indeed it is. You and Irene never cease to amaze me."

Upon hearing his wife's name uttered once more, Sherlock glanced at his pocket watch. "Arthur," he said regretfully, "I must get home. I informed Irene that I would be there by half past six, and it is already a quarter past."

Arthur nodded, rising from his chair. "Of course, he said. "Of course. Give my regards to Irene. And how is that little one doing?"

Sherlock's face grew wider as he thought about his son. "He's just fine," he said. "Sometime, I'll bring him for a visit."

Arthur nodded. "Good," he said, waving as his friend left the apartment. Once Sherlock had gone, Arthur turned back to the chairs they had previously been sitting at and smiled. His friend was an interesting specimen. He had always been so arrogant, so sure of his abilities until he had met Irene. Since they had been married, she had toned down his arrogance a bit, but not enough to the point where Sherlock was no longer the way he had been.

Arthur thought back to Sherlock's son, Watson Holmes, having been named after another good friend of Sherlock's who had aided him in many cases. For a man who had once looked down at any feeling with a sneer of disdain, Sherlock was quite affectionate to his two-year-old son and his wife. "Perhaps marriage was good for him," Arthur thought with conviction as he returned to his writing cabinet.

Whenever Sherlock came for a visit, Arthur always knew that he was going to begin writing as soon as he left, eager to get all the details down on paper before they were lost from his memory until the next time Sherlock came and cleared up the details for him. He moved the completed manuscript of The Hound of the Baskervilles to the edge of his desk, out of his way, and picked up his fountain pen once more.

He pulled out a fresh piece of paper and began to write. The world would soon know another harrowing adventure of the greatest detective to have ever lived, and it would be by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's pen that Sherlock Holmes' name would be glorified so that it lived on through generations……….