I can't imagine how Watson was able to summon enough patience to cope with my moaning when I suffered that injury. Looking back, it wasn't even particularly serious. In reality, my moaning was due to the fact that I was mentally unstable, wishing for the case that didn't seem likely to present itself.

But I had no idea of the case that was about to present itself to me. I only wish that I had been more appreciative of said case at the time.

The following is from the personal diary of Mrs. Martha Hudson. Entry dated 6 June 1896

Living under the same roof as Mr. Sherlock Holmes is never easy, nor is it ever predictable. But, this morning, living under said roof proved to be one of the most trying experiences of my entire life.

Mr. Holmes and the doctor had gone out for the morning, and they had told me that they didn't know when they would return. I decided to take advantage of their absence in order to do some cleaning in their flat. So, I went upstairs in order to see what I could do in the way of controlling the damage. Naturally, the flat was in a state of shambles, as it always is. Papers strewn about the floor, tables and chairs knocked this way and that. In other words, the usual disorder. I set about to straightening up the furniture, for I knew that Mr. Holmes would be furious if I disturbed his carefully thought out "filing system."

No sooner had I started on this task, then I heard a knock at the front door. Thinking that it was most likely a visitor calling for Mr. Holmes or the doctor, I went downstairs, pulling my apron straight as I went. I opened the door to see two large men. Now, Mr. Holmes has guests of all descriptions on a regular basis, so I thought nothing of their appearance.

"Good morning," I said evenly. "What can I do for you?"

"We need to see Mr. Sherlock Holmes," said the taller of the men. He stood at least a head taller than his companion, certainly two heads taller than me. He was unshaven, and wore dirty clothes that looked as though they belonged in a charity bin. His yellowed teeth poked out from between his lips as he spoke. His accent sounded American. "If you please, marm."

"I'm afraid that Mr. Holmes isn't at home at the moment," I said, drinking in his shabby appearance.

"When do you expect him back, marm?" asked the other man. I thought that it was most peculiar that he sounded American as well. He was dressed in a more gentlemanlike manner than his companion, though his clothing was old fashioned and faded. "It is most urgent that we see him as soon as possible."

"I'm afraid that I couldn't say. Mr. Holmes keeps most irregular business hours. Would you care to wait inside?"

The two men exchanged furtive glances. Then, the shabby man spoke. "Yes, please, marm. That would be most welcome."

I stepped aside to allow them entry to the house. "I can't say how long you will have to wait, though."

"Oh, that's not a problem, good lady," said the gentleman-like man. "We'll wait for a time, and then leave if he does not return."

"As you wish," I said, lifting my skirts so as to show them upstairs.

When we reached the top of the stairs, I motioned towards the door to the flat. "Just inside there, gentlemen."

"Thank you, marm," said the shabby man. "Now, could we trouble you for just one more favor?"

"What would that be, sir?"

"Hold still for a moment."

"I'm sorry?" I asked, praying that I had heard him incorrectly.

Next thing I knew, the gentleman had grabbed me from behind, one hand grabbed my waist in a vice and the other grasping a sweet smelling handkerchief which he clapped over my mouth to stifle my cries. "Just hold still," he said. "We don't want to hurt you." Oh, how I struggled, but a moment later, the scene began to darken and I knew no more.

Some undeterminable time later, I awoke. I was bound to a straight backed chair with thick rope that bit into my wrists and ankles. A piece of cloth was tied between my teeth so that the only sound I could make was a low moaning. The two men who had attacked me were nowhere to be seen. My head ached and tears began to stream down my cheeks, as the full seriousness of my situation dawned on me. The tears slid into my mouth, and I made such a fool of myself.

Then, I could hear the front door opening and I tried to cry out, wondering if the sound meant that the two burglars were returning. But no. Now I could hear the voice of Mr. Holmes. And yes, that was the voice of Dr. Watson. I continued to cry, praying that they would hear me.

"It's just a simple case of blackmail, as I told you, Watson," said Mr. Holmes. By his voice, it sounded as though they were coming up the stairs. "Nothing to worry about."

"Well, Mrs. O'Sullivan was very relieved to receive the letter," said the doctor. "Though, I don't see why you waited so long to give it to her."

"It wasn't my choice to wait so long," said Mr. Holmes. "She had no other time in her schedule to receive us."

I heard Dr. Watson scoff as Mr. Holmes banged open the door to the flat. "Watson!" he cried, his eyes widening slightly at the state of the room.

The boys were at my side in an instant, untying the bonds and removing the gag. "Mrs. Hudson, are you all right?" asked the doctor, his eyes full of concern.

All I could do was try desperately to stop the sobs that were wracking my body. "Oh, doctor," I choked out. "Thank goodness you're here."

Mr. Holmes untied the last rope that bound me to the chair and I fell forward into the doctor's arms. He supported me carefully, checking all over my body for any sign of injury.

"Mrs. Hudson, what happened?" asked Mr. Holmes, taking my hand in his and looking me in the eye.

"Holmes, give her a moment. She's obviously distraught," scolded the doctor.

"But we cannot be of assistance if we do not know what happened. The culprit might well be getting away as we speak," said Mr. Holmes. "Don't you wish to catch him so that he can be brought to justice?"

"Of course I do, Holmes," said the doctor. "But she can't tell us anything now, so help me put her to bed. She'll be able to help us when she's calmed down a bit."

Mr. Holmes helped me to my feet, putting one of my arms around his strong shoulders, paying little heed to his injured arm. "Lean on me, Mrs. Hudson," he said gently. "We'll get you downstairs in no time."

Once they had put me to bed and got some tea into me, I was able to explain to them what had happened. Mr. Holmes looked more and more grave as I spoke. When I had finished, he gently put one hand on mine and told me that he would take care of everything and that I mustn't worry. Then he and the doctor left me with strict instructions to rest. I wasn't injured, the doctor told me, but I had had a nasty shock.

I can't imagine why this happened. Knowing Mr. Holmes, anything is possible. I only hope that they are able to catch the men who robbed us. I don't believe that I shall be able to sleep soundly in my bed until they have been caught.

The following is an entry from the private diary of Dr. John H. Watson. Entry dated 6 June 1896

After we had put Mrs. Hudson to bed, Holmes and I hurried up to the flat to assess the damage. In all honesty, it was not nearly as bad as we had feared. According to Holmes, a few insignificant papers were missing. I was resigned to take his word for it, not being at all familiar with the inner workings of Holmes's beloved "filing system." Two volumes of the the commonplace books were missing, namely M and W. Finally, one of the mahogany straight backed chairs that usually sat at our table also appeared to have been taken.

What connected these strange items, I couldn't be certain. All we knew was that the men had not taken anything that had any monetary value, with the possible exception being the chair. But even the chair, though undeniably pleasing to the eye, wasn't really worth very much money.

Holmes, however, seemed unconcerned. He held his bandaged arm close against his chest as his keen eyes swept across the room. "Well, Watson," he said, settling himself in his favorite armchair with a shrug of his shoulders. "We were surprisingly fortunate in this burglary attempt."

"That may be so," I said, seating myself. "But I find it suspicious that they didn't seem to gain anything from this so called attempt. And now they could be charged with holding Mrs. Hudson against her will if they are caught."

"Oh, but they don't matter in the grand scheme of things," said Holmes with a waft of his good arm.

"What do you mean, Holmes?" I asked, though I had a sneaking suspicion as to his meaning.

Holmes shook his head. "It matters not for the time being. What does matter is that Mrs. Hudson is safe and that Scotland Yard does not find out what has occurred."

"Why don't you want the Yard to find out? Surely they could be of some help in catching the thief." I regretted the words as soon as they had left my mouth.

"You know my methods," he said, a touch of annoyance coming over his features. "Answer that question yourself."

I sighed. "Holmes, how about letting me take a look at the injury and then a dose of pain medication."

"I don't need pain medication," said Holmes, attempting to cross his arms, but abandoning the effort when the pain apparently became too great. "I need a case."

My hands gently grasped the injured arm and began unwinding the bandage. "I should think that you were just handed one, Holmes."

"Whatever do you mean, Watson?" he asked, still looking displeased as I worked.

"Well, someone just broke into your flat, tied up your faithful landlady, and stole a number of your personal items." I set the old bandage aside. The white linen was stained with old blood, which had smeared over the skin around the injury. "Will you permit me to clean it?"

Holmes sighed and nodded reluctantly.

Once I had done so with water from the freshly boiled kettle in Mrs. Hudson's kitchen, I inspected the wound again. "No sign of inflammation," I said with a satisfied nod. "I think that we'll be ready to remove the stitches soon."

"I am so relieved," he said dryly.

"Will you accept the pain medication?"

He gave a sigh. "If it would please you, Watson."

"It does," I said with a shake of my head. I reached into my bag and pulled out a vial. Wielding my syringe, I drew up some of the liquid and carefully injected it into his arm. "There now."

"I must rest, Watson," he said with a sigh, already sounding drowsy. "Wake me if anything develops."

"Of course, Holmes."

Holmes retreated to his bedroom, leaving me alone by the fireplace. I packed my medical bag, setting it aside. Then, I sat down again, pulling out the day's newspaper, which I had been unable to read at breakfast. My eyes traveled down the page, seeking anything that grabbed my attention.

"Hello," I said softly, raising my eyebrows at one headline in particular as I recalled Mrs. Hudson's description of her attackers:

American Bandits Terrorize London