Three Days Ago. Dr. Arthur Doyle's House, Marylebone
Sherlock found it difficult to fathom how two and a half months had passed since the day Molly first received the package that served as the genesis of this case. Seventy-three days of investigating thousands of government employees, questioning hundreds of Irene Adler's clients, reading endless surveillance reports and bank account statements. Yet, here he was, only ten days left to the deadline imposed by that dominatrix and—nothing, he had nothing.
He and John had had vague suspicions about the possible source of the leak—an IT specialist here, an MI-6 autocrat there—but nothing actionable. All had withstood their respective interrogations. And finding that elusive "pressure point" that would tip the scales against Adler and in their favor just never materialized. Worse, Sherlock, with ten days remaining, less until Molly's planned extraction (he hadn't been told the exact date and time of her leave-taking, but he knew they wouldn't wait until the very day of the deadline itself) had begun to feel a creeping sense of hopelessness. He simply didn't know what to do or where to look next. So he made a desperate move.
Someone who was clearly some kind of housekeeper or home health worker or some mix of the two answered the door at Dr. Doyle's modest Marylebone Victorian townhouse. Sherlock had been surprised to find that the good doctor only lived two streets away from himself all this time.
"Hello, may I please speak to Dr. Doyle?" Sherlock asked the woman who opened the door, who currently wore an apron, suggesting she might have been cooking when the buzzer rang.
"Which one?"
"Excuse me?"
"There are two Dr. Doyles in this house."
"Oh, um, I don't actually know what his first name is," Sherlock said, demonstrating once again his capacity to overlook the most basic of information about someone.
"If it's a him, that's Arthur. I'll go get him."
A few seconds later, Dr. Doyle himself appeared at the door with a very confused look on his face upon seeing Sherlock. Sherlock wouldn't have recognized the doctor if he'd seen him around the neighborhood in Marylebone if this was way he dressed when not seeing patients, for the doctor was wearing blue denims and a black Ramones t-shirt. At least denims and a t-shirt pretty much always matched, thought Sherlock.
"Sherlock? Um . . . what are you doing here?" Doyle asked.
"I need your help."
"Well, I don't really see patients in my home . . . "
"It's about the case I'm working on, Molly's case. I need your advise on it."
"I see. Come in, come in." Sherlock did as told. "We're just about to sit down to eat dinner. Anna always makes too much, so you're welcome to join us."
"Oh, I'm so sorry to bother you then. I can come back in an hour."
"Nonsense. Please join us. It would really mean a lot to my wife. She's such a big fan of John's blog. Makes me read every new entry to her as soon as it's updated."
"Well, ok then."
"Wonderful," the doctor said, and then turned to call his housekeeper/home health worker, "Anna, set one more for dinner." To Sherlock, who he was showing to the dining area, he said, "Anna helps my wife during the day when I'm at work and she also cooks dinner." Sherlock just nodded. "Em, dear?"
"Yes? Who's here Arthur?" It was the voice of a woman, undoubtedly Doyle's wife. She came into view when Sherlock entered the dining area following his psychiatrist. She was a lovely, distinguished-looking woman, but Sherlock could nonetheless see the effects of MS upon her. Her left hand was knotted up. Her eyeline followed the sounds of noises, a tell-tale sign of her blindness. Along the wall behind her were wrist-crutches and a wheelchair.
"Emily, may I introduce you to Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock Holmes, my wife, Emily Doyle."
She brightened. "Are you kidding? Is this some kind of practical joke on me, Arthur?"
"No, it's no joke. This is the Sherlock Holmes, dear. He's um . . . um, he's asked me to consult on a case he's working on." Sherlock appreciated the man's discretion.
"Really? This is so exciting." She stuck her right hand out for Sherlock to shake, which he did.
"It is very nice to meet you, Mrs. Doyle. Actually, I am to understand from the woman that answered the door that you're a Dr. Doyle yourself."
"Yes. Ph.D, though. So don't ask me for any medical advice. If you need to know about the history of verb conjugation in Romance languages, however, I'm your girl."
"Emily Doyle? You mean you're the Emily Doyle that wrote Language as a Prison of the Mind: Understanding Cultures Using Sociolinguistics?"
"You know my book?"
"Yes, I find it fascinating. And useful as a detective. That idea that linguistic choices show the way a person's brain works, which in turn reveals the cultural assumptions they were raised under? Endlessly useful. Your investigation of the English development of the future perfect tense alone . . . "
"Dinner's ready," the woman called Anna announced and all three of them sat down to eat.
"Well, I'm so unbelievably flattered, Mr. Holmes. My head will probably swell to five times it's natural size now that I know Sherlock Holmes and read and approved of my book."
"Great," her husband said fondly, "now you won't fit through doorways."
"I have to say, I am a huge fan of yours. I make Arthur read every new update to his old friend John Watson's blog. I make him do it in different voices to indicate different characters. Arthur, let Mr. Holmes hear your impression of him. He does you so well."
Here, her husband was slightly embarrassed. "Oh, Emily, I doubt Mr. Holmes wants to hear that."
Intrigued by how he might sound to his own psychiatrist, Sherlock said, "No, I'd love to hear it. By all means."
Doyle sighed and then assumed a stiffer posture and affected a pedantic tone to his voice, "Why it's elementary, my dear Watson. Surely you yourself smelled the faint aroma of brackish water on the suspect, suggesting that he's recently been near the conjunction of the sea and inland water. Thus, he is our killer." Doyle ended his impression with a flourish.
Sherlock smiled but narrowed his eyes. "Is that how I come across in John's blog?"
Both man and wife said simultaneously, "Yes."
"Perhaps I should exercise greater editorial control over John's blog in the future. Because I don't think I've ever said anything like that in my life."
"In any case," began Mrs. Doyle, "I have to ask you, I've been dying to know for years now, as a sociolinguist, what was it about the man's use of the word 'hound' in that Baskerville business that interested you in his case?"
All during dinner, Sherlock answered Mrs. Doyle's fangirl questions happily, beguiling her with the charm he was sometimes known to evince when playing the role of the world's greatest detective, even though, in his heart right now, he was no such thing.
During the meal, Sherlock noticed that, while both himself and his doctor had huge slices of roast beef on their plate, the doctor's wife's meat had been pre-cut-up for her by Anna, likely because of her inability to use her left hand. At one point, her husband noticed that several pieces were still too large and leaned over to cut them into smaller bits for her to chew easily. The easy and silent gesture touched Sherlock.
At the end of the meal, he warmly thanked both Doyles for their hospitality and followed his doctor into his study.
The Doyles' study contained an impressive library indeed, a lifetime's worth of accumulation of diverse knowledge, no doubt, between two intellectual giants in their respective fields. Sherlock felt real sadness knowing that MS had likely taken away the woman's ability to read almost all the books in this library except for a very few, only the most popular ones that may have made it onto audiobook form.
Doyle sat behind his desk and Sherlock sat across from him in a comfortable arm chair.
"You said this was about the case, Sherlock. That you needed some advice about it?"
"Yes, but first I need to tell you the whole story of the case." And Sherlock did tell him everything. For his part, Doyle sat in rapt attention, absorbing the details, equal parts fascinated and disturbed.
When Sherlock had finished, Doyle sat quietly at his desk chair for some minutes, looking quite troubled, before saying, "Well, this is all quite, quite distressing. But, how can I be of use to you in this case, Sherlock?"
"Help me understand the psychology of Irene Adler. Psychoanalyze her. Help me find a weakness, something I can say that might touch her conscience, if she has one."
Dr. Doyle furrowed his brow, stood up from his chair, and moved around to sit on the edge of his desk, close to where Sherlock sat. "Sherlock, I could give you only rudimentary comments based on second-hand impressions of this woman. Psychoanalysis is a long process of delving into a person little by little."
"But you were able to understand me in only one session."
"Hardly," Doyle laughed, "that's just your impression because you may have achieved some little more knowledge about yourself and have attributed it to me."
"There has to be something I can say to her, something I can do. I can't let Molly go, not now."
"Why 'not now'?"
"Because I know I love her and I want her." Doyle smiled sadly.
"I see. I so very much wish I could help you, Sherlock—help you and Molly. But I'm afraid there is no magic 'open sesame' phrase I can point you to that will unlock this woman's conscience."
"So that's it, then, I've failed. It's really over. She's going to go. And she's going away hating me. I dunno, perhaps that's for the best."
"I'm afraid I'm never one to believe unresolved issues are for the best."
"So what are you saying? I should see her and make her forgive me to assuage my own conscience?"
Doyle shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe frankness and honesty for a change can help you both in some way. Tell me, Sherlock how well has deception and denial served you so far?" Sherlock slumped in the chair. "I really am profoundly sorry I can't be of more help to you, to Molly, with this case business."
"Do you really want to help me, doctor?"
"Well, yes, of course," Doyle said, confused.
"Then what size is the shirt you're wearing and do you have any of what Americans call 'baseball caps'?"
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