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The roar of a motorcycle engine sent me scurrying back to the present (and to the sidewalk) in a hurry.
I entered with a cheerful greeting to find my friend prostrate upon the sofa, leafing absently through an old, yellowed book entitled ‘The Whole Art of Detection.’ At my exuberant entrance, he cast me a penetrating gaze. “Woolgathering, Watson? Standing in the streets of London is scarcely a prescription for continued good health.”
Before I could so much as open my mouth to speak, Holmes patted his left knee. I glanced down at my own, and saw the distinctive splash of mud the cyclist had so thoughtfully deposited on my newest trousers. “Blast,” I said mildly.
“Quite so.”
I cleared my throat at the awkward silence that ensued (Holmes turned a page of his book and continued to read as though I were not present). Resigned to an afternoon of non-conversation, I unceremoniously draped my jacket upon the doorknob and glanced down to ensure that my pager was still set to vibrate. The last time I had visited, a patient of mine had gone into a seizure and the subsequent chimes of my pager nearly sent Holmes, at work on a most delicate chemical experiment, into one of his own.
“I appreciate it, Watson,” Holmes called from the sofa. I rolled my eyes at my own transparency (I had chanced to glance at the burn mark on the wall above the chemical laboratory, the sole remnant of that adventure), but took some comfort in the fact that he was not nearly as absorbed in his reading as I had suspected. “I believe that our client shall be most appreciative for the silence as well,” he added.
All attention, I sat across from him. “A case?”
He glanced over the curled pages of his book. “Perhaps. See what you can make of this.” He reached down for his laptop, deposited haphazardly on a stack of papers at his side (I often warned him about the fire hazards of such a practice), and passed it over to me. Upon its screen was an e-mail, dated two days earlier. It ran as follows:
“Mr. Sherlock Holmes:
I have found myself in a quandary and would be most grateful if you could help to set me on the right path. I feel that you are the only possible man for the job – I’ll be in London by three o’clock on Friday.
-U.G.”
“Rather presumptuous, calling on you in such a sudden fashion,” I muttered.
Holmes shrugged, by now having relegated his book to the table beside him, and sat up. “I suspect that she had already purchased the airline tickets and merely forgot to inform me of her coming earlier.”
“Airline tickets?”
He pointed an icon beside her e-mail address. “I checked her ISP – her service provider indicates that she is from a biggish city in western Canada.”
“How do you know that she’s female?” I asked absently, following the link Holmes had indicated.
He shrugged. “The ISP and some subsequent digging led me to some of her other aliases on the internet. Exceedingly uninteresting, for the most part, but I did glean that much.”
“Hm,” I added astutely.
“Quite,” Holmes muttered, and reached behind him for the book.
I blinked, then, realising just what the note had said, and fumbled for my cellphone. The time flashed at me in mockingly brilliant numbers. “Holmes, it’s three o’clock now!”
“I was wondering when you’d get to that point,” my friend grumbled. “And this, if I’m not entirely mistaken, is our client.”
The doorbell rang below (I hadn’t heard so much as a tread on the step, of course) and I hastened to the window to catch a glimpse of the mysterious “U.G.” before she ascended the seventeen stairs. Alas, my plot was foiled by the efficiency of Holmes’ landlady, the inestimable Mrs. Hudson, and all I saw was the edge of a bulging black briefcase catching on the door as it closed.
I turned back to my friend, to find him hastily shoving piles of paper under the sofa, beneath the cushions when that hiding spot yielded no further vacancy, and finally dropping a stack of papers, with considerable vigour, behind the expedient piece of furniture.
“You’ve really made that into an art form,” I grumbled, a little envious at the way his hair fell so effortlessly into place when he smoothed it back with his hands.
“I intend to write a monograph on the art of projecting the appearance of cleanliness,” he said with all seriousness. The door opened before I could think of a rejoinder to that particular comment, and my attention was seized by our client.
She was rather tall in a lanky and awkward sort of way – an initial opinion I confirmed when she unelegantly stumbled over her shoes, snagged her briefcase on my jacket (still hanging, I realized belatedly, from the doorknob), and very nearly toppled over. Her clothing was distressingly plain – a bland navy jacket over equally bland jeans and – to top off the impression of general mediocrity – greatly scuffed black shoes.
“I trust that your travels by air were not terribly inconvenient?” Holmes said after a moment. Before our client could respond, he moved to the window and added: “And I trust that your leg is no worse for the journey?”
“My leg?” she said, and, at my urging, dropped down into one of the chairs by the fire. Her bag clattered noisily to the floor. “Well, no, not really, but-“
“It is well,” Holmes continued, “that you have continued your fencing despite the injury. It would not do to abandon a skill you have devoted a half-dozen years to acquire.”
The girl opened her mouth again to speak, but evidently thought better of it when Holmes drew another breath to continue in a similar vein:
“That you were injured is apparent by your slight limp – I heard the uneven tread upon our stair. Your recovery of your stumble at the doorway shows that in spite of your natural clumsiness you have kept up with the sport that, incidentally, has given you such a well-formed callus on the small finger of your right hand. I recommend, by the way, that you abandon your current weapon in favour of one that is more suited to your small hands – it won’t chafe as much.”
Our client was now rubbing absently at her hand, and I could see the little patch of reddened and thickened skin to which my friend had alluded.
“Your hands tell me three things further – that you have worked as a cook in a restaurant that served french fries, that you own or have owned at least two different animals, and that you have played piano for most of your life.”
“That’s – that’s quite correct,” she said after a moment, realizing that Holmes was waiting for her interjection.
“Correct, but rather elementary, I fear,” he added, and began to pace up and down the room. “There are two types of scar on your hands – the faint burns are unmistakeable as those obtained while working at one of those elegant institutions that house deep-fryers. And, of course, the placement of the other scars on your right hand would indicate that you reached out to an animal that was not terribly pleased at the fact, and you were bitten or scratched on at least two occasions – some scars are older than others.”
“I live with two cats,” the girl added. “And I’m typically the one who searches for them when they’re afraid and up a tree in the middle of the night.” Holmes shrugged and continued.
“Your fingertips show the spatulation common to pianists, and the way in which you hold your hands – slightly curved, fingers drumming – shows a positioning that is not altogether the method classically taught. I suspected that you have had time beyond your initial training to begin to develop your own style of playing.”
“Well, sort of-“
“Also,” Holmes continued, “By your accent I perceive that you are well-travelled, though likely born and raised in Canada, and that you are unquestionably fluent in French.”
“I-“ She blinked. “How-“
Holmes paused in his pacing. “But what brings you here in such haste? Surely the matter must be of great urgency!” And, to my inutterable astonishment, he snatched up the girl’s great bulging briefcase and opened it, against her startled exclamations. “Ah, yes,” he murmured, flipping through the contents. “The bag of a student – atmospheric scientist, unless I’m very much mistaken (at this, he pointed to the small, well-scuffed thermometer hanging from her keychain), in her second year of studies – and yet your driver’s licence puts you at eighteen. This book about the sonata form shows that your interest of music has not been entirely abandoned, and the variety of texts enclosed in this bag demonstrate that your interests are rather eclectic. May I venture to surmise that your family has a history of gathering data? Museum curators, or librarians, perhaps?”
“Um,” our client remarked wittily. “Well, my parents are both librarians-“
Holmes had come across the girl’s iPod. “An odd variety of music indeed,” he whistled. “And the model of the machine itself is suggestive – a mini, not the nano nor the video. Curious. I have often thought of writing a monograph about the iPod’s use as a mask for social-“ He trailed off, a far-off look in his eyes, and the client and I exchanged bemused glances.
“Well, Mr. Holmes,” the girl began doggedly. “I suspect that you have some idea as to why I am here today.”
Holmes sank down heavily on the sofa, which emitted a series of crinkling noises. He winced, sighed, and pulled out his crumpled notes from behind the cushion. “I assure you that I do not.”
“It’s quite simple, really,” she continued. “I am in search of… of a group, I suppose you might call it.”
“Indeed,” Holmes said, the very picture of boredom now that his deductions were complete and the client’s problem seemed not to be a particularly challenging one.
“Go on,” I added when she hesitated. “It is often the smallest things that wind up being most important.” Holmes snorted, but waved a hand at her to do as I suggested.
“Well, it all began about a year ago – shortly after I started my studies, I suppose. My interest was piqued by all the stories I had heard in passing about a… certain Great Detective.”
Holmes steepled his fingers. “How very mysterious,” he added.
“I picked up a few books about this… illustrious personage, and thorougly enjoyed the reading. Now, after having pursued my interests in great detail for the past year, I feel that I really must begin to share them with others similarly engrossed in the literature.”
“Hm,” Holmes said. “A more difficult problem than it appeared at the outset, I suppose.”
Our client leaned forward. “Much more difficult! The internet alone was packed with snobbish scholars and illiterate students looking for help on their assignment about ‘the sotry with teh big dog!’ Having spent this long in my searching, I feel quite demoralized!”
“I suspect that-“ Holmes began, but I could hold my peace no longer.
“Have you heard,” I interrupted dramatically, “of the Bloo Sparkly?” (Holmes winced and slumped back against the sofa.)
The effect on our client was shocking – her eyes widened and she leaned still further forward (if what Holmes had said about her natural clumsiness was true, she would soon be on the floor). “Yes! Yes, I have heard mention in passing!”
“And…” I narrowed my eyes conspiratorially. “The Unmentionable Event of the Hello Kitty Dresses?” (Holmes flushed and sank still further into his chair.)
“You know!” she gasped. “You know where this group meets, then? I thought that, surely, I must have dreamed those good-humoured and friendly-but-thought-provoking message boards!”
“I do indeed!” I exclaimed, procuring a notepad from my pocket and scribbling on a sheet. “Holmesian.net.” I tore it off and handed it to her.
“Why, thank you! This is exactly what I’d hoped for!” She jumped up and was already two steps out the door before she paused and turned around. “Oh, Mr. Holmes?”
Holmes glanced up, the tips of his ears still distinctly red. “Yes?”
“Can I have my bag back?”
Holmes lifted the briefcase lethargically and she retrieved it with a quizzical glance.
“Well,” she said on her way out, “I am most indebted to you.”
Holmes made an unintelligible grunt and sank back onto the sofa as the door closed behind her. “Good Lord, Watson,” he muttered.
“What?”
“Is this how low I have sunk?” I saw his eyes flicker to a certain drawer in a manner that was just as telling as anything our clients had ever unwittingly given away.
“Surely it’s not as bad as all that,” I said blandly. “The group’s rather marvellous, really.”
“Not the group, Watson, the work,” Holmes groaned. As though making a sudden decision, he darted to his feet and opened the drawer.
A cold feeling sank to the pit of my stomach and I took a step forward, determined to do what I could to stop this self-destructive tendency. “You know how I feel about-“
“Quite so,” Holmes said, and pulled the TV remote from the drawer. “But desperate times, Watson, call for desperate measures. And these are desperate times.”
“Oh, Holmes,” I whispered in despair.
“Hush, Watson,” he said sternly, flicking from channel to channel. “My show is on in five minutes. This Brett fellow really is rather good,” he added, almost as an afterthought.
I could already see the beginnings of the television-induced lethargy creeping upon him, and I knew what a black reaction would come over him if the episode did not meet his high expectations. I retrieved my jacket from the floor with a sigh and made as though to leave – there was no response from my companion, who had finally found the channel he’d been seeking and settled into a more comfortable position.
I shook my head and opened the door, then paused as the small matter of our client’s interests arose in my memory. Alone, there was destructive obsession. In company- Rather against my better judgment, I turned around. “Holmes,” I said.
There must have been something in my tone, for he glanced back at me. “My dear fellow?”
“I’ll get the popcorn.”
“Good man,” he said, and sank comfortably into his chair. Rolling my eyes at my own predictability, I tramped down the stairs and wondered whether I could cajole Mrs. Hudson into providing us with some hot cocoa.
My apologies for the length - I really couldn't resist the dramatic entrance. I've
There's not a lot more to add, having put myself under future!Holmes' lens to begin with. I expect to be posting fairly frequently - and I hope to get back on track with some more serious pastiche in future.
And, though you're all no doubt aware of its existence, I really must plug my favourite adaptation of Sherlock Holmes in any media - the Merrison/Williams (and later Sachs) BBC radio dramas. I only hope that the promised third set of Further Adventures isn't long in coming!
With many apologies for the length and silliness of it all,
Unimpeachable Goose
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I see you really have been doing your homework! Anyhoo, welcome to Holmesian.net. So glad that you have stalked us, lurked around us, and enjoyed our (thought) provoking fun enough to join in! You are familiar with the boards already, so feel free to jump in and start posting with us 
And be sure to share your writing (I know you have to have more of it somewhere) in the member art and fiction thread.
How is th- Never mind. I sometimes appear to have the brains of a cucumber, so... 
But really, how can you determine the chronology by looking at the weather?
But I look forward to my research supervisor's bemused expression when I ask him whether it rained or not on New Year's Day, 1881!
