The Case of...

This is something I wrote back in high school.  I wanted to try my hand at writing something Sherlock-like.  I titled this "Chapter One with the intention to write a whole story but never could think out a whole plot.  This kind of works as a short though.  And perhaps, it could serve as a prompt for anyone out there who wants to take on the challenge.

*No copyright infringement intended!*
 

The Case of…

Chapter One

       It has been said that “Home is where the heart is.” I found that true for the mind also as well when one of my evening walks took me down Baker Street and to the address of my old quarters in apartment 221b. My friend had taught me well for as I climbed the stairs I counted them without a second thought; seventeen exactly.

         As I reached the top of the staircase Mrs. Hudson was just exiting the room.

“Hello Dr. Watson! It is so good to see you.”

“Hello Mrs. Hudson. How is he?” I asked motioning towards the door.

“Oh he’s fine but you know how he is when he has a case.”

I certainly did. For those years that we roomed together I was the audience to a great many eccentricities that my friend possessed. I entered the room with caution but despite Mrs. Hudson’s warning, Holmes was in a rather cheery mood and was delighted to see me.

“Watson old boy, how are you?”

“Splendid Holmes” I replied.

“And how’s the work around the house? Also, I expect your garden is coming along nicely.”

         I was astonished. I had indeed been doing some housework of late but I had neither seen Holmes nor told him about it by post.

“Yes but how…”

“Simple” chuckled Holmes. “Aside from the obvious fact that your face and hands are sunburned showing that you’ve been out in the sun for an extended period of time, your hands are calloused. With little exception, calloused hands suggest rigorous work. Being that I haven’t seen you for several weeks in this part of town I guessed you were doing just that but I dared not stop there for I had insufficient evidence.  Upon further inspection of your hands I was able to detect the collection of dirt underneath your fingernails. This strongly suggested to me that, going with the notion of housework, you were perhaps gardening or doing landscaping of some kind. Gardening seemed the more likely of the two seeing as the ideal harvest time is only a month away.

“Amazing Holmes, once you’ve explained the whole thing, it all seems so obvious.”

         “Quite so Wats…” he began to say but was interrupted by voices in the hallway.

         “I must see Sherlock Holmes!” screamed one voice.  It was a male’s; baritone in pitch yet noticeably older for it had a gargling quality to it.  “I must see him!” hollered the voice again.

         The owner of the voice bolted through the door panting.  He was a tower of a man with broad shoulders and a prominent chin wearing a well-tailored suit, a top hat and suede shoes; he was followed by Mrs. Hudson, the owner of the other voice.

         “I told him not to barge in like that”, said she.

         “That is quite alright Mrs. Hudson”, replied Holmes.  “Sir, what is the matter?”

         This was directed, of course, at our guest who tried to answer but before he could, collapsed on the floor.  Like lightning, my medical skills came though. 

         “Pulse…good.  He’s breathing.  All his vitals are good.” 

         Mrs. Hudson and Holmes joined me and together, wrestled his enormous build over to the couch. 

“Mrs. Hudson, the brandy”, said Holmes.  She was back in a flash from the armoire with just that and gave it to the man which brought him around instantly.  He coughed on the dryness of it.

         After our visitor had a chance to catch his breath, Holmes again inquired as to the nature of the problem.

         “He’s after me Mr. Holmes, he’s after me.”

         “Who’s after you?”  I asked.

         “Professor Moriarty.  He’s trying to kill me.”

         But he’s—“

         “Dead” finished Holmes.