The Case of the Philadelphia Affair
by M

          “Alistair,” I said, “it’s been too long, my good friend!”

          “John!” he replied with a bright and welcoming smile, “much too long!  How have you been, old man?  How was the journey over?” 

          “I am well, and the journey proved quite eventful, I daresay,” I responded. 

          “Really?  How so?” he asked with curiosity. 

          We had become quite caught up in the enthusiasm of our greeting that I had nearly forgotten Holmes, who was standing to my left and just slightly behind.  

          “Where are my good manners,” I said as I halted the recounting of our adventures aboard the S.S. Rhynland.  “Alistair, I’d like you to meet my intimate friend, Sherlock Holmes.”  Holmes stepped forward, revealing himself and extending his hand in greeting.  “Holmes, this is Dr. Alistair Worsley.”

          “A great pleasure, Dr. Worsley,” Holmes said formally.

          “The pleasure is mine, good sir,” Alistair replied in a similarly formal fashion.  After a momentary pause, he said, “I’ll just have your luggage collected and then we’ll make our way to my town-house, if it pleases you.”

          “It does indeed,” I said with a pleasant smile.  It was excellent to see my good friend again after nearly ten years.  Following my medical training I became a surgeon in Her Majesty’s Army and have only had infrequent written correspondence with him since my return to England.  We had been close friends through medical school, spending countless hours together studying anatomy, pharmaceutical chemistry, and the like. 

          Once our trunks were loaded atop the carriage and the horses whipped up, Alistair and I began lively conversation about the events in our respective lives over the last decade.  Holmes sat in good-natured silence, allowing us to freely reacquaint ourselves. 

~

           “Mr. Holmes,” Alistair Worsley said when we sat down in the drawing-room of his Philadelphia town-house.  “What is your profession?”  We were served tea just at that moment, so it was several minutes before Holmes was able to reply.

          “I am a detective of crime,” he answered plainly.

          “You are with Scotland Yard, then,” Alistair said with a pleasant smile.

          A look of dismay and distaste settled over my companion’s face upon hearing this accusation—said in all innocence, of course. 

          “No,” I interjected, “Holmes is a private consulting detective; he works independently of the regular police.”  I smiled proudly and added, “and his application of observation and inference is simply astounding.  The London criminal cringes with Holmes upon his trail.”

          “Watson,” Holmes said, a faint blush stealing over his cheeks, “you are forever touting my abilities in too sensational and romantic a fashion.”

          Alistair was, however, very excited by my portrayal of Holmes’s professional gifts and asked, “so, Mr. Holmes, you apply the principles of logic and reason to the study of crime?”

          “Principally,” he answered evenly, “it is in large part a matter of observing the full meaning of what most see as trivialities.”

          “How do you mean?” Alistair asked curiously.

          “Tell Alistair all you are able to observe about him,” I suggested smiling, “a demonstration, so that he might better understand your methods.”

          Holmes looked over at me fleetingly, then over at Alistair, who was smiling encouragingly and with some disbelief, for how could this stranger know much about him after five minutes of casual conversation.  Holmes saw this and must have taken it as a friendly challenge because he immediately began the following narrative, which he delivered rapidly and unemotionally, leaving few, if any, points unspoken.

          “You were once a surgeon at a practice in High Street.  There, you were the junior physician to a doctor whose monogram is M.J.Q.  After practicing with him for nearly five years after your medical training, you were offered a teaching position at a new medical school in Boston.  An enthusiastic traveler by nature, you immediately accepted and spent over two years there.  You then moved to Philadelphia to take up a similar position at an older, more-prestigious medical institution, where you have succeeded in establishing an excellent professional reputation. 

          “You specialize in the instruction of matters pertaining to the internal organs as well as muscle anatomy, but pharmaceutical chemistry is a skill in which you are not an expert.  You also teach a class in general biology at a newly-established women’s ‘Varsity—or college, as it is known here.  I suspect, but cannot be certain, that you do this primarily out of sympathy for the women’s movement and not for any financial or professional gain.  Furthermore, you host monthly gatherings of local suffragettes in your home, where the ladies take coffee and not tea, I believe.”

          Holmes paused briefly, seeing a look of surprise begin on Alistair’s face.  He continued, “In your free time you enjoy reading horrid novels and riding a dun-colored horse in the country, often in an area possessing a river or large stream.  You have a particular fondness for chocolate with a high cocoa content, and you do not yourself take tobacco of any kind.

          “However, you keep a collection of very fine Cuban cigars on hand for a guest who means a great deal to you.  He is an American-born gentleman who is a professional writer of some kind, possibly a journalist.  He stands nearly six feet tall, has light blond hair, and a self-assured manner.  He is also a frequent week-end guest.  However, the necessitation of concealing the true nature of your relationship with this gentleman weighs heavily upon you, causing some tension about the shoulders as well as the periodic consumption of muscle-relaxing medication.

          “That is all I am able to observe at present.  However, I also know from a brief comment previously made by our mutual friend Watson here that you prefer rugby and are not trained in the art of boxing,” he concluded.

          During this narrative, I watched Alistair Worsley’s expression go from delightful surprise to shocking disbelief and end with stricken panic.  Holmes, however, completed the entire narrative without any emotion at all, as was his habit when stating facts; he had not realized the emotional implications of exposing certain elements of Alistair’s character.  Even I was startled by the detailed description Holmes provided of the man’s lover.

          Suddenly, Alistair stood up wildly.  He stared at Holmes with fear, anxiety, and anger.  Upon seeing this reaction, Holmes looked startled for a brief moment, unaware what might have caused such an abrupt action from our host.  Then Alistair spoke with a raw and shaking voice, “Who are you, sir!?” He paused, nerves visibly beginning to fray, “Do you, sir, accuse me of…” he faltered, not able to finish.  Holmes now looked a bit distressed himself—realization of his causative role in this affair dawning rapidly.  It was time I intervened, before the situation was irreparable.

          “Alistair,” I said in a raised but even tone.  “Please, sit down and allow me to explain.”  He looked at me, wild eyes gleaming with unshed tears of dread.  I rose and walked over to him, placing my hand on his shoulder to steady him and guide him into his chair.  “Please, Alistair, there is no cause for alarm, I assure you,” I said in my most soothing voice.  He relaxed slightly, gaze fixed upon my face, desperately trying to believe me.  He found no insincerity in my eyes, so he slowly regained his seat. 

          I recovered my own chair and, sure that Alistair was focused and listening, I began to explain, “Holmes here is highly skilled in the art of observation.  Where you and I see a simple cigarette butt, for instance, he might see an aristocratic gentleman who frequents a particular tobacco shop in Piccadilly, uses a cigarette holder, and is of an impatient nature.  It is a unique gift, and he has spent many years honing his methods for the purposes of detecting crime. 

          “When asked to display his skills with you as his subject, he used these same methods.  By way of example, I believe he was able to conclude that you yourself do not smoke because of the rather fresh atmosphere of this drawing room.”

          “Likewise,” Holmes interjected, “there are no pipes, cigars, or cigarettes present in the usual places men keep such things if they are accustomed to taking tobacco daily.  Furthermore, there are no traces of ash anywhere in the room; therefore, the act of smoking is an irregular activity here, for it is unlikely the housekeeper would be so diligent as to sweep the floor hourly.”

          Alistair was beginning to understand the method by which Holmes was able to understand so much about him, but he was still upset by this stranger’s knowledge of his intimate life.  Seeing this, I continued my mission to assuage his anxiety, “You see Alistair, what is known in great detail by Holmes goes completely unnoticed by the rest of the world.  He has no equal in the art of detection.  However,” I turned to look at Holmes, a slight accusatory tone in my voice, “his logical and precise intellect often allows little room for the consideration of emotional consequences.”  He shot me a look of surprise at this direct statement of his emotional thoughtlessness.  “However, I give you my word that he was unaware of his overly-cool regard for your private life and that he meant no harm.”

          “Dr. Worsley,” Holmes said calmly without looking at Alistair, “you have nothing to fear from me, I give you my word.”

          Alistair sat slumped in his chair, seemingly exhausted by the entire interaction.  After a long pause, he laughed awkwardly and said, “it is simply shocking to hear the secret one has kept so well concealed for so long stated aloud in such a casual fashion.  Your friend, Watson, it would seem is a brilliant man indeed—to know so much from so very little.”

          “He is,” I replied honestly, “but he does lack certain social graces.”  Alistair smiled at this friendly barb aimed at Holmes, who was taking my critical remarks for the simple facts they were. 

          “Dr. Worsley,” Holmes said decidedly after some time studying Alistair’s features, “you are not convinced that your private life will remain private, so I shall inform you that the…nature of my private life is identical to yours.” 

          “What?” Alistair said in astonishment, sitting bolt upright.  I too turned to face Holmes with utter surprise as he spoke, for this admission was most unexpected.  Holmes simply sat there, no anxiety or nervousness showing in his person.  Alistair must have noticed this, for he said, “But you admit it freely?”

          “Yes,” Holmes said coolly, “I can think of no reason why I might not tell you, and there is every reason why you might wish to know.  Since I lose nothing and you regain your sense of security, I am happy to share with you this intimate detail.”

          The logic of it was, without a doubt, perfectly Holmes. 

          I smiled at him and waited for Alistair’s reaction as he looked with bewilderment at Holmes.  Finally he said, “What you say is correct: knowing such a thing has indeed restored some of my confidence.  But I regret to say that I can make no sense of you at all.”  This last was spoken with a tone of relief and perplexed wonderment. 

          Holmes flashed him a fleeting smiled but said nothing. 

~

          After the above interaction, we began the process of restoring a more socialable atmosphere, and Alistair soon fully understood that Holmes was indeed uniquely brilliant.  He began to ask Holmes about some of his cases, to which Holmes replied, “you may simply read about them, for Watson has taken to chronicling a few of my more interesting cases.  I warn you, however, that they contain many embellished and romantic sensationalisms, so if you are interested more in precise reason you may be disappointed.”  His tone was filled with good-humor; this was a long-running and half-hearted criticism of my publications. 

          Just before dinner we were shown to our rooms on the second floor, which were situated at the end of the corridor and opposite each other.  As I was changing into my evening-attire, there was a knock on my door.  “Come,” I called, and Holmes entered, looking the perfect gentleman in the white neck-tie I had recently given him.  I turned from my mirror to look at his true image.  My mouth curled up at the edges in a very appreciative smile, “Holmes, you look exquisite,” I said earnestly.

          “As do you,” he said, standing in the doorway.  He walked in then and closed the door behind him, a sign that what he was about to say or do was private (I wickedly hoped it was something he was about to do).  “You did not tell me your friend preferred gentleman, Watson,” he said with an interesting smile.  “Foreknowledge might have saved me from a rather inelegant social interaction.  Do you think he is feeling more at ease?  He was exceedingly upset, a fact I most keenly regret.”

          I smiled at his concern.  “My dear Holmes,” I said as I moved over to him.  “I believe the statement of your own preferences had the desired effect.”  I kissed him, lightly at first, then more intensely.  Before I consciously realized what I was doing, my hands were under his jacket, tugging his shirt from his trousers.  I ran my hands along his sides and down his stomach, reaching for his trouser buttons.  I had the first two unfastened before Holmes took a step back and looked down at the now disheveled state of his evening clothes. 

          “We mustn’t be late for dinner, Watson,” he said somewhat breathlessly as he repaired his clothes to their respectable state. 

          We went down to dinner shortly and enjoyed a relaxed social ambience; I was very glad to see that Alistair had recovered quickly from the afternoon’s shock. 

          “Tell me, Alistair,” I asked, “What is the precise nature of my medical duties here?  You mentioned in your letter a lady of your acquaintance was taken ill.”

          “Yes,” he said.  “For nearly five weeks now she has been experiencing the most unusual symptoms.”  He proceeded to describe to me in full detail the medical condition of his friend, Miss Regina Dawson, leader of Philadelphia’s very active suffragette movement.  Holmes ate his meal in silence, realizing that this topic was best left to us medical men.  Periodically, however, I would catch him gazing at me fondly, and I soon got the impression that I would not be sleeping alone this evening.

~

          My impression at dinner of Holmes’s amorous intentions was quite correct.  He knocked softly upon my door just before midnight.  I had changed into my night-shift and was starting a book found atop the bed-stand when he entered.  Holmes was in his shirt-sleeves, his white neck-tie and collar undone.  “Good evening, Watson,” he said as he walked over to stand beside my bed.  “What’s that you’re reading?” he asked casually, though I knew he hadn’t the least interest in the subject of my novel. 

          I smiled up at him, tossed my book back on to the bed-stand, reached my hand up and slid his loose tie from around his neck.  I tossed it onto the bed carelessly and shifted my position so that I could reach up and undo the button on the back of his collar; this too I tossed aside.  He said nothing and remained still, happy for the time being to watch my hands undress him.  I too said nothing, happy to watch my hands move down his chest, leaving unclasped buttons in their wake.  I then slid his braces off his shoulders and proceeded to unfasten his gold cuff-links.  I focused my attention now upon his shirt, untucking it and undoing the remaining buttons.  I then slipped my hands beneath his under-shirt and felt the warmth of his bare skin. Holmes made a slight sound as he inhaled.  I smiled at this sign of pleasure and slowly ran my fingertips over his chest and stomach.  I kissed his stomach tenderly, eliciting another, sharper inhalation of breath.  Encouraged, I continued my kisses and began unfastening his trouser buttons, fingers lingering promisingly.  This action apparently broke his will, for he suddenly brought our lips together and leaned into me.  I resisted his forward movement, which would have forced me to lie back upon the bed.  He ended our kiss and looked at me inquisitively, wondering why I desired us to keep our current positions.  I said nothing but resumed my previous course of action, thinking that if he could not deduce my intentions he should no longer call himself Sherlock Holmes. 

~

          “Miss Dawson,” I instructed, “I want you to stay in bed for the next several days at least.  I will look in on you everyday, will that suit you?”

          “None of this suits me, Dr. Watson,” she said sullenly, “but I will do as you say.”

          “Very good,” I said as I put my stethoscope back into my medical bag and left her bed-chamber. 

          Alistair was waiting in the sitting-room, eager to hear what my thoughts were as to his friend’s illness.  I smiled at him and requested that we go home, for there was much to discuss.

          We finished hanging up our coats and hats and were striding toward the drawing-room when Alistair stopped suddenly, and because I was walking directly behind him, I collided into him gracelessly.  I heard a stranger’s voice, and as we continued our way in to the room, we found Holmes in intense conversation with a tall blond man.  Both men were smoking cigars and clearly enjoying each other’s company.  As we entered, they turned to us and stood. 

          “Alistair,” the blond man said in mock chastisement, “you didn’t tell me Sherlock Holmes was your guest.  And you must be Dr. John Watson,” he said with a friendly American smile and vigorous shake of my hand.

          “I am, good sir,” I said returning his bright smile. 

          “Alex Stapleton,” he introduced, “it’s a great pleasure to meet you.”

          “The pleasure is all mine, I’m sure,” I replied, unaware of the cause of his excitement.  He grinned hugely as we all took our seats.

          After regaining himself, Alistair asked, “I was unaware you’d met Mr. Holmes before, Alex.”

          “We’ve not met until today,” he replied, “but I’ve heard much about his talents from the Pinkerton men.  You’re gaining quite an air of celebrity across the pond, I hear, Mr. Holmes—and you as well Dr.”  His voice was open and warm, and filled with much admiration.  It became immediately clear why Alistair felt so deeply for this man; he was affable and charming, not to mention quite handsome.

          “Mr. Stapleton here covers crime for the Philadelphia Inquirer, Watson,” Holmes said with a pleasant smile, “and we have been having the most delightful conservation comparing the American criminal with that of his brother in England.”  He looked over at Alex Stapleton with much approval and concluded, “A thoroughly insightful exchange indeed.”  Stapleton beamed (as only an American would dare to do) at this compliment from the great criminal detective Sherlock Holmes.

          I smiled at the obvious blooming of a fast friendship.  I was grateful that Holmes was making such an association (with a fellow follower of crime no less), as I feared that much of my time would be spent trying to aid Miss Dawson.

          Alistair and I soon excused ourselves so that we might discuss Miss Dawson’s condition.  However, Alex Stapleton insisted on joining us for dinner, and the four of us passed a most jovial evening together.

~

          “Have you considered that perhaps she’s being poisoned, Watson?” Holmes asked late one night as we lay in bed.  “I am not a medical doctor, of course,” he continued, “but I have encountered similar symptoms during one of my cases, and the man was being poisoned by his wife’s lover.”

          I had not, in fact, considered this.  “Poison?” I said.  “I suppose it’s a possibility.  But who would want to poison Miss Dawson?” I asked skeptically; the very idea seemed ludicrous.

          “Is she a wealthy woman?  Perhaps she has an over-eager heir—quite a common motivation,” he informed me.

          “No,” I replied, “she’s well-educated but her wealth is not remarkable from what I understand.”

          “Politically she is quite provocative…” he suggested further.

          I smiled, realizing that—despite his forays around the city with Alex Stapleton—over the last weeks he had become somewhat bored in his idle role as house-guest.  “Now, Holmes, are you so unoccupied here that you are trying to make a case for yourself out of Miss Dawson’s condition?” I teased him mildly.  He didn’t respond, but I could tell he knew there was some truth behind my jest.  I lifted my head from where it rested on his bare shoulder and kissed him.  “We shall simply have to find other activities in which you might become engaged,” I said and renewed our love-making eagerly.

~

          I walked into the drawing-room late one afternoon, desiring a calming smoke, knowing that Alex Stapleton and Holmes were frequently to be found enjoying just such a pleasure at that hour of the day.  “Did you know, Watson,” Holmes said to me as I entered the room, “that Miss Dawson has a younger sister who is affianced to a gentleman much opposed to women’s progress?  In fact, he heads a coalition strongly against the suffragette movement.”  He flashed me a quick smile as I sat down next to him on the short sofa.  Alex Stapleton grinned at me, clearly fresh from conspiring with Holmes to make a criminal case out of my patient’s illness.  I returned Holmes’s gaze with much incredulity and proceeded to accept a cigarette from his case.  He then struck a match and I leaned closer to him, placing my right hand upon his knee as he lit the end of my cigarette.  I let my hand linger there while I took a satisfying drag and exhaled.  I removed my hand slowly from Holmes’s knee, shifting my cigarette from my left hand.  I looked over at Alex Stapleton, who had worn a most interesting expression upon his face, which quickly vanished when my gaze fell upon him.  Tired, I disregarded this exchange almost immediately, but Holmes had noticed it and subsequently flashed an odd smile at Stapleton as soon as I spoke.

          “Have you two been sitting here all day dreaming up a criminal case?” I asked in mock disapproval, mainly directed toward Holmes.

          Holmes smiled broadly at me, “Ah, but my dear Watson, this case of yours is quite criminal.  I assure you that no ‘dreaming up’ on our part is necessary.” 

          “You can’t be serious,” I said.  He raised his eyebrows and regarded me evenly.  He was, indeed, quite serious.  “Are you sure?” I asked.

          “Quite,” he replied, knowing that I was now won over to his point of view.  He proceeded to inform me of the fruits of his already-underway investigation.  It seems that Holmes and Alex Stapleton have been making inquiries all over Philadelphia for the past three days, and were having some success in gathering evidence against Miss Dawson’s future brother in-law.  I was bowled over at this news.  Not only was Miss Dawson being slowly poisoned to death, but that Holmes had nearly nabbed the perpetrator already was beyond belief.  Sometimes I think the universe has predetermined that Sherlock Holmes and crime shall never be left too long apart.

~

          “Poison?” Miss Dawson said in a small voice.  “Poison?” she repeated.

          “Yes, Miss Dawson,” Holmes said as he stood by her day-chair, “I’m afraid so.”

          “Who?  Why?” she was becoming agitated.

          “Calm down, Regina,” Alistair said as he stroked her hand, “you mustn’t excite yourself.”

          “Alistair,” she said with some venom, “I’m being poisoned and you talk of being calm.”  He continued to stroke her hand gently but said nothing in reply.

          “Miss Dawson,” Holmes said.  “Your younger sister and her fiancé are responsible for this plot against you.”

          “Jessica?” she asked in disbelief, “my own sister?”  She was stunned and sat silent.

          “I’m afraid so, yes, but you must understand that your sister was won over by the amorous affections of Mr. Stokes, who has used her to fulfill his own goals.  His desire to remove you from the fore-front of the suffragette movement was great, and he would stick at nothing to hinder your influence.  However, he told your sister that the poison would merely weaken you for a time; she was unaware of the fatal consequences of long-term exposure.”  Holmes explained this without expression.  Unlike Alistair Worsley, Miss Dawson seemed to greatly appreciated Holmes’s cool and formal manner of exposition. 

          “You will be fine now, Miss Dawson,” I said reassuringly, “the effects of the poison should wear off fully in a week or so.”  She smiled at me slightly, shock and disbelief still strong in her features. 

          “Mr. Holmes,” she said tentatively, “may I see my sister?”

          He nodded and headed out the door, returning several minutes later with a sobbing Jessica Dawson.  She threw herself at her older sister’s feet, confession and apology coming between gasps and wails.  A local detective had the younger Miss Dawson in his custody, and he stood back near the door watching the scene impassively.  Holmes looked first at me and then to Alistair, and we rose and took our leave.

          “Good God, Mr. Holmes,” Alistair said as we walked toward his town-house, “how ever did you uncover all this villainy?”

          “By applying the very methods that gave you so great a shock upon our first acquaintance, Dr.,” Holmes said easily.  “It is my trade.”

~

          “No,” I said with a laugh, “no more, please, I must get dressed for dinner.”

          “Twenty-three minutes remain before the dinner bell,” he said lightly and resumed his affections.  My eyes closed in blissful pleasure as his hand moved slowly over the bare skin of my thigh. 

          He had entered my room some little time ago, fully dressed in his evening attire, and without saying a word had begun removing the clothing I had started to put on.  Given my only partial state of dress, it took him little time to reach my bare flesh and, thus, gain my full cooperation.  He removed only his jacket, and it was inexplicably exhilarating to watch him adorn me with kisses fully clothed in a crisp white shirt, formal black waist-coat and tie, and black trousers. 

          The dinner bell rang just as my passions were reaching a critical stage, and I immediately exclaimed, “Holmes, the bell!” 

          He ceased his affections at my startled comment and looked at me.  “Would you truly have me stop, Watson?” he asked, but resumed without waiting for an answer. 

          “No, of course not,” I said breathlessly.

~

          We continued our stay for several weeks after Holmes had successfully uncovered the plot to poison Miss Dawson.  Alistair and I monitored her recovery daily, and she was soon hosting small meetings with her fellow suffragettes in her parlor-room. 

          Our final week was spent in much leisure, and I was sitting alone in the drawing room one afternoon reading when Alistair strode in with a friendly smile.  “Where’s Mr. Holmes?” he asked as he sat down in a comfortable leather chair. 

          “He and Mr. Stapleton are with the Pinkertons,” I said wryly. 

          “Again?” Alistair asked.

          “I’m afraid so,” I replied with a smile.  Alistair returned my friendly gesture and then a serious expression stole across his features. 

          “John,” he said with apprehension, “may I ask you a terribly private and ungentlemanly question?”

          I looked over at him, one of my oldest and dearest friends, and smiled warmly.  “Absolutely, Alistair,” I said openly, “anything at all, old man.”

          He relaxed, shifted his eyes to the floor, then said, “Alex has suggested to me, in private of course, that you and Mr. Holmes are…well…lovers…” He paused, still looking toward the floor, his face slightly flushed.  I smiled at his reserved nature and natural shyness. 

          “And you wish to ascertain if his impression is accurate?” I asked with good-humor.  He looked up and saw my smile.

          “Well, yes.”

          “If Mr. Stapleton has any intention of becoming a consulting detective,” I said, “then he shall likely have much success.”

          Alistair smiled at me, and we sat in silence for some time.  I suspect he was adjusting his perception of me to incorporate this new information.  “John,” he said finally, “did he really guess about my relationship with Alex using his methods of detection?  You truly hadn’t told him?” 

          I laughed at my friend’s residual skepticism.  “I’m afraid that Sherlock Holmes is frightfully brilliant and needs no help from me when it comes to gathering facts.” 

~

          “It has been a great pleasure, Dr. Worsley,” Holmes said as they shook hands.

          “Indeed it has, Mr. Holmes,” Alistair replied warmly.  “You are welcome to stay on with me should you ever find yourself back in Philadelphia.”  Holmes nodded graciously. 

          “John,” Alistair said as we heartily shook hands in farewell.  “It has been great having your company again, I will miss you terribly.”

          “As will I, my good friend,” I said, “as will I.  But I expect to see you back in London some time soon.”

          During this time, Holmes and Alex Stapleton were enthusiastically shaking hands and exchanging their cordial farewells. 

          We were soon aboard the ship bound for Liverpool, and home.

~

          It had been just over two months since we left for America, and Baker Street was a most welcome sight indeed.  We placed our trunks and carpet-bags in the foyer, Mrs. Hudson fussing over us as we removed our coats and hats. 

          “Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson,” she said warmly, “it is so good to have you home again.”

          “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” I said feeling warm and welcome, “it is great to see you again.”

          “Indeed,” Holmes said with a very friendly smile at our warm-hearted land-lady.

          “I’ll have the supper ready in an hour,” she informed us and bustled off to the kitchen.

          We quickly ascended the seventeen steps toward our sitting-room.  We were soon in our customary seats, smoking our pipes, and feeling utterly pleased to be in familiar surroundings.

          It was nearly quarter of an hour before either of us spoke, and it was Holmes who broke the silence.  “It is good to be back, is it not, my dear Watson,” he said contentedly. 

          I smiled at him broadly and replied, “Very good, indeed.”

 
The Case of the Missing Sailor