The
Case of the Johannesburg Papers |
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I have for some
time debated the relating of this particular case, for it involves not only
intensely confidential military papers but the regretful harming of a small
child. It is a tale, as one might have
guessed, that was precipitated by Colonel Sebastian Moran, that loathsome
henchman of Moriarty’s. A more brutal
and ruthless fellow one would be hard-pressed to uncover. To the great benefit of the citizenry of As my readers are likely already familiar, my own
introduction to the great Sherlock Holmes came at the end of my tenure in Her
Majesty’s Army. With my health and my
financial portfolio suffering, I took lodgings in However, before my association with a certain consulting
detective, I had spent many years as part of an army surgical unit in the
East. There I had, as can only be
expected, forged many friendships and acquaintances with men set upon a
military career. One such fellow, whom I
had served with in the North of India shortly before being dispatched to He was a tall man with a decided military carriage, but his face was friendly and had the capacity to immediately put one at ease. His hair was the color of dark grey and his eyes a light brown hue. After seeing him for the first time in many years, I was surprised by the dull luster now evident in his colors and complexion; it was clear that something had very nearly taken the life out of his body. As I sat him down in the chair opposite my desk, for he had called at my surgery, I noticed that his bearing was strained and his features wore an unnatural tension. “John,” he said, “it is good to see you again, my friend.” “Indeed, indeed,” I replied with much cheer. “Last I heard you were stationed in He gave a weak smile and said, “As you may have noticed, old fellow, I am in much distress.” “What has happened?” I queried. “My boy,” he said and paused. “Someone has taken my boy Arthur.” His tone was grave and despairing, his eyes focused on nothing. “Good God,” I said to this most shocking news. “That is why I am here,” he continued with only slightly
more composure. “Even in the far-flung
regions of our Commonwealth, we in “Think nothing of it,” I said firmly. “We shall go round and you will lay your circumstances before him. I will just arrange for the tending of my patients, and we shall be off immediately.” ~ “Holmes,” I called as I entered the sitting room. I looked around but there was no sign of him; not surprising as his comings and goings are nothing if not erratic. “He’s not here, I’m afraid. Difficult to say when he’ll return, but why don’t we wait a bit and have a cup of tea,” I suggested. He quite naturally expressed disappointment at the delay. “I suppose there’s nothing for it,” he stated good-naturedly, “and a cup of earl grey would calm my nerves.” I quickly called up
Mrs. Hudson and ordered some refreshments.
I offered my guest and long-time friend a seat on the settee, which he
sunk into as though a heavy weight was upon him (undoubtedly there was). I joined him at the opposite end and asked
him to tell me of his life after I left for He told me of his promotion
in He then questioned me on how I had been occupying myself, but I was not long in to my own narrative when I heard the front door and Holmes’s tread upon the stair. We both sprang up quickly, owing to our shared impatience. “Watson!” Holmes called jovially from just outside the open doorway. “I have a most pleasant surprise for you…” he called as he entered the sitting room. Seeing we had a guest, he stopped abruptly, blushed faintly, recovered instantly, and continued on toward his chair. “I do beg your pardon for the interruption. I was unaware we had a guest,” he said very cordially. “Holmes,” I said, “this is an old friend of mine, Major General Henry Weaver. Henry, this is Mr. Sherlock Holmes.” They briefly clasped hands and made the customary greetings. “I congratulate you
on your recent promotion, General,” said Holmes. “No doubt you have faired well in your recent
campaigns in “Quite,” he said, “quite right.” “Well, then,” Holmes prompted, “do give me the facts, and I shall aid you if at all possible.” After a few moments
in which he gathered his thoughts, Henry Weaver began his narrative. “Only two days ago I received a letter, hand
delivered, from some unknown source stating that my son, Arthur, had been
abducted from his new school in “This letter,” Holmes interrupted tersely, “from where was it posted?” “Charing Cross, the stamp read.” “Pray, continue,” said Holmes, who had now assumed his usual attentive posture—hands steepled in front of his face, eyes closed, mind keenly fixed on the sifting of facts. “This second letter
read that I was to procure certain military papers in the possession of a
fellow officer, with whom I have begun to forge an alliance because he is the
commanding general of all our forces in “Well, Mr. Holmes, I assure you that the situation brightened somewhat at this, for at least now we knew the position and that Arthur was likely unharmed. However, as I re-read both letters, trying to formulate some way out, I noticed that should I accept this demand for ransom, I would not even know which papers to steal. It was a wretched frustration that overcame me, and I simply broke down. I remained locked in my study all night and all day next, until my butler, Baxter, gave a curt and forceful rap at the door informing me of a newly arrived letter (naturally, he had been instructed to take notice of any similar new correspondence and to apprehend any persons delivering such letters by whatever means). This third letter arrived by the evening post, but this time it was marked Piccadilly. “The only thing included in this letter was a description of the papers I was to acquire, nothing more. I have never seen anything remotely matching their description, and indeed have no inkling as to how to even search out such papers. I am a desperate man, Mr. Holmes, so you will forgive me when I tell you I have been plotting the rummaging of my friend’s office since last evening. “However, early this morning, I was encouraged by my faithful housekeeper to try to take some breakfast, as I had not eaten since the arrival of the original letter. My wife was similarly commanded to the breakfast board. It was during this time that my wife suddenly perked up from her toast and suggested that I might see my old friend, John Watson, in the hope of gaining a consultation with you, Mr. Holmes. This, it seemed to me, to be a singular light in such a dark circumstance that I gave her an excited embrace and hastily bade the butler to get the address of your practice, John, that I might call straight away. “These are all the facts as I have them, Mr. Holmes,” he concluded. There was a lengthy pause before Holmes spoke. My friend Weaver looked quite relieved to have shifted some of the burden of his predicament. I was certainly glad to see that he had some hope yet. “General Weaver,” Holmes spoke slowly, “was there anything of the subject of these papers in the third letter?” “I have all the letters here, Mr. Holmes,” he responded and handed them over. Holmes inspected them with the utmost care, read them, paused, re-read them, and then handed them back to the Major General. “The allusion to
the new city of Finally, as the papers began settling to earth in earnest, Holmes sat cross-legged upon the floor silently reading something. “Aha!” he at last exclaimed. Henry Weaver jumped to his feet at this, no doubt greatly startled. The movement caught Holmes’s eye, and he refreshed himself to our presence (no doubt he had momentarily forgotten we were in the room). “General Weaver,” he stated, much excited, “please, return to your wife and relate to her that I am engaged on your behalf and will do all within my power. I must insist that you do not under any circumstances contact the regular police; this point is essential!” He hissed out the word ‘essential’ so that it would make the necessary impression. He then strode briskly toward his bed-chamber, stripping off his coat-jacket as he went. He closed his door abruptly just as he was beginning to unknot his tie. “I say,” Henry said astounded after witnessing this eccentric behavior. “If I’m not very much mistaken,” I said reassuringly, “he’s already got the scent.” ~ That evening, knowing instinctively that Holmes would be absent from our rooms, I supped at my club. Peterson was my dining partner for the evening, and I had a pleasant time indeed. After an excellent glass of the old tawny, I took my leave. Now, a night dining and conversing with Peterson, as any who are acquainted with the fellow will say, makes for a lively but late evening. It was not until nearly mid-night that I left my club. The morning rain
had left a chill in the foggy “Watson,” it hissed, “it’s me.” It was Holmes. Knowing realization would bring words of exclamation, he clamped a hand over my mouth. “Sorry for doing this, Watson, but we must depart immediately, you are in danger.” Before I could protest or question, he had me by the wrist and was leading me speedily down the dark alley. After several mind-boggling turns, he pulled me into a public house of low repute. We were soon in a private booth, and when my eyes adjusted to the dimly-lit room, I saw that he was dressed in his dock-hand costume and blood was trickling slowly from his lip. His chin was marked by a hasty attempt to wipe it away with the back of a sleeve. “Holmes, your lip!” I exclaimed. “What on earth happened?” He ran his tongue subtly along his bottom lip, tasted blood, and smiled wryly. “Your well-placed elbow,” he informed me, and I at once remembered my impulsive defense. “But that is unimportant at present,” he said in a dismissive tone. “You were being followed from your club.” “What?” I asked startled, “Why?” “Weaver has been followed since the moment he left his house this morning,” Holmes told me. “He was traced to your practice, and putting two-and-two together, the master-mind soon realized he would not play this particular game unchallenged.” “Moriarty!” I exclaimed, “The plum-rotten scoundrel! I should have guessed he was behind this loathsome affair.” Holmes said nothing but was wearing the most peculiar little smile. “What on earth are you smiling at?” I asked peevishly. “I was simply wondering how you manage to continually produce such delightful adjectival phrases?” Holmes asked with amusement. “Holmes, really!” I chastised. “This is hardly the time.” “Apologies, Watson,
apologies,” he offered with a smile.
Sobering, he continued, “The boy was being kept in a warehouse near the
south-end docks until just past ten this evening, he was then removed and taken
to where I know not. Moriarty is no
doubt involved, but personally he is playing a quiet hand. Moran is pulling all the strings behind this particular plot. Though I do not know what information is in these
papers, I have ascertained that the buyer is a certain government with a keen
interest in the gold-wealth that is likely to be acquired in the recently-founded
city of “It appears that your friend Weaver was tapped because he is unique in that his military position is considerable and his son is still young and, therefore, easily taken. His growing intimacy with the keeper of these military documents only enhanced Moran’s opportunity. “The problem, Watson, is that the boy has undoubtedly suffered somewhat from the breaking by Weaver of the spirit, if not the letter, of Moran’s instructions not to involve the authorities. Indeed, I fear my presence, now known, in this matter will cause great harm to that young man.” He related this last to me in a bleak fashion, fearing that little had been gained but much was to be lost by his efforts. Indeed, where Moriarty and Moran were concerned, the presence of Sherlock Holmes often resulted in tremors of retribution and evil spreading across our fair city. ~ After breakfast the next day, I was sitting on the settee reading the Daily Chronicle, when Holmes laid his morning pipe aside and sat down beside me. “Watson,” he spoke softly, a touch of melancholy in his voice, “I fear for this child.” “What’s to be done?” I asked after a small time. “Might there be some way to locate the child in secret, and then make an attempt to re-capture him?” Such a simple solution I knew was not tenable, but perhaps my suggestion would spawn a better resolution in my companion’s sharp mind. Holmes turned upon the settee, placing his legs—crossed at the ankles—up on the arm of the settee and resting the back of his head comfortably on my leg, just above the knee. This gesture of intimate familiarity was new for Holmes, and had a most warming result on my affections. The present case was one of such seriousness that our private concerns had been naturally left aside. His eyes were closed in contemplation for several moments before he spoke. “I sincerely wish, Watson, that your suggestion was possible. And a day ago it may just have been, for if my involvement was still unknown I might have attempted such a rescue. No, a better solution must be discovered.” Having no useful thoughts on the case, I remained silent. Holmes lay there, eyes still closed, right arm extended upward, fingers curled over the top of the settee back. His left hand was resting on his chest, and he was tapping a nervous staccato with his fingers. In an effort to calm him, I slowly placed my hand over his, stopping the anxious drumming. He accepted my gesture easily, but remained silent for some time. “You must go and stay with your friend, Watson,” he said suddenly. “It is necessary that you are seen acting as his protector and that you seemingly remain unaware of my actions. Likewise, you must openly visit the South African General who keeps the documents in question. From him you will collect an envelope; tell no one you have received this, not even Weaver. After that, do your best to comfort them, but by no means allow them to contact the police or take any action that might provoke the situation.” “I’ll do as you say, of course,” I assured him. He sat up, shifted to face me, and then leaned in and kissed me. Even though I knew our passion must, of current necessity, be postponed, I could not stop my affections. Speaking not on behalf of my rational mind but of something else entirely, I suggested boldly, “must I go straight away?” He smiled briefly, knowing what I desired, “sadly, it must be so.” I smiled in return and recovered from my disappointment. “Very well,” I said as I stood to go prepare my carpet bag, “but you take care, Holmes. Moran is intent not only on his original plot, but also on exacting retribution.” “I shall tread cautiously,” he promised solemnly. As I was on the stairs, Holmes shouted from the sitting-room, “And, Watson, take your revolver.” ~ Over the next few days, I stayed with my old friend Henry Weaver, and carried out Holmes’s orders exactly. I did not see him at all during this time, but had several terse wires from him providing additional instructions (and a welcomed indication that he was well). Every hour that elapsed seemed to drive Henry and his good wife, Emma, closer to a nervous attack. I eventually had to administer a sleeping draught to the fretful woman. Likewise, I often had to assure Henry that Holmes was presently active and would undoubtedly recover the boy. The days were long indeed, and the whole house-hold was tense day and night with anxiety. I soon received a wire from Holmes informing me that an agent was coming to collect the papers. Acting as Weaver’s agent, I was to insist on accompanying the papers to ensure the exchange. Finally having some activity set before me, I began to feel more myself again. The following day, the butler, Baxter, informed me that I had a visitor waiting in the library. Hoping it might be Holmes, but realizing that it was more likely Moran’s agent, I inquired after a calling-card. None had been given, but the guest, Baxter said, was an “elderly woman of the working class.” By this I inferred that my caller was likely ill-dressed and in possession of a strong natural odor. Curious (for why Moran would send an old woman as his agent was unknown to me?), I made my way toward the library. Upon entering, my guesses as to my visitor’s appearance were confirmed. “Good afternoon, my good woman. I’m Dr. John Watson, how might I be of assistance to you?” I asked in a pleasant and courteous manner. “Ga af’ernoon, Do’or Wa’son,” she said in an accent so thick I could scarcely identify it as an attempt at English. “Why, aren’ you an an’som feller?” Upon saying this she moved quite close, and I was hard pressed to shift for a solid oak reading table was at my back. Visibly nervous by such forward advances, I stammered, “Madam, if you please…” But before I could finish or protest she ran a curled finger along the line of my jaw in a coquettish fashion. I was astounded and made a quick move sideways in escape. “Now…see here, Madam…” I struggled to say. She gave a hoarse cackle at the obvious display of embarrassment and terror upon my face. Her laugh ended in a rasping cough, and then she spoke, “you nee’ no’ fear this ol’ la’y, do’or, I hain’ quick enough to catch ye now a days. No, sir, I’m ere on b’ness, I am. I’ve come to collec’ the goods, sir.” Her tone was now quite serious, and I knew then that she was indeed the agent I was anticipating. Gathering my flustered senses once again, I said, “Very well. But I insist on first seeing the boy before relinquishing the documents.” “Me or’ers were no’ a bring a do’or, jus the goods,” she said, then seemed to think on the situation for a brief time. Finally she said with a wry laugh, “Well, do’or, seeings yur so an’som, I don’ moind if ye share me cab for a toime.” As she spoke she made another amorous advance, this time gliding an ancient finger down my chest. “Madam!” I cried, “I must insist on the cessation of these advances! I am a man who is spoken for!” My protestations, admittedly, sounded such as like an innocent maiden might make. After a fleeting look of surprise at my remark, the old woman laughed heartily. “Beg pardon, beg pardon, do’or,” she said between gasps of raucous laughter. I waited patiently for this humorous fit at my expense to end. Eventually, she sputtered out her seemingly customary end-of-laugh cough and said, “A’righ’, do’or, le’s be off, then, afore I scares ye off for good.” “Very good,” I replied, ready to get down to business. “I’ll just retrieve the papers and call for a cab.” As I strode from the room, the old crone called out with a laugh, “No’ so bad from behoin’, neither.” I cringed as her cackle following me up the stairs. ~ “You jus’ wait ‘ere a bit, do’or,” the old woman
instructed as she closed the door. She
had taken me to a sparsely furnished room at a very low inn indeed. I sat uncomfortably in a chair that I was
surprised to find didn’t collapse underneath me. Finding myself alone and not knowing what to
expect next, or when to expect it, I kept my attention sharp as I thought over
the case at hand. Holmes was certainly
an active member to what was now transpiring, but I could not be sure which
elements his hand had touched. I was
almost sure that he had arranged for the delivery of the After nearly two fretful hours, the old woman
returned. “ ‘ope I ‘avn’ kep’ ye wai’ ‘n
long, do’or,” she said as she entered.
Her tone was much more serious and her flirtations were kept,
thankfully, to a bare minimum. “We go’ a
be shuvin off now,” she commanded, and with that we were out the door and
walking down the forgotten streets of one of We had not gone terribly far when we turned down a narrow alley-way. Shortly we descended a long stair into an opium den, passed several writhing bunks, and into a back set of rooms. These rooms, however, were significantly better furnished than one would expect given the other surroundings: a fine table had been laid with decent food, the chairs were well-plushed, and a small, well-made bed could be seen in the adjoining room. Upon which, after having taken a careful survey of my environment (a caution I always followed in such situations), I noticed lay a young boy with a blind about his eyes and bits of cloth securely binding both his hands and his feet. Instinctively, I lunged for entry into the small side room, but a tall brute of a man leapt from inside to menacingly block the doorway. At the same time, the other door closed behind me, and I whirled to face Moran, who had slipped in behind us. The old woman stood out of the way, a little in the shadows, suggesting to me that she feared these men and was keen not to draw attention to herself. As soon as I saw Moran, with his twisted moustache and malevolent smile, I demanded, “Unbind that boy, Moran, you vile brute, this instant!” His smile, if it were possible, only increased its sinister nature at my words. “I think not,” he said gruffly and strode over to me, bringing his face inches from mine. “Give me the papers,” he commanded with a snarl. I was now acting without thinking, as one often does in these situations, and so I stated crisply and with haughty defiance, “Release the boy, or I will not relinquish my end of the exchange.” I had barely finished the words before Moran threw a vicious punch to my mid-section (I might have expected that). I doubled over, but my dignity kept me standing for the time being. Suddenly the brute lurking behind me pinioned my arms, exposing my chest, and Moran expertly (and with no gentleness) searched my coat and jacket pockets, eventually finding what he wanted within the inner confines of my waist-coat. “How predictable,” was all he said as he turned from me, now intent upon his prize. He opened the envelope, inspected the documents, and was seemingly satisfied as to their authenticity. As he nonchalantly exited the room, he called back to his henchman sadistically, “Kill him. Then kill the boy.” I immediately began to struggle, for I was now in a position of fighting for my own life, as well as the boy’s. I shuffled, bucked, kicked, thrashed—anything to dislodge my adversary’s grip or throw him off balance. We were careening about the room, violently upsetting the furniture. In no time, he had me face down upon the table, his massive weight pinning me down as I savagely tried kicking at his legs. Abruptly he went limp, his grip slackened, and he slumped to the floor next to me. I was swiftly on my feet and whirling to see what the game was, fists raised, ready to fight off any more attackers. To my absolute astonishment, I saw before me the old crone, now standing six feet tall (where before she had stooped horribly) and wielding a constable’s night-stick, which she had just used to bean the villain stoutly over the head. I starred, mouth agape, at the unbelievable scene before me. Then the old woman pulled off her “hair”, peeled off some bits of wrinkled “skin” from her face, and pulled out her rotten front “teeth.” And of course, as will not surprise the reader, there was Sherlock Holmes. In such a situation as mine at that present time, you will understand that realization dawned rather slowly. “Watson,” he said in his masculine voice, “are you alright? Are you injured?” “Holmes!” I managed after a short time. “Good God, it was you all along?” “I judge by your concerns that you are not too traumatized physically,” he replied and was clearly relieved. “Yes, I fear I had to deceive you, my good fellow. Now,” he spoke resolutely, “we must tend to the boy.” We immediately went into the other room and doffed the young boy’s bonds and blind. He had indeed been harmed, for both of his eyes were discolored with bruising and were noticeably swollen. Likewise, his lips possessed traces of blood, and when I inspected his mouth two of his baby-teeth had been prematurely dislodged by a savage blow. The sight of such treatment to a small boy sickened me greatly. The young man, Arthur, was a brave lad, though the tell-tale signs of past tears were present upon his dirty cheeks. When we assured him that he was now safe and would shortly be reunited with his parents, he had enough of the stout character of the son of an English military officer left in him to show his gratitude. “Thank you, sirs,” he said weakly, “for helping me out of this danger.” “That’s a brave fellow,” Holmes replied with an uncharacteristically tender arm around the boy’s shoulder, “all will be well now. Come along.” With that we left the dark maze of the opium den and were greeted by Lestrade in the alley way. “Mr. Holmes,” he called and came briskly up to us. “Excellent work, excellent work. And here’s the lad, bless our stars,” and having looked the boy over, he said, “I think the Queen herself will bestow a medal on you, young man, for your brave and heroic conduct.” The boy managed a small smile, despite his pain. “Thank you, sir,” was all he could say before Henry and Emma Weaver turned the corner and ran to embrace their son. Holmes and I stood there a moment before Lestrade took a long glance at Holmes, for he indeed looked (and smelled) a wretched figure with his old crone’s disguise now only half in tact. “I say, Mr. Holmes,” Lestrade said with a repressed snigger, “you might do well with a bar of soap and a change of clothes.” “Thank you…Lestrade…for
your insightful suggestion,” he called as we walked down the alley, heading
toward ~ When we arrived at our rooms, Holmes gave his filthy garb a quick tug and said, “I’m afraid, Watson, that I will have to spend some considerable time ridding myself of this foul affair.” I smiled and said, “I have no mind to keep you from such a noble undertaking. However, I do expect a full explanation on the morrow.” “Lestrade has likewise insisted and will be arriving promptly in the morning,” he replied good-naturedly, the satisfactory conclusion of so trying a case lifting his spirits as usual. “Good night, my dear Watson.” “Good night, Holmes.” ~ “With the cooperation of General McCartney, the
commander of our South African forces, I had secured a very-nearly identical copy of the “But how did you fool Moran with your disguise?” I asked. “Surely you could not have gained his confidence, as an old woman, in the manner of only a few days.” “No, but an old woman did have his confidence and was to be used as his agent in this affair. I simply had to make some inquiries, seek out this Mrs. Penderton (if that is her true name), and way-lay her. I made a quick study of her features, gained the appropriate costume, and smoothly inserted myself in her stead. And I must admit,” he said with an air of self-pride, “it was perhaps one of my best performances to date.” “But how did you know where to find the boy?” Lestrade queried. “I didn’t, you see, until I had collected the papers. As soon as Moran had been informed that his agent had come successfully with the papers to the appointed location, he sent her a wire containing information about the place of exchange, which, as we all now know, was the locality of the young gentleman, Arthur. And since it had been myself, acting with data obtained from the real agent, I had time to set up the scheme with the regular police. “You managed to secure Moran, I trust, Lestrade?” Holmes asked, knowing the answer full well, but wanting the reassurance that this most loathsome man was indeed in custody. “We certainly did, Mr. Holmes,” Lestrade answered proudly, “nabbed him just where you said he’d be.” “Excellent,” Holmes concluded. ~ We cordially accepted an invitation to dine with the Weavers that evening, and it proved a most pleasant time. Henry and his wife were most relieved at the (relatively) safe return of their son, and their displays of gratitude to both Holmes and myself were heart-felt and frequent. Since we last saw him, Arthur had been well tended for his injuries, taken in a few solid meals, and had a good night’s sleep in his own bed: his condition was therefore much improved. And, having heard of his principal part in his rescue, he insisted on sitting as close to Holmes as possible throughout the entire evening. Holmes reacted with his customary social distance, but small gestures of paternal-like affection occasionally escaped his control. Just upon our leaving, Arthur handed Holmes a small gift-box, “I picked it out myself, Mr. Holmes, but papa paid for it,” he said with a huge grin. “Thank you, young man,” Holmes said accepting the box. “Aren’t you going to open it,” Arthur said with disappointment when Holmes didn’t immediately tear off the wrapping like a child on Christmas morning. Holmes of course did as he was bade and slipped off the bow and paper. Inside the small box, there was an exquisitely crafted magnifying glass meant to be fitted to a watch chain. Holmes is not often surprised, or at least does not show it, but the look on his face displayed just that—he clearly had not expected so beautiful and fitting a gift. With his voice rather thick with sentiment, he said, “Thank you, young man, I shall wear it always.” He then touched his hand to his hat and turned crisply, striding out the door. I said my farewells and met him at the cab. We were silent for much of the ride then Holmes said, “A remarkable young man, Watson.” “Indeed,” I said smiling. ~ After retiring that night, I lay in my bed with a particularly exciting sea-novel. I had not gotten far into the chapter I was reading, when my door opened and there stood Holmes. He was still dressed in his evening attire. He reached behind him, closed the door softly, and deftly turned the key in the lock. Neither of us spoke, for explanations were unnecessary. He slowly removed his coat-jacket as he walked toward the bed. I put my book hastily on the night stand and sat upright. He hung his jacket over my bed-post, and sat down on the bed to remove his shoes. Unable to be still any longer, I shifted so that I was kneeling behind him and began to skillfully unfasten his tie and collar, subsequently kissing the nape of his neck (with much relish) and sliding my arms around his sides to undo his waist-coat and shirt-buttons. I slid off his waist-coat, shifted his braces down off his shoulders, and began untucking his shirt tails from his trousers. At this point, it was he who could not remain still and so he stood (how beautiful he is, I thought, in his current state of partial undress). He then leaned toward me and kissed me passionately. Coming completely undone, I wrapped my arms around him and pulled him down onto the bed. He smiled impishly at my behavior then promptly returned my ardor, knowing full well that the very sky could fall and neither of us would take the least notice of it. ~ Holmes left my bed-chamber just as the sun was coming up, and I do not regret relating that our sleep was missed that night. In the end, hunger and the smell of Mrs. Hudson cooking our breakfast bacon were the only things that shifted us. I cannot fully describe (nor would it be gentlemanly for me to do so) the astonishing experience in which I had just been engaged. It was with lingering memories and a contented smile upon my face that I undertook my toilet, dressed in my best shirt and finest tie, and made my way down to the sitting-room. “Watson!” Holmes cried as I cross the threshold, “good morning, my good man!” His demeanor was exceptionally pleasant, but because Holmes is Holmes his disposition could never be described as “bright” (though I daresay it very nearly was). “Good morning, Dr. Watson,” Mrs. Hudson said, for she was just setting out our breakfast when I had entered the room. “Good morning, Mrs. Hudson,” I said, addressing our good landlady first, as courtesy demanded. Then seating myself at the table, I turned to Holmes and said cheerfully, “and a good morning to you, Holmes.” “Sleep well, did you, Watson?” he asked with a wretchedly wicked smile. Mrs. Hudson was bustling about and her back was (thankfully) turned toward him. I was caught off guard by Holmes’s bold and reckless mischief. “Quite,” I managed clumsily. “Oh, yes, quite.” “Excellent!” he said still sporting his wicked smile. As soon as Mrs. Hudson had closed the door behind her, I said in a chastising tone, “You are a most terrible scoundrel, Sherlock Holmes.” “A plum-rotten scoundrel, perhaps?” he teased. |
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