Smoke Hearts with Mechanical Parts (15)

Smoke Hearts with Mechanical Parts

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(A Study In Slime)

Being a Reprint from the Reminiscences of John H. Watson, M.D., Late of the Army Medical Department

Chapter the First

The Dragen’s Dene was not a particularly favourite haunt of mine. I do not count myself amongst one of the lovers of the light, but the Dene was claustrophobic even to my tastes. The ceilings were dank and low, and the club was packed with gruff tattooed men from wall to grimy wall. Just beneath us ran the Inner Circle line, and as the trains passed under us every so many minutes, the wooden floorboards shook, and I swear the smell of sulfurous smoke in the room grew even worse. I made my way towards a table in the far corner, and sat with my back to the wall, surveying all around me, waiting for my client.

I did not have to wait long. I looked up to see my colleague Stamford making his way across the room towards me. He may have been an underhanded slippery sort of fellow, who plagiarised most of his degree thesis, but he was usually very punctual about keeping appointments.

“Ah. Watson. What are you drinking?”

I looked down at the miserable pint of scum I was nursing, and gave Stamford a pointed look. He shrugged in reply.

“Very well, suit yourself.”

A moment later he came back from the bar, a tankard of the same rotten brew I was drinking in one hand, and a measure of gin in the other. He flopped down in the chair opposite me, and without a word a tipped the gin into my drink.

“Dog’s nose.” he replied, in answer to my unasked question. “Makes the vile stuff taste better.”
I nodded absently, and I took a trial swig. If I were any other man, I might have feared poison, alcoholic or otherwise, but I am not any other man, and he was right, the gin gave a deception of depth to the bitter ale.

“So.” my colleague began, peeling off his gloves, and placing them in his hat. “Do you have my package? Cheers!”

Our tankards gave a miserable metallic thud, as we ‘clinked’ them together.

I sat back in my chair, and gave Stamford a measuring look.

“Of course I have it.”

We had once been medical students together – and by that I mean we had studied alongside each other, but never really had any intimacy. We shared a few lectures, and a few cadavers, but when I had been dared to scale the college spire, he had not been among those who joined in, nor even been with those more cowardly fellows who watched from below. He had not been a member of my rugby football team, nor did he attend any of the fixtures. I believe I remember correctly when I recall he was on the college’s second rowing team, but quite frankly I am not one hundred percent certain.

The point I am trying to make here – the claim of friendship that Stamford and I shared was of the most tenuous in nature. We had both gone our separate ways fairly soon on into our careers. We had both decided upon entering research rather than practices, but while I had been seduced into taking the King’s shilling, Stamford had stayed in London, and earnt himself a reasonably successful reputation – albeit off the back of the hard work of others.

My time in the army had been short, but somewhat lacking in sweetness. The call of military life appealed to the public school boy within me, and his hope for adventures of daring-do. I saw action across the globe, but spent most of my time in India, and then later Afghanistan. It was in the latter country that I met my ugly fate – several jezail bullets with vicious intent, including one to the chest. I am sure I would have died if it were not for the actions of my orderly Murray, who flung me across his horse, and carried me back to the lines. My former esteem for this man really cannot be understated, but whilst I lay feverish and poisoned in the field hospital, he tired of me, and proved himself to be something of a Jezebel. Despite the pit of depression I found myself slung into, I somehow recovered, and found myself sent back to old Blighty, with an army pension and a broken heart in tow.

It had been in London that I bumped into my old acquaintance Stamford once more. I had been malingering in the capital some few months when we had met quite by co-incidence in the Criterion Bar – not the one of repute in Picadilly I am afraid, but a far more seedier version in Soho. I had not seen a familiar face for weeks, and I’m afraid I rather set upon him with enthusiasm. At first he seemed delighted to see me, disparaging comments about my weight and colour aside, but it did not take him long to notice the various… modifications… that the surgeons in Afghan had deemed so necessary to my continuing life, and Murray had found distasteful enough to leave.

However, as an acquaintance and not a lover, Stamford found it easier to accept my changes, and indeed found a place for me that I was happy to slip into. I was living out of a suitcase in a room over a sordid public house, and having no inclination to do anything other than attempt to spend my eleven shillings and six pence a day in the most self-depreciating manner possible, I jumped at the offer of carrying his ‘parcels’ about town. You must think very little of me when I admit to this, for I had once been his superior while we were at Bart’s – but the levels to which I had sunk at this stage were deep indeed, and I was little better than the detritus of London in which I lived.

“So, old chap,” Stamford continued, as I slid the brown-paper-and-string parcel across the table towards him, “Still looking for diggings?”

“As long as it’s still nigh on impossible to get comfortable lodgings for a reasonable price, I’m afraid I am.” Stamford passed me an envelope, and I tucked it into my breast pocket. “Especially on the pittance you pay me.”

“Tut, Watson. Some of us must work for a living, as opposed to convalesce.”

“If her Majesty wishes me to spend nine months in splendiferous loafing, then it is merely my duty to obey her.”

“Hah.”

Stamford gave me a wry smile, and dibbled his finger in his pint. Lazily he drew a five-pointed star in the dirt on the table, and looked at me from under his lashes.

“Are you really that picky about how ‘comfortable’ your lodgings must be?”

“I’m not sure I like that tone.” I replied, guardedly.

“Come now Watson.” he gave me a broad grin “You are living above a pub, where the broads take their trade. Surely you are no stranger to hardship as far as boardings go.”

“What’s your point? I’ll admit my lodgings are disgusting, but I’ve just been too…”

“Lazy to change? Look.” Stamford sat up, and leaned over the table towards me. “It just so happens that I know a fellow in precisely the same predicament as you.”

“Lucky bastard. A resident’s discount at a whore-house is hard to come by.”
Stamford laughed.

“Oh this chap would be completely uninterested in that, I assure you. No, he is living in apartments too expensive for his taste, and you for one could afford to spend a little extra. He needs someone to go halves with him in some diggings he has found.”

“Hmm.”

I had to admit I wasn’t overly keen. I didn’t trust Stamford as far as I could throw him to not introduce me to some monster, and as much as I hated my current residence, I just felt too tired to change.

“Come on Watson! At least meet the fellow. It would be a great favour to me.”

“I don’t know. Why are you so keen to help this man out?”

Stamford gave a half smile, and a shrug.

“Truth be told? Get him out of my hair. He’s a student working in the chemical labs, and he’s been driving us all crazy blathering on about his eternal quest for rooms.”

“Well, if you think I’m just going to take some pain in the arse off your hands…”

“Steady on old chap! I’m thinking of you too. Don’t think I haven’t seen that faraway look in your eyes. Some bint in the middle East has broken the old Watsonian spirit – and yes! You blush! That merely proves my point. Watson, you need straightening up. You used to be the best and bravest of us – and now look at you – cowering at so much as a firecracker going off in the street.”

“My nerves have been thoroughly tried…” I began, attempting to regain some dignity, but Stamford cut in smoothly.

“Nonsense. You need to sharpen up, laddie. Holmes’ll be the man to do it. He’s Bedlam crazy for sure, but he’ll sweep you into his world, and give you something other than blazing fires and veiled beauties to think about.”

“Holmes?”

“Mr. Sherlock Holmes. That’s his name.”

“Queer name.”

Stamford laughed.

“Well, he’s a queer man. You’ll agree to meet him then? He’ll no doubt be at the chemical labs. He rarely leaves before midnight.”

I sighed, and grumbled my acquiescence. I was tired of the Dragen’s Dene, and after all, it could do no harm to merely meet the man, could it?

~

As we left the Dene the sun was just above the skyline of the tumble-down buildings, but the smog that hung above London created a false twillight which fell long before sunset. The decent people of the town were taking auto-cabs home, but the riff-raff had not yet ventured onto the streets. London appeared to wait in a state of equilibrium – the calm before the storm. I shivered and turned up my coat collar.

“Now.” began Stamford. “You have agreed to this meeting, but there are one or two particulars that I should mention.”

“Here we go.” I muttered to myself under my breath.

“Oh, it’s not as bad as all that. He’s no mass-murderer -”

“What?!”

” – but he has been observed to bludgeon corpses in the dissecting room. He gave the reason as to ascertain to what extent bruises may be produced after death.”

“He’s going in for medicine?”

“He’s not going in for anything, that I know of.”

“Not a mass-murderer, ” I grumbled “But just perhaps a gang-man.”

“Oh no, nothing like that. He’s very…. hmm. Scientific. That’s old Holmes. He’s a cold-hearted bastard, and make no mistake. Ever so interested in drugs and poisons…”

“Do you know Stamford,” I said, after ever such a slight pause. “I do believe that I have changed my mind.”

“Oh hush.” he replied with a grin. “Holmes is no more trouble than you or I. And besides, we’re here now.”

I rolled my eyes.

“God help us.”

Stamford merely gave me a wink, and beckoned me through the door of the great hospital before him. I shook myself and made my way to the chemical laboratory. The corridors that dripped with ducting and lead piping were familiar to me from my student days, but I had never before spent much time in the chemistry lab. It was a towering gothic edifice on the North face of the building, which perched on the hospital like a eerie on a cliff. There was but one bird occupying this nest and he was young man in his early twenties, eagerly leaning over a bench, a mass of papers spread before him in the midst of a mess of test tubes in racks, Bunsen burners and pipettes. As we came into the room he leapt to his feet, and gave Stamford a most shining look of delight my companion could surely have not deserved.

“I’ve done it! I’ve finally done it!” He plucked a boiling tube out of an incubator that sat humming gently on the worktop, and rushed over to us. “I have found a reagent which is precipitated by haemoglobin, and by nothing else.”

Stamford turned to me, with a look of wry bemusement on his face.

“Dr. Watson, Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”

“How do you do?” the young man replied, pleasantly enough. He held out his hand to shake mine, but when I took it, he gripped me with a strength that seemed to belie his slender wrists, and long delicate fingers. I was instantly on guard. “You have been in Afghanistan, I perceive.”
I narrowed my eyes.

“How the deuce did you know that?”

“Never mind, never mind.” replied he, chuckling, and waving the thought away with one hand. “The question now is about haemoglobin. You of course see the significance of this discovery of mine?”
Stamford made a dissuasive noise, but I nodded slightly.

“No doubt a test for erythrocytes would prove very persuasive in a court of law.”

Holmes’s grey eyes lit up with delight.

“Precisely so!” he exclaimed. “Why, I can think of a dozen cases in which this test would prove beyond doubt the innocence of a convicted party. Poor Lefevre of Montpellier for example would not have swung, had the Holmes’s test proved the guilt of his partner.”

“Friend of yours?” I replied ironically, but Stamford gave me a sharp dig in the ribs.

“Let me show you.” Holmes offered eagerly. “Let me have just a prick of blood – and there!”
I gave a yell. Without my knowing it, the bastard had grabbed my hand, and pricked my finger with a bodkin.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I snarled, trying to snatch back my hand. By way of answer, Holmes teased a drop of blood from my fingertip, and delicately sucked it up with a Pasteur pipette.

“I really don’t think you should do that Holmes…” Stamford begun, but I hushed him quickly. Let the young punk be taken a peg or two.

“… and then I just add this rat serum here – I’ve previously exposed it to blood corpuscles you see – and give it a little shake…”

Holmes placed his thumb over the end of the boiling tube containing my blood and his reagent, and shook it delicately from side to side. He lifted it to his face, and watched the clear liquid with eager eyes.

“Now just watch… and…”

He gave a little frown. His face drooped. He shook the tube from side to side again.

Nothing.

No precipitate was forming.

“But I don’t understand!” he voice began to raise, anger, with a note of panic “I tested this reagent myself, just a moment before. It’s perfect!”

I was perfectly happy to watch the student with the strong grip and the inside knowledge of my previous whereabouts squirm, but my colleague stepped in to his rescue.

“Oh, do stop smirking, Watson.” Stamford sighed. He took up a needle from the bench, pierced his own finger, and allowed a drop of blood to fall into the solution. Slowly but surely a thick aggregate began to form in the bottom of the tube.

Holmes’s eyes widened. He stared blankly at the boiling tube for a few moments, and then raised his gaze to meet mine. As he looked up at me, I expected to see horror written across his features, but I was shocked to see awe in it’s stead.

“Ah, but of course!” he said with wonder “The heightened colour of your features, the regularity of your breathing-! You are surely…” he took a step towards me, and I gasped, startled, as he run a hand up my arm, evidentially feeling for signs of my modification. “You must have a form of haemoglobin that my test cannot detect. After all, we know foetal haemoglobin has a different structure… higher affinity. Yes. Hmm. You must allow me to examine you…”

“That’s enough!” I got my breath back, and threw him off, suddenly.

“But you must understand that this is fascinating! I knew the army had been experimenting, but…”

“How do you know I’ve been in the army?” I repeated stupidly.

“… but I didn’t expect anything to this extent! Of course your blood must pump at a much lower pressure, and so a higher oxygen affinity is of great advantage. But then how would it unload? I suppose…”
He suddenly stepped in towards me, and wrapped an arm around me. I could have tossed him off me in an instant, but there was something of a serpentine hypnotism in his eyes, and I held still as his fingers trailed up my spine. I felt all the hairs on my arms and neck prick up as he found the clockwork key that protruded from my back, hidden by my heavy jacket.

“I suppose it must have been a terrible wound, to warrant this.”
He still hadn’t backed off. He looked at me curiously, one eyebrow raised. I met his gaze evenly, and refused to look away.

“Stamford.” I said slowly. “Tell this freak to get off of me.”

To my surprise, I saw a flash of hurt register in his eyes at the word ‘freak’. My colleague made to pull him off, but he needn’t have bothered. Holmes disengaged, and turned away, pouring the precious contents of his boiling tube into a sink set into the bench.

“Stamford.” he replied echoing my tone, albeit with a hint of regret “Tell the good doctor I was merely interested in a fellow anomaly. Good day to you both.”

“Now see here,” Stamford began “I didn’t just bring this man along for a chat. We came to talk business.”

“I fail to see what business the doctor could possibly have with me.” Holmes replied coldly.

“You’ve been complaining about trying to find someone to share a flat with you for weeks. Watson here is practically homeless.”

The tall dark-haired student gave a dry laugh.

“One hardly needs to be an expert to see where he’s living Stamford. But you honestly don’t expect me to share diggings with a man who cannot even appreciate the beauty of his inner workings, do you?”

I narrowed my eyes.

“What do you know of the cost I have paid for my life?”

“I see a man whose blood may always go undetected, I see a heart which will outlast the strongest…”

“Enough!” I bellowed.

“Fine.” Holmes folded his arms, and smirked. “Stamford, you think I could share a flat with this man? Let me share a little of my ‘freak’ qualities with you, and see if I can’t put him off. I smoke like a chimney, I keep chemical experiments in the sitting room, and I maintain the room at a horrific humidity. I often fall into a pit of depression, and cannot speak to any man nor eat for days, and I am a habitual user of recreational drugs.”

“Well, I’m sure Watson could…” Stamford began, but I cut in.

“It seems we are perfectly ill-suited sir.” I said icily “I keep a bull pup and encourage him to bite fellows like yourself, and I’m a chronic insomniac and terminally lazy. I like to smoke my own brand of tobacco, and I can’t stick rows like the one we are having right now, for my nerves are shot to shit.” Holmes looked about to put in a rejoinder, but I continued. “And that, sir, is when I am unwell. Don’t doubt for a second that I will have an entirely different set of vices once I recover.”

There was a moment’s pause, and then Holmes spoke again, quietly, and in all seriousness.

“Do you include violin playing in your category of rows?”

“The violin.” I answered evenly. “May very well be the most beautiful instrument in the world.”
There was another lengthy silence as we sized each other up. Then, in the flash of an instant, we each recognised something of ourselves in the other man, and burst out laughing.

“It’s settled then,” Holmes said, after we had finished our outburst, much to Stamford’s bemusement “Of course if the rooms are agreeable to you?”

“I hardly doubt they could be any worse than my current establishment.” I conceded. “When shall we see them?”

“Look for me here at tomorrow at noon, and we shall go over. It’s a suite in Baker Street.”

“Very well then.” I paused for a moment, and then forced myself to relax. I extended a hand for him to shake.

“At noon tomorrow.”

Stamford and I turned, and left the strange student to return to his work, muttering under his breath about possibly procuring a sample of my blood in order to further refine his test. My colleague gave me a very grateful look.

“Thank you Watson. You’ve no idea what a favour it is to take him off of my hands.”

“Humph!”

“But he seems a useful fellow to have about, does he not? He appears to understand about your heart. If you got into any trouble…” Stamford trailed off, and finished with a shrug.

“Yes… Stamford – how do you suppose he knew about my time in Afghanistan?”

Stamford spread his palms by way of an answer.

“That just Holmes all over I’m afraid. No-one knows how he comes by these things.”

I couldn’t help giving an involuntary shudder at this.

“I must be on my guard, then.” I replied. “Especially if you want me to continue to work for you.”

“Oh I’m sure he knows all about that.”

“Indeed? I must study him well, then. Knowledge is power they say. Perhaps you are right. Perhaps this is what I need to occupy my mind. I fear I can feel my brains atrophying in my head just sitting in my rooms, staring at the walls.”

“Study him all you want, Watson.” Stamford replied, clapping me on the back, and giving me a malicious grin.

“But I’ll wager he learns more about you.”

“No doubt.” I replied. “Good-bye Stamford.”

I slowly returned to my rooms above the public house, equal parts intrigue and fear of my new acquaintance.

~~{~@ @~}~~

Chapter the Second

The next morning (or perhaps I should say the next afternoon) midday rolled around far too soon for my liking. I found myself snorting into consciousness at already half an hour past noon, with golden sunlight creeping around the blanket I had pegged up in the window, and shining into my blinded eyes. For a moment I just lay there, dazzled, and too hung-over to care, then the thought of my previously made appointment popped into my head.

“Fuck!”

I scrabbled under my blankets, tangled my still-booted feet up in the sheets, and promptly fell out of bed. The impact set my aching head a-ringing as I struggled to free myself from the confines of the bedclothes. God only knows why I had not bothered to fully undress before seeking my bed last night, but at least it made the task of dressing somewhat easier. I fastened my waistcoat buttons, and made a quick furtive search for my watch, which I luckily found to have strayed no further than the crate-cum-makeshift table beside my bed. Equally, I did not have to search for my trousers for long, as they appeared to be around my ankles, neatly explaining my difficulty in unimpeded movement. I shuffled over towards the only mirror (broken) in my dim little cell, tightening my belt an extra notch as I did so. My reflection was not one worth beholding. My scruffy fair reddish hair had certainly seen better days, my mustache was in severe danger of disappearing into the background growth of stubble, and Stamford was right when he said I was beginning to lack a third dimension. Dear God I needed to eat. On my pension I really had no excuse for neglecting three square meals a day. I grimaced, picked out something black from between my teeth (spinage?), and looked at myself properly for the first time in ages.

The man in the mirror was not me.

He was an invalid. That much was beyond doubt. He looked more like a prisoner-of-war in some medieval dungeon, rather than man on sick-pay, convalescing in the greatest city of the modern world. His cheeks were hollow, and his blue eyes were dull, contrasting oddly with the tropical depth of his skin. His expression was one of self-pity and pain, and he reeked of the smell of disease, that thick sweaty stench that accompanies the poorly-cared for patient. I experienced an odd flush of compassion and pity for this man – this man that was me – the same sympathy that I had always spared for my patients, but had somehow never managed to find for myself.

As I said – for the first time in months, I truly saw myself… and I felt nothing but shame. Had I really taken the loss of Murray so hard? Had I really lost so much of my self-respect, that I could no longer look after myself properly? Suddenly my dingy surroundings took on a tone of accusation. Before they had been little more than an inconvenience I chose to bear out of sheer laziness. Now my room became an incriminating finger pointing at me. The dirt and the grime pressed in on me, whilst the flutter of a ventilation shaft seemed to be watching me. The grunts of a whore and the tattoo of her bedstead knocking against my wall was the sound of the world rebuking me, and I stood before a cracked mirror, in the clothes I slept in, unable to offer up a suitable defense. There was a muffled laugh from somewhere downstairs.

“Dear god, how much did I drink last night?”

Disgraceful appearance or not, I hardly had the time to spend on my toilet. I hastily scraped my hair back into something assembling sanity with a little pomade. I found my jacket, and dusted it off the best I could, and slung it about my shoulders. It was beginning to hang more than a little loosely off my sick frame, but it could not be helped. Exactly what had possesed me to drown myself in drink last night? With a flash I remembered the tall thin pale man, with his knowing grey eyes, and his long fingers creeping up my spine, searching for the key to my heart, and I shuddered. Ah yes. And I was going to meet this man?

“Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.”

So much of our so-called ‘wisdom’ is just fancily-dressed folly.

~

I’m sorry to say that it was well past one in the afternoon when I finally pulled up in a cab on Baker Street. I can’t say that I had much hope that Mr. Sherlock Holmes would have waited over an hour for my appearance. As I stepped out the cab, and paid the driver, I have to admit I almost felt a sense of relief when I spied the empty doorstep awaiting me. It’s true I was afraid of finally choking in the mire of my squalid life, but I was also (perhaps a symptom of my condition) irrevocably drawn to the path of least effort. I was reminded of the first law – ‘An automaton may not injure a human being, or, through inaction, allow a human being to come to harm.’ By the first statement, I would made a marvelous medical droid. By the second, so far as my own life was concerned, I would have been thrown off the production line.

“Ah! Doctor! You are right on time.”

I visibly started, unable to detect the source of the voice. I looked around me left, and right, but could see no one else on the pavement. Eventually I came to the inevitable conclusion, and looked up.

“Holmes!”

He was leaning out a first storey window, black hair blowing in the breeze, a cordial smile upon his face.

“Come on up! Just ring the bell, the landlady will let you in.”

“But… I thought you expected me at noon?”

“Tut. As though I cannot tell what a fellow’s notion of time-keeping may be. Come on up!”

Blinking, and somewhat bemused, I did as I was bid. As the landlady led me up the stairs (an affable widow, with a knowing smile), I felt as though my feet wanted to disobey me. It seemed they would much rather turn about and carry me out of this house, and away from this man who seemed to know far too much about me. I reminded myself of the sick man in the mirror, and the fare I had paid across town, and steeled myself. I would not back down. Not yet.

“Here you are sir.” the old lady smiled “And a lovelier set of rooms for the price it would be very hard to find.”

I thanked her quietly, and stepped into the sitting room.

The different between this place, and the room I had just came from stung like a pail of cold water to the face.

It was brightly, and cheerily furnished. A fire hissed and chuckled merrily to itself to my right, framed by two cosy looking armchairs. To my left, a desk seemed to beckon me, and a couple of empty bookcases waiting invitingly. Two large windows were before me, and whilst admittedly the row of houses opposite blocked most the sunlight that could have entered the room, they still had the effect of cheering the room, in a way that my tiny window at the tavern could not even aspire to. Stretched along one of the windowsills, and looking like a strange sort of spider, with his thin limbs cramped up in the tiny space, was Holmes, smiling at me wolfishly. His grin seemed to tell me that he already knew I liked the rooms, and so I promptly ignored it.

It did not take much more for me to make up my mind. Even empty of possessions the place seemed cosy. Holmes himself did not make any more queer remarks as to my personal history, and the terms seemed pretty decent. My bedroom was to be on the second floor, away from the sitting room, and that pleased me greatly. I value my privacy. Holmes warned me that he had a great many records, books, and papers that he would need to store, and that he would also need space for his experiments, but this did not bother me. I myself did not have many possessions, and without an active practice or profession, I did not need much space. As I looked around I began to feel more and more sure that moving into Baker Street would be the easiest option to solving my dilemma – regaining my health (the landlady made several comments regarding fattening me up) whilst doing very little at all.

“There is only one thing sirs,” said Mrs Hudson (the landlady, for that was her name) as we were drawing up the contract. “We keep a mechanical maid. Does
that bother you at all?”

“Not in the slightest,” replied Holmes, before I had the chance to put in a word “I am a man of the 19th century, and I must embrace technology for my work. What about you, doctor?” he said, turning to me slyly, and asking with a wicked grin “I presume you do not have a bias against our clockwork friends?”

I flashed him a warning look that I prayed Mrs. Hudson did not see, and made some affirmatory reply.

And so it came to pass that that very evening I moved my things round from the public house, and on the following morning Sherlock Holmes followed me with several boxes and portmanteaus. 221B Baker Street was ours.

~

The next few days were spent in a manner familiar to me from my time at University. For the most part we kept out of each other’s way, only conversing in that thin tone that two fellows always adopt when they share the same space and yet do not know each other that well. We were mainly employed in arranging our possessions in the way that best pleased us, in order to be able to call this new flat ‘home’. I put most of my things in my bedroom on the second floor. I had a large collection of novels that a colleague had been keeping for me, which had not seen the light day since I first stepped aboard the zeppelin bound for India. I was glad to take them out, dust them off, and put them upon the shelves in my little room. What few other possessions I had, I spread about. My portrait of my family (father, mother, and brother) went upon the mantle, but a pencil sketch of a dozing Murray went between the gilded leaves of a Bible shoved firmly beneath the bed. I confess I would have rather left the family to gather dust, and have Murray in pride of place, but I was resolutely firm with myself. I was leaving behind my broken (literally) heart, and the putrefaction of my soul that had gone with it.

My journals and collections of case histories I tramped downstairs, and filed away in my new desk, along with various medical texts which had accompanied me since college. I added a new fountain pen, fresh sheets of foolscap, and a jovial pot of bright blue ink, with the best intentions of taking up a fresh practice when my health was much recovered. However the road to hell, as we all know, is paved with such intentions.

My unpacking finished, I sat on the crisp new bed-linen of my crisp new life, and sighed. I ran my eye over the novels on the shelf opposite me. The gilded title of a tempest adventure glinted out of a dark navy blue binding. Well, why shouldn’t I read? All things considered, a good novel was hardly the worst of vices, especially given my recent activities. I plucked it off the shelf, and my room being rather chilly, padded downstairs to occupy the comfortable chair I had claimed as my own.

Holmes had his back to me as I entered the room, and a deep grunt was the only sound he made to acknowledge my presence. With a sigh, I moved to the chair beside the fire, and settled down into it’s cosy crook. I opened the book, and read a couple of lines. Swashbuckling adventure was promised, complete with the discovery of foreign lands and deep sea monsters. I sighed again, and snuggled down into the cushions. I couldn’t help flicking my eyes back up at Holmes.

He was motionless, a black silhouette against the glare from the windowpane – but it wasn’t so much what he was doing that was distracting me, but what he had been doing. The floor was littered with long thin wax paper packets, which had no doubt been encasing the bunch of used glass pipettes which were now stacked neatly in the waste paper basket.

“Holmes?”

“Shush.”

I sighed, and looked about me once more. He’d said he had a lot of equipment to set up, it was true, but I had not expected our sitting room to end up a chemistry lab. I noted a rack of boiling tubes on the mantelpiece, a pipette filler on-top of a picture frame, and a strange rocking cabinet of some description under my bureau. Through the glass front I could see flasks with various reddish concoctions swirling around. I frowned, and put the book down.

“What are you doing?”

Holmes made no answer, so I traipsed over to his side of the room with a cushion, and seated myself on the arm of his chair. Holmes was staring intently into culture flask, one eye half closed. He glanced at me perfunctorily, then poured a little of the broth into a petri dish and placed it under a large microscope.

“Hah!”

This sudden outburst after his relative silence surprised me, and I almost fell backwards off the chair arm.

“It appears I have mastered this medium finally. Oh happy cells!”

I shook myself, and looked into the dish, where an orange liquid swilled.

“A Holmes medium to go with the Holmes test?”

“Exactly!” Holmes turned to me with a look of delight. “Now sir, would you care to provide…?”

I looked at him, confused for a moment, not sure of what he was asking. My confusion was cleared up in an instant however, when he took up a needle.

“Oh, surely not?”

“Precisely so!”

I got to my feet.

“If you think,” I replied coldly “That I have taken up these rooms merely to be your willing test subject, then you have another long hard cold think coming.”

“Nothing would suit me more!” he replied in the mischievous tone that was his peculiar own. “However, I should reassure you that as unique as you are, you could not possibly hold my attention for a period so long as our lease.” He saw my affront at that, no matter how hard I tried to conceal it. “I mean no offense doctor,” he continued in a more gentle tone “but one small sample is all I need. You detect that strange humming noise? I have an incubator in my room, and with this medium I can culture all I need.”

“In this mess?” I muttered, conscious of the sterile conditions required to grow cells in vitro.

“You said ‘yes’?” Holmes replied quickly, although I was not deceived for a moment that he misheard me. He took up my left hand, and swiftly pierced my thumb with the needle. He coerced several large drops from my thumb by squeezing it with his own until it was quite purple, and collected the blood matter-of-factly in a little bakelite eppendorf. I looked down at the not unattractive man who was holding my hand, and stroking my thumb (albeit in the most morbid way), and felt the faint stirrings of…

I pushed the feelings away. Mr. Sherlock Holmes was a freak, and nothing more. And I had a mechanical heart.

“There.” he said, dropping my hand as quickly as he had taken it up. “Thank you doctor.

“Watson.”

“Thank you… Watson.” his voice seemed to catch a little, and suddenly I realised how I could attempt to gain the upper-hand in this strange relationship. I deliberately looked into his eyes, and gave him my most winning smile. Holmes leapt out of his chair with a little cough, and busied himself stoking up the tiny furnace in his centrifuge. I slipped off the arm of his chair, and went back to my cosy corner, and my novel. Perhaps living here might be slightly more entertaining than I had first anticipated.

~

One by one, the weeks dragged by, and slowly but surely my health went from strength to strength. True to his word, Holmes never asked me for another ’sample’, and despite the various experiments that would overtake our sitting room, he was not a difficult man to live with. One week it might be organ baths, the next a complex array of vacuum tubes. One evening I returned to find a towering ball and stick edifice, it’s twin helices reaching for the ceiling. I remarked upon it’s beauty, but Holmes scoffed at this, rolling his eyes at my naïvety.

Despite all this, Holmes was usually quiet and efficient, preferring to keep himself to himself. His few vices were as he had described, with perhaps the addition of his habit of keeping objects in strange places (cigars in the coal scutter, pots of salt in the bathroom). His hours were far more sociable than mine (early to bed, and early to rise), and he often took himself out of the house to the chemical labs, or to wander the bowels of London. Sometimes as I lay upon the sofa, staring up at the ceiling, I missed his presence, and wondered why he had been so keen take up diggings with me if he was so rarely to be occupying them.

However, there was an anathema to this working fit. He would continue so for a few weeks, while he was pursuing whatever little breakthrough he had discovered in his new branch of chemistry that he was establishing. Then, suddenly, the passion for his work that usually gripped him would drop him, and he would fall into the cold stark light of reality that is our modern world. I would then be ousted from my usual position on the sofa, and Holmes would lay there instead, prone and and motionless, for hours on end. When he was working, his grey eyes were quick and bright, his fingers nimble and swift. When the depression was upon him, his gaze lost its lustre, and his hands would toy uselessly with the fringe on a cushion, or the bowl of his pipe. As a physician, I worried about these two seemingly opposite poles of his personality, but as his co-habitee, I did not dare mention my concern. I had once (when in my defense I had discovered him lying face down and as still as the grave) attempted to take his pluse. His arm had shot out, and he had grabbed my wrist as tight as a vice. He said nothing, but his eyes told me all I needed to know about how he felt about this invasion of his privacy. I quietly withdrew, leaving the job of convincing him to eat to the unfortunate maid.

I know I must seem like an interfering and nosy old soul when I speak of my fascination and observation of my fellow lodger. I could protest that he was my sole distraction during months of convalescence, and that was, in a sense, true. I had no callers. Stamford had presumably found somebody else for his illegal drug runs. I did nothing all day. But despite all the excuses I make to the many who have questioned my association with Sherlock Holmes, this was not the whole of the equation. He fascinated me – for all it was raw and unadulterated obsession on my part, and complete ignorance on his. When he worked in our sitting room, I wondered what dark molecular secrets of the universe he was uncovering, and if they had anything to do with the experimental surgery performed on me in the armed forces. When he lay upon the sofa with eyes glazed over, I wondered what demons taunted him, and if he would ever divulge to me what they were. My own demons I kept closely wrapped up inside my chest like a trump card I had yet to play. I knew he would only remain interested in me so long as there was some element of mystery to my existence.

But sometimes, when the fire died down low, and I’d had just a little too much port to drink, I would look over at my companion sitting in the chair opposite, and wonder what it would be like to bury my hands in his coal black hair…

Of course then, I would shudder, get up creaking to my feet, and announce myself through. I would limp off up to bed, feeling Holmes’s eyes on the back of my head. I lived in constant fear that he would decipher the thoughts in my head, would learn the secret of my attraction to him. But then I would think – wasn’t he the one who practically took me in his arms when we first met, groping for my key?

Well, it wasn’t about to happen again. Holmes carefully kept his cold distance from me, and I attempted to keep my observations of him secret.

Ah, the observations.

They did not come to much. I was able, very early on in our acquaintance to ascertain that he was not studying medicine, by the ingenious method of simply asking him. But neither did he seem to follow any other course of reading that would have allowed him to become a bachelor of science. Indeed, his subjects of study seemed so unrelated as to have no possible end at all. He appeared to be working upon some new branch of science – but what good of that if one was not qualified to publish the results? Upon our initial meeting I had assumed he was some type of criminal, and I’m afraid after weeks of observation, and no further clue as to his occupation, I fell back into this mode of thinking.

In some respects his ignorance on some topics was as surprising as his depth of knowledge on some others. He clearly tired of my constant mock-horror at his lack of politics, philosophy, and literature. On one occasion, he decided to have his own back by pretending he had no clue of Copernican theory, and gave me a great metaphorical lecture illustrating the brain as an attic, and how he took the greatest of care to only stock his brain with those facts which were of the most use to him. He really strung me along with that one, ludicrous as it was, so that I was quite hurt when he laughed in my face, and called me a ‘gullible little boy’.

“You should learn to tell when a man is lying, doctor.” he snorted. “A valuable skill. Of course I am aware that the earth travels around the sun, it is a clearly demonstrable fact, is it not? And for heaven’s sake disregard that nonsense about human memory. Like an attic indeed!”

This little spat left me in a more determined mood than ever to discover exactly what his secret occupation was, more out of spite than anything else. Despite the facetious nature of his brain-attic lecture, I took it as inspiration. If I could enumerate his various strengths and weakness, perhaps I would come closer to deducing the truth. I wrote a list.

Sherlock Holmes — his limits

1. Knowledge of Literature. — Nil.

2. “ “ Philosophy. — Nil.

3. “ “ Astronomy. — Nil.

4. “ “ Politics. — Feeble.

5. “ “ Botany. — Variable.

Well up in belladonna, opium, and poisons generally.

Knows nothing of practical gardening.

6. Knowledge of Geology. — Practical, but limited.

Tells at a glance different soils from each other.

After walks has shown me splashes upon his trousers, and told me by their colour and consistence in what part of London he had received them.

7. Knowledge of Chemistry. — Profound.

8. “ “ Anatomy. — Accurate, but unsystematic. Same for physiology.

9. “ “ Sensational Literature. — Immense.

He appears to know every detail of every horror perpetrated in the century.

10. Plays the violin well.

11. Is an expert singlestick player, boxer, and swordsman.

12. Has a good practical knowledge of British law.

At this point I confess I gave up, and threw the list into the fire. It seemed there could never be such a profession which would require such a strange mix.

I see have alluded above to his powers upon the violin. I had worried about the violin playing at first. There is nothing worse than a poorly played violin – I recall plenty of boys at prep school being encouraged to take up the instrument by well-meaning mothers, and the resulting cacophony in the music room was dreadful.

Holmes’s instrument however was as far from one of those hideous squeaky-quarter size instruments as night is from day. It was a beautifully made old Stradivarius, which made it all the more distressing when he insisted upon playing it in his sickeningly eccentric way. He would sit in his armchair of an evening with lidded eyes, the violin across his knees. He would then proceed to play by scraping the bow across the strings, producing at times the most terrifying and horrific chords, and at others sounds that spoke of pure joy and delight. I have no doubt that this ‘music’ reflected the thoughts of his inner-most soul. In someways it was the most open communication he ever attempted with me, although I suspect that was merely because he forgot my very presence when he was playing upon his violin.

Sometimes I could stand to sit and listen to this strange music, other times I could not. When I was in one of my queer moods, and the music was eerie and haunting, I loved to watch him play, to see the strange expression on his face that was somehow so deeply involved in the rapture of music that it was almost blank. More often however, I could not stand the racket, and it stood all my already frayed nerves on edge. At times such as these, Holmes would shoot me an apologetic look when he came out of his reverie, and play me a quick succession of my favourite aires so beautifully that I felt I could hardly complain. He certainly had the talents of a first rate musician.

During that first month that we were together, Holmes had no callers, and I began to think that he was as friendless as I. However, as the time dragged on, all manner of people came to seem him – never in groups, but always in ones or twos. His visitors had no particular uniting features… they were both young and old, beautiful and ugly. One morning, the most charming young lady appeared on our doorstep, but Holmes received her with a stern face and a harsh word. That very same week, a wizened old man called, with the most hideous curl to his lip as I have ever seen, but Holmes threw open the door with a look of delight, and shooed me from our sitting room with a happy smile.

For I was never permitted to sit in on any of these interviews. At first Holmes would raise his eyebrows in a hint of apology as I retired to my bedroom, but after a while he failed even to afford me this courtesy. At first, I did not mind, but steadily, it began to annoy… and after it had finished to annoy, it began to infuriate. Why should I always sit up alone, in my room, whilst he no doubt socialised and laughed with his visitors? He must know that I was without a friend in this great cesspool we call London. I knew we were not really what could be strictly termed as ‘friends’, but I felt hurt at being cut out from a portion of his life, especially a portion that occurred in my own sitting room. Besides, I was overcome with a curiosity to know what profession it was that called all his bizarre skills into communion, and had no doubts that it must be his strange visitors who were the common denominator.

And so it was, that on the 4th of March of that year, when a young well-trimmed, and generally good-looking chap came to take his place in our sitting room, I returned Holmes’s glare, and quite resolutely refused to budge.

@~~}~ ~{~~@

Chapter the Third

“I beg your pardon?”

Holmes’s face was blank – almost unreadable – but there was a line of tension in his body as he gripped the edge of the armchair in which his visitor sat. I folded my arms and attempted to stare him down.

“I said, I’m not leaving.”

The knuckles of the hand he clutched the chair with were white, and there was a thin line appearing on his forehead as his grey eyes bore into me. I had imagined before that Holmes would not be the type of fellow it would be enjoyable to cross, and I was seeing the affirmation of that belief before my very eyes. I admit, my resolved weakened when Holmes countered my glare with his infinitely colder one. I would probably have backed down, and left with my tail between my legs, had the man in the chair not intervened.

“Isn’t your fellow lodger a doctor, Mr. Holmes? Do you not think he might be of some use?”

As one being, both Holmes and I looked down at the thin man in the chair, and under the weight of our collective gaze he managed a slight blush. I felt the colour in my own cheeks rising in return, and I coughed and looked away. Who was this visitor of Holmes’s, who so innocently sat in our living room looking very much like a pretty boy at school who received all the wrong type of attention?

“It’s very much up to you.” Holmes was saying, voice lacking of any emotion. “It is your case after all.”

“Well, I say, let the fellow into it!” I turned back towards Holmes’s visitor, to be rewarded with a pleasant smile. “He’ll be of use, of course, and as a doctor I’m sure we can trust to his discretion.”

“I have of course made the Hypcratic Oath.” I said in response. Holmes cut in on me quickly.

“Oh I’ve no doubt that our patient is already beyond the scope of that particular promise.” he said with a nasty sneer, before turning to his visitor again “Dr. Watson is in convalescence, recovering from a war wound gained in Afghanistan. His heart is particularly weak – do you suppose he could take it?”

“Well, I’m sure any of our brave fellows who’ve seen combat can cope with…”

Holmes’s visitor no doubt trailed off when he saw the mean look on my face. I had suddenly recalled something from my strange initial meeting with my fellow lodger.

“I never did ask you Holmes ” I said slowly, attempting to keep the malice from my voice “just how the deuce did you know about my time in Afghanistan?”

At this the young man in our chair simply exploded with laughter, and clapped his hands together in glee.

“Oh dear me Mr. Holmes – don’t tell me you have been living with this man for nigh on a month now, and haven’t yet been tempted to show off your wonderful logic to him?”

“Wonderful… logic?”

Holmes gave a sigh, and folded his arms, eyes to the ceiling. I could see him mentally give up trying to convince his friend to leave me out of the equation.

“It is absurdly simple, doctor. The moment we met I deduced your profession and injury so quickly I was barely conscious of the act. However, there is a logic to it, as our young friend says. I noted you were the medical type, yet had the air of a military man. Clearly this makes you an army doctor. You had just come from the tropics as your dark face and contrasting fair wrists testified, and had a haggard look which hinted hardship and sickness… Add to that the stiffness of your left arm and leg… and well, where else but Afghanistan? Those long-barreled rifles are particularly nasty, aren’t they?” He gave a quick laugh when he saw my astonishment. “Don’t imagine I have not noticed your futile efforts to decipher my profession, doctor. Allow me to introduce Inspector Stanley Hopkins.”

“At your service, sir.” the young gentlemen said, leaping up with a smile, and firmly shaking my hand.

“But…” I replied, in a daze, still amazed that Holmes had managed to deduce my history from my appearance alone. “… I don’t understand…”

Holmes laughed again, and suddenly his features softened, and I saw a hint of the man beneath the cold mask.

“I am a consulting detective, Watson.” I felt a thrill as he used my name. “The world’s only, so far as I know. And Inspector Hopkins is here with a case which has worried him so, that he could think of nothing but take the very first cab to the Baker Street he could find.”

“Quite right Mr. Holmes, quite right. Shall we?” Hopkins returned to his seat, and I myself sat down in Holmes’s armchair since the inspector was currently occupying mine. Holmes arranged himself on the window seat, and concentrated on filling an exceeding long churchwarden with tobacco from the slipper he taken from the fireplace. Hopkins gave him an amused look.

“I shouldn’t worry about filling that, Mr. Holmes. We’ll need to be quick off the mark if we are return to the scene before Lestrade.”

“Ah?” Holmes put his pipe down, and a keen edge of interest flared in his eyes. “And who gave him the scent?”

“I had to wire it in, Mr. Holmes… it’s murder, and in this climate too! But as soon as I saw the body I knew it would be an excellent case for your peculiar methods. I sent the message with one of my dullest lads, and hotfooted it to Baker Street, so as long we don’t waste any time, I’m sure we could get you in and out, before Lestrade appears on the scene.”

“His aversion to my techniques really is quite exasperating.” Holmes said, with a little tut. “But perhaps we should continue this in the cab?”

Hopkins’s eyes darted from left to right, as though he suspected someone of listening in on us. Finally he nodded, clearly as enthusiastic as Holmes was to get underway.

“No you’re right sir, it probably would be easier that way, and no-one need overhear us.”

Holmes gave a tight smile, threw his pipe down onto the table, and strode towards his bedroom, shedding his dressing gown on the way. Moments later he reappeared with his jacket around his shoulders, and flung open the door. Hopkins leapt to his feet, and passed out the room with a grin, but I confess I was more timid about stepping under Holmes’s arm as held the door for me. In one quick conversation these two men had thrown my life into confusion. I felt as though I was tumbling down the rabbit hole, with no clue as to where it would lead.

~

It seemed Inspector Hopkins had precious little information to impart to Holmes, which was fortunate, as our journey was only to be a brief jaunt across town. The cabbie pulled up on Euston road, by the station, and the Inspector leapt out keenly. He offered a hand out of the cab to Holmes which he flatly refused, but I accepted with a smile. The Inspector gave me a quick flash of his kind blue eyes, then turned to Holmes.

“It’s as I say sir, just the one cadaver. Nothing really that I would call you out for, if it were not for the location.”

“Which,” Holmes replied with a glint in his eyes “I suspect not to be the Euston station.”

“No. We’ve a pretty trek in front of us, I’m afraid.”

I gave a regretful look back at the departing cab at this, but Holmes gave Hopkins his best maniacal grin, and slung the cavendish bag he was holding jauntily over his shoulder.

“Lead on then Inspector!”

I had expected the Inspector to turn, and walk down the road, but instead he gave a curt nod, and walked across the green in the direction of Euston Square. Holmes followed gleefully as if nothing were amiss, so I sighed and brought up the rear. I couldn’t for the life of me imagine where it was we could be walking to in an underground station.

It was fairly late afternoon by this time, approaching five of the clock. One would usually expect a little congestion at the station at this time, but as we approached the stairs which led down to the station, our passage was blocked by an angry throng of people. The Inspector flashed Holmes a quick look, and whipped out a whistle, and blew it shrilly.

“Hey you! Make way there! Police!”

Somehow we pushed through the crowds of angry passengers, and down into the station. Here the crowds were even thicker. A hastily scrawled poster had been stuck up in the ticket office window, to which a guard was gesturing nervously, and shrugging his shoulders at the angrily shouting mob.

Inner Circle Line closed due to Police investigation.
Apologies – Metropolitan Railway.

Inspector Hopkins, who was currently employed in pushing a path for us towards the barriers with the alternating methods of blowing his whistle, and flashing a twinkling smile, looked back, and shrugged us an apology.

“We had to stop all the trains. Company’s really not happy with us.”

Holmes just gave a little nod of his head.

“But of course.”

I couldn’t help feeling but a little bewildered. In the cab, Hopkins hadn’t mentioned the body being found in the station. Where on earth could we be going if we were not catching a train?

It would not be long before I would find out, however. A guard waved us through the barriers, and to my surprise Hopkins made a beeline for the wall to our right, where a uniformed officer stood beside what looked like a low access panel that had been left slightly ajar. Beside me, Holmes rubbed his hands and cackled to himself.

“And now we are getting somewhere!”

The officer clicked his heels together, and gave Hopkins a smart salute.

“No sign of Inspector Lestrade yet, sor!”

“Alright Hodges, at ease.” the Inspector replied with a smile. “We shall be down for a while, I think. If Lestrade comes, of course let him through. Hopefully we should have enough of head-start to let Mr. Holmes take whatever he needs.”

And with that, Inspector Hopkins pulled open the panel to reveal a low passageway, and gestured Holmes to go through, which my fellow lodger did without batting an eyelid. I confess I was a little more surprised, which is to say, I was round-eyed with shock.

“B-but… what?”

“Go on doctor.” the police inspector replied kindly. “I shall be right behind you.”

“I’m not afraid!” I shot back abruptly, before I managed a sheepish smile. “I’m just a bit taken aback, is all.”

“Don’t worry. There’s only a couple of hundred yards of crawling.”

With this not quite so comforting remark ringing in my ears, I frowned, bowed my head, and shuffled into the passageway. The Inspector had not been over-exagerating when he said ‘crawling’, for the passage way could have only been about four feet high, and built no doubt, for some strange breed of mechanical midget. I felt my way forward in the darkness, cringing at the groaning and rattling of an assortment of pipes that were strung out overheard. It wasn’t long before my scrabbling hands found the toes of Holmes’s shoes in front of me.

“Sorry.” I said blushing, my voice sounding ridiculously loud in the darkness. I groped upwards trying to sit up, but upon finding his knees, whisked my hands away quickly, and almost toppled over.

“Let’s wait for the Inspector.” Holmes replied in a low voice remarkably close to my ear. He must have been squatting in the passage in front of me. I have never felt so foolish in my entire life. I could not see a thing in front of me, but was glad of the lack of light, when I felt what I imagined to be Holmes’s breath on my hair, and felt the heat rising to my face.

“I’m here.” came a voice from behind us. “Just keep going straight for a while. You’ll soon see the lantern I left down here.”

Holmes grunted his assent, and shuffled round in the tunnel. I waited for him to crawl away for a few moments before following – the last thing I wanted to do was crawl straight into the back of him. My slow pace however, appeared to annoy the Inspector behind me, who kept grabbing my ankles by accident as he tried to hurry along. It was a horrible long crawl through that dirty passage, made worse no doubt but the hot pipes above us, the dirt and dust beneath us, and my dreadful paranoia that sooner or later I was going to accidentally grope Holmes’s calves, or Hopkins was going to grab mine.

Eventually Holmes gave a small ‘aha’, and we all stumbled out into a low-ceilinged room, which although small, just about allowed me to stand up (although Holmes still had to bend at the waist). It was light by an oil lantern guarded by a smut-faced urchin. By the pool of yellow light around us, I could see we were in some kind of subterranean control room – for the signals or points perhaps? In one corner, a small cylindrical automaton was dozing, no doubt the operator of the mad system of control panels and and pressure gages around us. I moved over towards it, to give it a rough push and tell it to get back to it’s work, when I saw it’s ‘head’ had been bludgeoned in. It wasn’t sleeping, it was broken.

Holmes came up beside me, following my gaze.

“Hmm. Crow bar, a male, leading with his right. Metropolitan railway cannot be spending that much on their robots. See how easily the metal has crumpled.”

I turned to look at him. I still hadn’t quite got my head around ‘Holmes the detective’ yet. I suppose I was just confused to have found out he was on the right side of the law after all. He turned to meet my gaze, and smiled thinly. Somehow, even though his face was blackened with soot, and his trousers were beyond recovery, his hair was still immaculately in place. I attempted a smile back, thanking my clockwork node for regulating my heartbeat.

“Hot down here, ain’t it?”

The voice of the young lad at my feet brought me back to my senses again.

“That’ll be the boilers, no doubt.” I told him.

“Yeh, I know that.” he replied with a look of scorn. ‘Spector Hopkins you got some strange mates.”

“Alright Wiggins.” the Inspector replied. “This is Mr. Holmes, a colleague of mine, and this is his friend Dr. Watson. Say hello now.”

The young lad tipped his cap cheekily, and slipped us a wink.

“Afternoon guvners.”

“Good lad.” Hopkins said, with genuine affection in his voice. “Now, do you mind leading us down to the body?”

“Good heavens!” I couldn’t help but exclaim. “You mean there’s further to go?”

“I’m afraid so Dr. Watson.” the policeman replied. “But it’s not far, you’ll see.”

The boy Wiggins got to his feet, and gave Hopkins the lantern. He went over to a wheel set in a metal plated door, and began to work on releasing it. A short heave, and the stout door was opened. Hopkins went through without a backwards glance, and Holmes and I followed.

“It was difficult to tell in the dark of the passageway,” Holmes observed aloud “But a great number of people have been through here, and recently.”

“How many?” I asked, full of curiosity that he could tell.

“I could not say. They have unfortunately mired each other’s footsteps. Around twenty five, I should think.”

“Surely not, Mr. Holmes,” Hopkins said in surprise “So many people couldn’t fit down here. And why should they want to?”

“Never-the-less,” Holmes replied sharply, “they have done so.” And that put a stop to all conversation until we had passed through the narrow corridor, and into another chamber.

This room, as it would turn out, was our final destination. It was much bigger than the last, lending some weight to Holmes’s theory, at least. It appeared to be some kind of storeroom, as large skips full of coke and coal were packed up against the walls. The floor was strangely sticky, and the smell that came up from it was easily identifiable to anyone who had ever woken up in a bar the morning after. Stale beer.

“Hmm.”

And with that, Holmes whipped out a strange metal contraption from a bag. It appeared to be a kind of telescope through a series of lenses which could be flicked in and out of view. A ghostly pale light, the source of which was indeterminable was focused onto whatever he was examining by an adjustable mirror.

“Cigarette ash, many types. Three distinct smells of ale.” he held up a strange jagged object “here a broken gramophone record”, he dipped in finger in a splatter suspicious white powder “and here, cocaine.”

He straightened up again, and pointed to a dark shape in the corner. “There, a mixing desk possibly. Still refusing to believe that many people passed through here Hopkins? We are clearly looking at the aftermath of an illegal rave.”

“That would explain the corpse’s appearance, certainly.”

“Where is she?”

“She?” the Inspector replied with a grin. “But you’re right, it’s a female”

“If you didn’t want me to guess at her gender,” Holmes quipped “You shouldn’t have scrawled her name down, and left it sticking out your left pocket. Rachael Maddox means nothing to me however, I am afraid.”

“Me either.” Hopkins replied with a shake of his head. “But she’s over here.”

He led us away from the center over the room, ducking under a pulley daubed with florescent paint. He drew us into the corner and in the light from his lantern, I saw the most bizarre body I have ever seen.

She was naked from the waist up, the brown of her nipples shriveled up in death, but that was not the most striking thing about her – it was the gas mask inexplicably covering her nose and mouth, it’s black twin goggles seeming to stare at us even though she was dead. Other than fishnet gloves, and bit of body paint, her only other clothing was a tight leather skirt, and a pair of unlaced black boots. Cause of death was immediately obvious – she had been forced to the ground and strangled by a thin bar which still lay across her blackened and crushed neck.

“Crowbar.” Holmes stated needlessly. “Can you give us a time of death, doctor?”

I knelt down beside the poor girl, and took one of her limbs in my arms. She was cold, and stiff, but she didn’t have that ketone-like smell the dead soon acquire.

“A couple of hours?” I ventured. “I couldn’t really say.” I tentatively reached up, and with a nod from Holmes, wrestled the mask off her face. Her glazed over eyes stared up at me through black circles which weren’t all make-up. I leant forwards, and with some difficulty, closed them. Her head was half-shaved, and for some reason that disturbed me more than anything else.

“Does that time match when you were alerted?” Holmes asked.

“Yes. The signal system came offline at around two thirty.” Hopkins said quietly. “But it’s the hands I really wanted you to see.”

With a grunt, Holmes knelt down beside me, and took her hand. He looked at the black-painted nails for a moment, before turning the it palm-up. He smiled.

“Ah. Well done Hopkins. Good call.”

As Holmes turned, and reached for the bag behind him, I gave the inspector a querying look.

“What is it?”

“Blood.” Hopkins replied. “See here, under her nails. And some hair.”

“As though she had been trying to violently force her attacker off of her, as of course, she had.” continued Holmes, pulling on a pair of latex gloves, and producing a tiny spatula, and a centrifuge tube. He scraped underneath all her nails carefully, taking care to place the dried dirt in the tube, then removed the tiny bits of hair with a pair of forceps. Taking another tube, he reached up, and took one of the girl’s own hairs, and secured both the tubes in his bag, before removing the gloves.

“Well.” I said, somewhat annoyed. “What good is that, if you already know it’s blood?”

“I’ll run my little test for haemoglobin too of course,” Holmes replied “but it doesn’t matter what material it is, as long as it’s from the murderer.”

“Right.” I replied, not feeling any closer to understanding what the hell was going on. Swearing slightly at the flinch in my leg, I stood back up. For a moment, I just observed the two man in front of me, their attention still taken by the poor asphyxiated girl. Inspector Hopkins was a new beast to me, so I could not have said whether crawling around in the bowels of the underground was normal for him or not, but Holmes… He was usually creature of such clean habits. When I had been attempting to guess his profession, I would never even come close to the truth. The man I had lived with for two months suddenly seemed even more of a stranger. Here was a fellow who grubbed around in the dirt, scraping blood from underneath the fingernails of dead girls, whilst young police officers looked on with looks half full of admiration, half full of longing. Someone clearly had the beginnings of a crush. I felt a small twinge of jealousy, but pushed it away.

A harsh northern accent suddenly broke in on my thoughts.

“OI! What’s all this?!”

Holmes swore curtly, and wheeled around on his heels, coming to his feet as he did so. Hopkins rose slowly as well, guilt written across his face.

“Good evening, Inspector Lestrade.” he said breathlessly.

“Good evening indeed!” the man before us retorted angrily, the ferret-like features of his face screwing up in rage. “I’ve bloody told you before not to bring that damn meddler into our affairs.”

“Hello Lestrade.” Holmes said quietly.

“Get t’hell out of here! If I even catch a whiff of you on this case again, I’ll ‘ave you brought up against t’courts for first charge I can bloody think of, do ye hear?”

In response, Holmes merely gave a flourished bow, which would have been worthy of the royal court.

“Come Watson.”

And away he strode, into the darkness, leaving Inspector Hopkins and his lantern behind us. I shuffled along behind him the best I could, my leg cramping somewhat from the long crawl. I kicked and stumbled through empty glasses and syringes, and God knows what else as I went, nearly falling several times. After a moment, Holmes reached back, and took my arm in his, leading me back towards the door, and the control room beyond in. Here, some of the control panels gave off some light at least, and I was able to blink about, and make out Holmes’s features beside me.

“Are you alright doctor?”

With surprise I came to realise I was trembling. I shook myself, and nodded curtly. Yes, my nerves were shattered, and I still occasionally jumped at shadows – but I had seen far worse sights during my tour of Afghanistan, and I had certainly had worse dressing-downs than the one Hopkins’s senior had just given us.

It seemed Holmes was not quite sure that I was telling the truth, for he turned me to face him, and he looked at me searchingly in the semi-darkness.

“Inspector Hopkins was right to ask you to come with us.” he said firmly “I am glad to have someone familiar by my side in this pit of madness.” And then, to my intense surprise, and with no further ado he pulled me into a rough embrace, and stroked a hand up through my hair. I did not even know what to say, and I suppose I must have stood as stiff as a board in his arms, not even daring to breathe, and too shocked to be embarrassed. What was this? His awkward attempt at comforting me – or something more? Holmes returning my peverse feelings towards him was something I had not even considered, and my mind reeled away from the possibility.

And then I felt it. One hand was definitely in my hair, and another arm was quite solidly clasped around my shoulders, and yet some… thing… was gently stroking my back.

“What… the hell…?” I hissed.

With a sharply in-drawn breath, Holmes suddenly leapt away from me. As quickly as this ungainly affection had overcome him, an icy wall slammed down between us. He flinched away in horror when I simply tried to extend a reassuring hand towards him.

“Come on.” he said coldly after a moment. “We’ve got a nasty climb before us, and a cold cab journey before we get back to Baker Street, and night has fallen. It is no time to be abroad the streets of London.”

And with that he turned and strode away, as if nothing at all had passed between us, and I was left wondering with a sick feeling in my stomach if what I had just felt was real, or if I was finally falling into the depths of insanity.

@~~}~ ~{~~@

Chapitre Quatre

I did not see Holmes for the rest of that evening, nor the following morning. He kept himself locked up his bedroom, exiting only by the door that led directly onto the staircase, as though he were deliberately avoiding my company. I couldn’t help but feel as though he was angry with me somehow, as if by being present at his investigation, and allowing him to embrace me, I had intruded upon his personal space. Foolish I know. No doubt I attributed far too much importantance to the little scene between us of last night. It had probably already slipped from Holmes’s mind, and his isolation from me was purely due to the pursue of science.

I tried to keep myself entertained the best I could, which is to say, hardly entertained at all. I found myself staring at the newspaper for an hour over breakfast before I realised just how long I had been sat there. I had not been reading – the words were swimming about on the page before me – instead I had been replaying the events of last night over and over in my head. Eventually when the automaton came to clear away the breakfast things, I allowed her to tentatively pull the broadsheets out of my grasp. I looked at up at the maid’s coppery mechanical face, and found myself wondering how many algorithms had to run in her clockwork brain before she could deduce that I was not really reading the paper. And how many more would it take before she could understand that even though I was not reading it, I might still have wanted it just as a displacement activity? Ah, therein must lie humanity.

I put my hand to my chest, suddenly feeling cold. Flat against my black, a metal key turned another almost invisible second of a degree it in it’s socket, as it would do so again another sixty-nine times for the next minute. I dropped my eyes away from the maid, and stared determinedly at the carpet. She must have been programmed with some basic human behaviour protocols at least, for she quickly finished cleaning up the table, and hurriedly left the room.

It was insane really, to think of it. My mind went back once again to the underground passageways I had never even conceived were beneath Euston Square. I did not dwell upon the poor girl’s death (although I confess she had troubled my dreams of the night before), nor did I muse about Holmes’s strange occupation, his attractive young friend, or what on earth he could be doing with the samples he had taken. No, my mind was stuck on the strange fumblings in the dark of the control room, that strange stroking of my back as though Holmes had had an extra limb…

I shook my head, trying to rid myself of those thoughts. No, that was insane. But still… he had embraced me. I rubbed at my mechanical heart through my shirt. I had been blown to pieces and left for dead on the field at Maiwand. The only person in the world who mattered to me had come to my rescue, but was later so disgusted by what the surgeons had done to save me, that he had deserted me. I had been convinced that my heart would never truly work again.

And yet, here I was, pondering over the bizarre actions of my co-habitee, as nervous as a schoolboy, and as though said actions actually meant something. I had not been closely observing Holmes for over a month for absolutely no result after all. I knew that he was strange and difficult, and above all, a loner. He probably had no more idea of how to react to a living breathing human being than did the mechanical maid. He merely had not known how best to comfort the fractured remains of a nervous army surgeon.

Dear God, I was pathetic.

~

It wasn’t until after lunch that Holmes finally emerged from his rooms. He looked ridiculous, still wearing his nightshirt (a fact I promptly tried to ignore), the sleeves bunched up and tied up at the arms. He crossed the room barefoot, peeling a pair of gloves off as he went, and sat down at the table opposite me. Usually Holmes smelt of a pleasant but odd mixture of latakia and No. 47 Lime. Today it was more a mixture of carbolic acid and 70 % ethanol, and I wrinkled my nose up in distaste.

“What is for breakfast?” he asked, matter-of-factly “Or is it lunch?”

“It’s roast lamb, and yes, it’s lunch.”

I looked up shyly, to see Holmes staring at me quite frankly from beneath his messy mop of hair. If he felt any embarrassment at all at either his state of dress, or his odd behaviour of last night, he didn’t show it. I did my best to try and push it from my mind also. I opened my mouth instead to rebuke him for missing meals, but Holmes waved my words away before they had even had the chance to pass my lips.

“Yes, yes, yes…” he said, as though shooing away a fussy female relative. “I’m sure your opinion as a physician is of the greatest of importance, but I assure you I am quite well. I have managed to automate the various reactions, so I was able to sleep through the thermocycling stage.”

I watched him nervously as he helped himself to generous portions of the various boiled and roasted vegetables on offer. Passing him the mint sauce, I worked up the courage to ask the question that burned on my mind.

“But whatever have you been doing?”

Holmes glanced up suddenly, and treated me to a severe look.

“I’m eating now.”

So I was forced to retreat to the sofa, having already finished my luncheon. I felt it rude to smoke in the same room whilst someone was eating (although I must note here that Holmes himself has never afforded me that courtesy), so I resigned myself to sitting in my chair facing the fire, hearing the sounds of cutlery scraping behind me, and trying my hardest to forget the strange mystery for the moment.

Eventually he finished, and came to join me by the fire. He sat there for a moment, looking at me, before he burst into a strange outbreak of laughter.

“What?” I replied, my voice coming out more threatening than I had intended.

“You have the patient of an angler! It is an excellent quality of yours, I assure you.”

“Well, thank you then.” I replied, somewhat peevishly, narrowing my eyes. I do not think I am particularly patient – I just had a life completely devoid of interest. As I have mentioned before, my observation of Holmes was pretty much my only entertainment in an otherwise very dull existence.

Holmes coughed, and started again.

“I think we have maybe got off on the wrong foot, you and I. Circumstance threw us together, and co-incidence fused our paths together. I have done you an injustice. I thought beyond your blood you would be of no more use to me. I was wrong.”

If Holmes thought this was the way to sweet-talk me, then he was very much mistaken. My skin prickled all over.

“I observed you closely yesterday. You yourself have admitted your nerves are shaken, and yet you did not flinch at the sight of that girl, nor shy away from the prospect of creeping down into a subterranean labyrinth. You did not ask stupid questions, but calmly and sensibly did as you were asked. Watson, I need a man like you.”

I had to force myself not twitch or cough or otherwise nervously laugh at this particular choice of words.

“I would like to ask you to be my partner,” he continued, quite seriously. “I know you have worked for Stamford satisfactorily before, and although I cannot promise to pay you like he could, and the work would in all likeliness be much more hazardous, I would still like to ask you if you would be willing.”

He seemed to have run out of words. He sat in the chair opposite me, looking very much unlike himself with his nightshirt and undressed hair, in much the same way that he had not looked like himself the night before, in ruined clothes, and covered with dirt.

“Well,” he said again. “Would you?”

“Be willing?” I replied, a little bemused. “To do what?”

“Well,” he spread his hands. “To do whatever little job I might find useful in my investigation. To make a physical record of what I find.” A wry smile twisted his face. “To remind me to eat.”

I took a deep breath.

“Well. I don’t know. You seem awfully fond of keeping me in the dark, you know. If we were to work together, you would have to let me in on the details of your investigation.”

Holmes frowned.

“No, I can’t do that.” He said it so definitely. “I promise I will reveal all to you after the case is closed, but I cannot be troubling myself to always explain details as I go along. Not when the working fit is upon me. No, I can’t work like that.”

His answer was so serious and absolute; I felt we had been thrown up against a brick wall. Inside myself I already knew I would agree to whatever terms he might suggest, so desperate was my need to be needed by this man – he was a natural born leader, and I’m sorry to say, I’ve always been a follower. But I could not help but feel these limits of his were rather strange, and it left me feeling rather peculiar trying to navigate them. I have always been of the philosophy ‘a problem shared is a problem halved’. Holmes was clearly of completely the opposite spectrum of thought.

I felt my resolve dissolving. You must think me weak-willed, and I suppose I am. I could argue that war broke me, but I do not know whether or not that is true anymore. My life of adventure in the deserts of Afghanistan spread out gloriously behind me, twinkling like gold and diamonds in the sun. I had been a brave and courageous army surgeon once. I had told tales of daring-do, and dazzled and shone in my bright uniform, and seduced women over several continents. Now I was a sick and broken pensioner, begging for scraps of attention from a man who barely seemed to know what human emotion was. Now he was finally throwing me a bone, and I was pouncing upon it like the stray dog I truly was.

“So,” I said slowly “You want me to work for you, but you won’t tell me exactly what it is you are doing. I won’t know to what end we are striving until it is all over.”

“You must trust me, doctor.” Holmes’s voice was pleading, but the look in his eyes was steady, as though my agreement was a foregone conclusion.

“I don’t know.” I said, doing my best to think it through properly “We’ve barely even known each other that long. Stamford was an old friend.”

Here Holmes laughed abruptly.

“Please. I know full well Stamford is crooked, and so do you. I work with the law, even if not everyone at Scotland Yard appreciates that.”

“So… what do I get in return for being your faithful lapdog?”

Holmes took a deep breath, and appeared to be steeling himself against something he found trying. Slowly, he closed his eyes, and extended his arm as though offering me a handshake. His eyelids flickered as he watched me through his lashes.

“Friends?” he asked quietly.

I was completely taken aback. I had expected him to say I could have a share of any possible fame, or a cut in whatever profits could be gained. I knew he could be cold, but I had not imagined he could barter affection for my services.

“W-what?” I stuttered back.

He opened his eyes, a look of worry flashing across his face.

“I have read you right though,” he asserted himself, just the tiniest hint of panic coming into his voice, reminding me of the day we met, when my extra haem group had baffled him, “There isn’t anything you would rather have from me.”

“Well, yes,” I admitted, too surprised to say anything else. “When you put it like that, I suppose there isn’t. But you can’t trade friendship, Holmes.”

“Of course I can!” he countered, looking confused. “It’s mine to give. You would be useful to me, and I can already tolerate living with you. It wouldn’t be hard for me to be… affectionate… in return for your labour.”

“That’s not how it works!” I insisted, helplessly.

“Well, really.” Holmes retorted, starting to look annoyed now. “I fail to see what better offer you can get from anyone else.”

That stung. I recoiled, and it must have shown, for Holmes softened his look.

“Please, Watson.”

It was his tone finally, and the use of my name that turned me towards the decision we both knew I would inevitably make anyway. I hesitated a moment, before cautiously reaching out and putting my hand in his. We didn’t shake hands, but merely sat there for a moment, holding hands like frozen businessmen.

Holmes took another laboured breath.

“Just so we understand each other.” He said, voice somewhat hoarse. “I will of course pay you in reciprocal for the work you do for me.” And he slowly pulled my hand over towards him, dipped his head, and placed a rough unshaven kiss on the back of my hand.

I think I was too sick with horror to even attempt a shake of my head. This was hardly at all what I wanted from him, but somehow I could not make my brain and my voice connect to tell him so.

Holmes dropped my hand, apparently taking my silence as assent, and got to his feet.

“I am going to see if Mrs. Hudson might have one or two articles of my clothing about that I could wear. I am currently using my room as a darkroom, and the film shall not be developed for another hour or so.

And with that he floated from the room, and out of sight.

~

After our somewhat disconcerting conversation, I found myself with the strange desire to leave the house. To Mrs. Hudson’s delight I collected my hat and jacket, and made my way down to the park, where the mad March winds were ravaging Nature’s attempt to break out into spring. I stared about me with some kind of wild abandon, as though I were awakening from some strange state of hibernation.

I think it would be pressing it rather to call Regent’s Park an oasis of beauty and calm within the grotty industrial hell that is London, but it was some respite from the streets at least, even if courting couples on romantic drives did insist upon attempting one’s life every five minutes. I hopped over a short fence, and made my way over to a large tree, intended to sit beneath it, but resigning to squatting when I realised just how cold and damp the ground was.

I felt like I hadn’t been outside for years.

I had been the hardy out-of-doors active type, once. The kind of man a malingerer might refer to as ‘healthy’ with a nasty sneer. I had played rugby and cricket at school, although admittedly only on the B teams at St. Barts. I had joined the army for Christ’s sake. Now I was the malingerer, living off an army pension, and not even bothering to poke my nose out the door for a breath of fresh air. If I had been one of my patients, I would have despaired. A weak heart and hypotension were not enough to excuse me, and with the exercise, my arm and leg would have no doubt grown stronger.

I sighed, and watched a couple of mallards swimming past in what must have been freezing cold water. They eyed each other warily, each not quite willing to get within biting range of the other, and yet both not wanting to leave the other alone either. I knew how they felt.

How the hell Holmes could have casually offered his friendship to me in return for my service, I could not understand, let alone his hinting at offering me something more. Quite frankly, the thought repulsed me. Yes, my heart had been broken, but it had (after a fashion) been repaired. I was a broken shadow of my former self, but my body had not died. My self-respect may have been torn away, and my naïvety had gone forever, but the emotional capacity of my heart had not died either. I was not so cynical yet as to give up my belief in love.

And this? This was not love. I could not put my finger upon exactly what it was, but it wasn’t love. I was attracted to Holmes, that was undeniably true, but what else was there? I was fascinated by the man, obsessed with him even, but this did not equate to love. Apart from the peculiar qualities of my blood, last night had been the first time he had ever taken an interest in me. And now he was offering me… what? I didn’t even know. Had I misunderstood?

Damn the man! He saw all. I was foolish to have thought I could hide my feelings from him. Whenever I saw him unexpectedly, whenever he did something particularly agile or bizarre, I felt a frisson of excitement. Whenever we would accidentally touch, hands brushing as we passed each other in the corridor, or fingers casually stroking as I passed him a spoon, my skin would pimple, and I would find it hard to keep from shivering. Surely this could not have gone unnoticed to the man who could deduce my service history from one precursory glance?

I groaned, and buried my head in my hands. If the earth had parted then and swallowed me up, I could have only been the happier for it. Such a fool I was! And to allow Holmes to manipulate me thus!

Still, I told myself, it could have been worse. The law was not exactly kind on inverts, and he appeared to work closely with an enthusiastic young inspector. I doubt very much that the police would care much about my complete lack of concern about gender, as I was no famous personality, and only the sensational made half-penny headlines. Still it must have crossed Holmes’s mind. But had he decided against that course of action, and instead decided to offer me an incentive rather than blackmail me. Surely the latter would have been easier…

I shook my head. Enough of this madness, and dwelling upon things I could not change. I knew the sensible course of action would be to pack my things, and move out and away from temptation, but I didn’t have the energy. I would just have to muddle along as best I could, and hope Holmes didn’t drag me down even further into my obsession with his queer bargain. I think I knew I was merely setting myself up for more heartbreak, but I couldn’t find it within me to care. It was only a scrap of affection that Holmes had thrown me, but it was a scrap more than I could get elsewhere.

~

When I got back to Baker Street, I found Holmes fully dressed and standing in the living room, impatiently tapping his foot. I don’t think the man had ever waited for me before during our entire period of residence together, and it unnerved me.

“This is no time for walks about the park Watson.” He said sternly “My photograph has been developed for over half an hour.”

I gave him a strange look.

“I had no idea you wanted to show me. What is it of? You didn’t take a camera to the Underground.”

“This is not your ordinary sort of photograph.” He replied, with a hint of pride in his voice.

Gingerly he passed me a photographic plate – a glass plate coated with silver nitrate, of the type used in cameras to capture the image. However there was no real image, but a strange series of fours bands of black stripes on a pale background, the fourth appearing more smudged and containing more stripes than the other three. I frowned, and looked up at Holmes. I turned it about in my hands. Eventually I gave it back.

“I don’t understand.” I confessed. “What is this a photograph of? It looks like some kind of accidental exposure.”

“No accident.” Holmes replied, almost simmering with glee. He took the plate from me, and put it down carefully on the mantelpiece, in pride of place. “The stripes you see are produced by radiation fluoresced by purified fragments of the samples I took yesterday. What you are looking at is essentially a fingerprint of the victim and both the suspects.”

I raised my eyebrows.

“Both suspects?”

Holmes smiled, and disappeared into his bedroom. He returned holding a print up by a pair of tweezers. It looked like it had just dried, and was of course the reverse of the photographic place – brilliant white stripes on a black background. The radiation aspect was easier to appreciate.

“This first set of stripes – this was from the victim’s own blood, from her throat. The second set was from the blood I took, and the third the hair – see how it is much fainter? Not a good sample, I’m afraid. But notice how all three banding patterns are different? They are from three different people.”

“Right.” I said, completely unable to understand what the bands represented, but able to see they were indeed different. “And the fourth set of stripes?”

“A control – a scale if you like. To measure the fragments.”

“To… measure?” I saw a look of annoyance pass Holmes’s features, and I quickly dismissed the question. He had already said he would not bother to explain all to me, and I supposed I should feel lucky that he was even willing to show me the photographs. “Never mind. But what are these faint smudges at the top of all the bands?”

“Primer-dimers. Rubbish, ignore it.” He gave the photograph an amused smile “I haven’t quite refined the technique yet.”

“Well.” I sighed, as Holmes carefully placed the photograph into an envelope and sealed it. “I’m sure that is all very interesting, but I fail to see where this gets us. We may have their fingerprints, but without their fingers to match them, we can’t possibly hope to find out who they are.”

“This is where a simple exercise in deductive logic comes in useful.” He replied. “And I say simple, Watson, for I am surprised that you cannot come up with it yourself.”

I folded my arms and stared at him. I may have agreed to help him in whatever way I might, but that did not mean he had the right to insult me.

“We have two samples – one of hair, one of blood (and disappointingly O negative, I must add). Surely it follows that anyone may leave a hair on another person, but to leave blood under the fingernails, one has to severely aggravate the party concerned.”

“I’m not sure it’s that easy to leave hair under someone’s fingernails either.” I pointed out sulkily.

“You are right, of course. It must have been a person significantly close to her, a beau perhaps. Or a family member.”

I felt an urge to point out that more than one otherwise loving female had used her nails on me, and drawn blood, but I bit the comment down as something I doubted Holmes wanted to hear.

“Do you happen to recall what colour the hair was?” he asked.

“No.” I replied, obstinately.

“It was ginger.” Holmes said, with confidence. “She was dark-haired – the family member theory grows more remote. Would it surprise you, I wonder, if I were to say that the re-headed population of Britain remains at a persistant 4 %?”

I thought of all the men and women I had known over the years.

“Not really.”

“Quite. And so, we have eliminated 96 % of the population already.”

“Fantastic.” I replied, sarcastically, quickly doing the sum in my head. “That leaves us with only two hundred thousand suspects in London alone.”

“Was there anything at all that struck you as peculiar about the scene?” Holmes replied with equal sarcasm. “Could it not possibly be the way the locale had recently been the setting of an illegal underground rave? Inspector Hopkins has been co-operating with the Metropolitan railway for some months now, in addition to working with me on developing my new technique. It was only a matter of time before these two paths crossed. We shall go along to Scotland Yard, and see if we can’t find a match in Hopkins’s library of samples.”

“You… can’t be serious?”

“Perfectly, my dear boy.”

Go to part two.