Chapter Text
Sherlock Holmes took a bottle from the corner of the mantelpiece, and his hypodermic syringe from its neat morocco case. With a slender, nervous hand he adjusted the device; wiggling the delicate needle before observing his sinewy forearm, dotted all over with puncture marks of a similar nature. Finally, he thrust the sharp point home, pressed in the miniscule piston, and lounged back in his velvet lined armchair with a long sigh of satisfaction. The task at hand was complete.
Three times a day, for months on end…this spectacle was a frequent performance- yet custom had not reconciled it with the man I was privileged to call my friend. On the contrary, as time passed I grew irritable at the sight, tormented day and night by the urge to protest the action. Again and again, I had promised myself that I would deliver my thoughts on the subject; yet his utter indifference made him the last man to approach with any semblance of a liberty. His great power, masterly manner, and my experience and respect of his many extraordinary talents made for a difficult condition of discussion, for I was wary of inflaming his temper. Yet on that afternoon, whether the drink of Beaune from lunch or the exasperation of witnessing his extreme decorum and manner, I suddenly rose and spoke.“
What is it now,” I snapped, “morphine or cocaine?”
He raised his eyes languidly from the old black-letter volume in his hand, an expression of solid indifference on his sharp features.
“It is cocaine,” he said, “a seven-per-cent solution. Care to partake in it yourself?”
“No, of course,” I returned. “My health still suffers from the Afghan campaign. I cannot strain myself further, as you know.”
He allowed himself a small smile at my vehement tone. “Perhaps you are right, Watson,” was the sigh of indulgence “I suppose that its influence is physically negative. I find it, however, so transcending in stimulants and clarifying to my mind that its secondary actions are no matter as of now.”
“Consider!” I urged, earnestly. “Count the cost! Your brain may become roused, excited by the reaction, but it is a morbid process that awaits you in the future: tissue changes, weakness…you have certainly gathered the dark reaction that overcomes you after its use. Surely this game is hardly worth the player.” I paused, forcing my mind to gather the racing bullets of thought. “Why should you, for the mere passing pleasure of a lazy day, risk losing the great powers you have made that body a vessel for? Remember, I am not just a friend, but a medical man who feels I hold much of your health in my care.”
He did not seem to take offence at my words, drawing his finger-tips together in the pose of a man who relishes the air of debate.
“My mind,” he said, leaning on the arm of his chair, “rebels at the first hint of stagnation. Give me problems, work, the most obtuse ciphers, the deepest breadth of analysis- there I reside in my proper sphere of existence. Then I leave behind the need for artificial stimulation. But I abhor the dull routine of this everyday life, for craving of a higher exaltation. That is why I have chosen my own profession, or rather, created it, as I am the only one in the world.”
“The only unofficial detective?”
“The only unofficial consulting detective,” he clarified softly. “I am the last and highest court of appeal in detection. When Gregson, Lestrade, or Athelney Jones are out of their respective depths- which is their normal state, I might add- the matter is clearly laid before me. I examine the data, as an expert, and pronounce a specialist’s opinion. I claim no credit in such cases. My name is never printed in the newspapers. The work itself, the pleasure of having a field on which to stretch my peculiar powers, is the highest reward. You yourself, Watson, have firsthand knowledge of my methods as seen in the Jefferson Hope case.”
"Indeed!” I exclaimed. “There hasn't been something that has struck me so, ever in my life. I even published my records in a small brochure, with the somewhat fantastic title of ‘A Study in Scarlet.’”
His curls bounced as he shook his head sadly.
“I glanced at it, and could not bring myself to utter congratulations. Detection is, or should be, an exact science, treated in the same cold and unemotional manner. You have attempted to turn it with a colour of romanticism, which works the same way as a love-story in the fifth proposition of Eucilid.”
“The romance did exist there. I could not tamper with the facts!” was my ruffled reply.
He chuckled, eyes betraying a spark of amusement.
“Some facts should be suppressed, or treated with a care of proportion. The only point in the case that deserved mention was the curious analytical reasoning from effects to causes, by which I succeeded in unravelling it.”
I was thoroughly annoyed with the criticism of a work that had been made for his praise. I confess that I was irritated by the blatant egotism that demanded my prose be written only for his special doings. More than once in our Baker Street residence did I observe this underlying vanity of my companion’s quiet, didactic manner. I chose to silence myself, and focus on the aching of my shoulder. I had had a bullet through it some years before, and though it would function quite well, it ached wearily at every change in the weather.
“My practice has extended recently to the Continent.” said Holmes after a while, his pipe spreading the smell of smoke about the room. “I was consulted last week by William A. Zeppeli, an old friend of mine who has helped me a great deal in many cases. He has all the Italian fire of passion, but is deficient in many topics of exact knowledge which are essential in his line of work.” He uttered a small chuckle. “But his gifts are not impractical. He is wise in paths that have become invaluable to me.”
I must confess here that I was greatly astonished by his words. In our time together, he had given off the appearance of a solitary man, set apart from the breadth of humanity by his own bread and cheese. Now, the glow of respect warmed his features, giving insight into the beating heart that I knew must reside in this enigma of a man. Noticing my reaction, he paused waiting in the silence for my inevitable question.
“This Zeppeli…how is it that you have come to share such a bond? You belittle his talents in your art, yet also congratulate him on arts of which I am woefully lacking in knowledge of.” His features rapidly shifted from fond recollection into a face hard with the visage of ferocity. “Forgive me if this is harsh, I would not want this to be a painful experience.”
He laughed, a soft breath that seemed to act as a release to the pressure.
“It is no matter, Watson. The events I would relate are of such singular oddity that I am afraid you would have a hard time comprehending it.” He stood, stretching for a moment. "Here is the letter which I had this morning acknowledging my assistance.”
He tossed over, as he spoke, a crumpled sheet of foreign notepaper. I glanced upon it, catching a profusion of notes of admiration, with stray che carinos, grazies, and complementis, all testifying to the ardent admiration of the Italian.
“He speaks as a pupil to his master.”
“Oh, he rates my assistance too highly,” Sherlock Holmes said lightly. “He has considerable gifts himself, and not only in our shared profession. Aside from possessing many detective qualities, he has his own special eccentricities that make him a considerable force in the wider world. He is only wanting in knowledge of deduction, and that may come in time. He is now translating my small works into Italian.
“Your works?”
“Oh, didn’t you know?” he cried, laughing. “Yes, I have been guilty of several monographs, all upon technical subjects. Here, for example, is one ‘Upon the Distinction between the Ashes of the Various Tobaccos.’ In it I speak of a hundred and forty forms of cigar, cigarette, and pipe-tobacco, illustrating the difference in the ash. It is a point continually in criminal trials, sometimes of supreme importance as a clue. If you can say definitely that murder has been done by a man smoking an Indian lunkah, it obviously narrows your field of search. To the trained eye there is as much difference between the black ash of a Trichinopoly and the white fluff of bird’s-eye as there is between a cabbage and a potato.”
“You have extraordinary genius for the minute,” I remarked, astonished yet again by his considerable knowledge.
“I appreciate their importance.” was the curt reply. “Here is my monograph on the tracing of footsteps, with remarks upon the use of plaster of Paris as a preserver of impressions. Here, too, is a curious work upon the influence of a trade on the form of the hand, with lithotypes of the hands of slaters, sailors, cork-cutters, compositors, weavers, and diamond-polishers. That is a matter of practical interest to the scientific detective, especially in cases of unclaimed bodies, or discovering the antecedents of criminals.” He took a breath, wryly continuing. “I must tire you with my hobby.”
“Not at all! It is of interest to me, since I have been observing your practical application of it. But you spoke of observation and deduction; surely the one to some extent implies the other.”
“Why, hardly! Observation shows me that you have been to the Wigmore Street Post-Office this morning, but deduction lets me know that you dispatched a telegram.”
“Right!” I gasped, “on both points! But I don’t see how you arrived there. It was a sudden impulse on my part, and I mentioned it to no one.”
“It is so simple that an explanation is unneeded; yet it serves to define the limits of observation and deduction. Observation tells me that you have a reddish mould adhering to your instep. Opposite the Office they have taken up the pavement, throwing up some earth which lies in a way that is difficult to avoid when entering. The earth is of this tint which is found, as far as I know, nowhere else in the neighbourhood. The rest is by deduction.”
“How did you deduce the telegram?” I shot back.
“Of course I knew that you had not written a letter, I sat opposite to you all morning. Why would you go into the post-office, except to send a wire? Eliminate all other factors, and the remaining is the truth.”
“In this case it is so,” I replied, thinking, “Would you think me impertinent if I put your theories to a test?”
“On the contrary, it would prevent the taking of a second dose of cocaine. I am delighted to look into any problem which you might submit.”
“I heard you say it is difficult for a man to have objects in daily use without leaving the impression of himself on them in a way that trained observers might read. I have a watch which has recently come into my possession. Would you let me have an opinion on the character and habits of the late owner?”
I handed him the watch, feeling amusement in my heart, for I thought this test impossible, intending a lesson against the dogmatic tone which he would assume.
He balanced the watch in his hand, gazing hard at the dial, the back, and the works; first with his eyes, then with a powerful convex lens. I smiled at his crestfallen face when he finally snapped the case and handed it back.
“There is hardly any data. The watch has been cleaned, which robs me of most suggestive facts.”
“It was cleaned before being sent.” In my heart I accused my companion of putting forward an excuse to cover his failure.
“Though unsatisfactory, my research has not been barren,” he murmured, staring at the ceiling with dreamy, lack-lustre eyes. “Subject to your correction, I judge the watch belonged to your elder brother, who inherited it from your father.”
“That you gather from the H. W. upon the back?”
“Quite so. The W. suggests your own name. The date of the watch is fifty years back, and the initials are as old as the watch: it was made for the last generation. Jewellery usually descends to the eldest son, most likely to have the same name as the father. Your father has been dead for many years. It has then been in the hands of your eldest brother.”
“Anything else?”
“He was a man of untidy habits, left with good prospects, but he threw away his chances, living for some time in poverty with short intervals of prosperity. Finally, after much drinking, he died. That is all I can gather.”
I sprang from my chair and paced about the room with bitterness in my heart.
“This is unworthy of you, Holmes, I could not have believed that you would have descended to this. You have inquired into the history of my brother, and now pretend to deduce knowledge in fanciful ways. You cannot expect me to believe you have read this from his old watch! It is unkind, and has a touch of charlatanism.”
“My dear doctor, accept my apologies. Viewing the matter as an abstract problem, I had forgotten how painful a thing it might be. I assure you I never knew that you had a brother until observing the watch.”
“How did you get these facts? They are all correct.”
“Ah, that is good luck, I did not at all expect to be so accurate.“
“It was not guess-work?”
“No, no: I never guess. It is a habit destructive to logic. What seems strange to you is because you do not follow my train of thought or observe small facts which large inferences may depend on. For example, I began by stating your brother was careless. When you observe the lower part of that watch-case it is not only dented in two places, it is cut and marked all over from the habit of keeping other hard objects in the same pocket. It is no feat to assume a man who treats a fifty guinea watch just so must be careless. Neither is it far-fetched that one inheriting an article of such value is well provided for.”
I nodded.
“It is customary for pawnbrokers in England to scratch the number of the ticket with a pin-point upon the inside of the watch case. It is more handy than a label, there is no risk of the number being lost or transposed. There are no less than four numbers visible to my lens on the inside. So, your brother was often in low water. For the next inference- he had bursts of prosperity, or he could not have redeemed the pledge. Finally, look at the inner plate, and key-hole. The thousands of scratches mark where the key has slipped. What sober man’s key could have scored those grooves? He winds it at night, leaving traces of unsteady hands. Where is the mystery?”
“It is clear,” I answered, shamed. “I regret what I did to you, I need faith in your faculty. May I ask if you have a professional inquiry at present?”
“None, hence the cocaine. What else is there to live for? Stand at the window here. How the yellow fog swirls down the street and drifts across the houses! What could be more hopelessly prosaic and material? What is the use of having powers with no field upon which to exert them? Crime and existence is commonplace, no qualities save those which are the same as mine have any function upon this earth.”
Opening my mouth to reply to this tirade, I stopped when our landlady entered, a letter upon the brass salver.
“A young man for you, sir,” she announced, addressing my companion. “A…Mr. Jonathan…Joestar.”
Sherlock paled, instantly shooting to his feet.
“I have knowledge of the name. Ask him to step up, Mrs. Hudson! Don’t go, doctor, I prefer that you remain.” He blinked slowly, supporting himself against the chair in which he had sat.
“There may now be great danger to us all.”