One of the most exhausting things about Sherlock Holmes was his near constant need for stimulation. There were days, of course, where he could rest as well as any man. But often those days were short-lived, and it wasn’t long before he was clawing at the walls, desperate for distraction. It was only by my keen supervision that I kept him out of his syringe box in these times. Mostly. And it was during one of these stretches of boredom where Holmes and I found ourselves one gloomy morning in June.

​

As the weather threatened to turn, I was content to remain in 221B and read. Holmes had amused himself with an experiment in chemistry (during which I insisted he kept the window cracked; both for the smell and for safety). By mid-afternoon, the man was glued to our windows, plucking at his violin with limpid fingers. He was playing no particular melody, and every so often, punctuated his string of annoyed notes with a prolonged sigh. By the time I noted the fifth one, I glanced over my shoulder and cleared my throat.

 

“Composing something?” I asked. He didn’t answer, far too lost in his own thoughts. I flipped the page of my newspaper. “How did your experiment turn out? Anything to report to the presses?”

 

“Arthritis.”

 

“What was that?”

 

Holmes gestured out the window with his violin bow. “The newsboy down on the corner. He has been leaning to his left for some time. I thought perhaps he had an injury or sore foot. But upon further inspection, his two left fingers are curled tightly together, and he has yet to separate them. He’s young. Far younger than most men beset by the disease, but all the signs are there. Perhaps that’s why he’s been given no crutch? Oh, would that man relinquish his ego, and he would have a simpler life, indeed.”

 

I folded the newspaper in my lap. “And what gives you the impression that he is egotistical?”

 

“Well? Come see.” I rose from the sofa and joined Holmes at the window, folding the paper up underneath my arm. We watched the poor newsboy on the corner of our street, calling for customers as he showcased the latest headlines. Though it was difficult to tell at a distance, I noticed that the young man’s middle and ring finger on his left hand were stiff, and practically glued together. “Ah, excellent. Do you see the ladies approach?” Holmes nodded, and I located two young debutantes headed for his corner. “Our fellow is undoubtedly a salesman, but he makes a habit of paying particular attention to pretty girls.” As predicted, the ladies passed the newsboy, and the young man tipped his hat, even stretching his arm out as if to present himself to the girls. They giggled and excused themselves, and he let his eyes linger on their bustles.

 

“Hardly a surefire sign of ego,” I said. “Rather, I’d draw a much different conclusion.”

 

“Which is?”

 

“That he’s a single young man.”

 

“Pah! Oh, Watson, you see and yet you do not observe. Look here.” He gestured again. “Gentlemen now.” Three older men passed our newsboy. The young chap tipped his hat in greeting, and seemed to engage them in proper conversation. “In what world does a lowly newspaper boy deem himself worthy to fraternize with both well bred girls and silk pressed men?” Holmes tapped the window with his bow. “So self-important is he that he no doubt refuses the use of crutch or cane, so as not to seem weak. By appealing to this desire to be seen, he is in turn damaging his own well being. A man willing to cut off his nose to spite his face if ever I’ve seen one. Ego. Id. Superego. All at war with the physical world.” He laid his bow upon the strings and began to play quite suddenly. I recognized the frantic, hurried notes.

 

“Bach?” I asked.

 

“Partita No. 1 in B Minor.” He continued his dance with the strings, and I, content to listen, took my seat at his left. I closed my eyes. Such a talent was this man, my man. Had he not a mind for murder and mayhem, he would no doubt make for a master of music. Nearing the end of the piece, my eyes fluttered open, and met his. For he had been watching, not the bounce of his agile fingers, but my expression. We smiled as he finished with a prolonged final note. I applauded, and he took a polite bow.

 

“Wonderful, my dear fellow. Absolutely perfect.”

 

He examined his bow. “Oh, hardly. I’m afraid my fingerwork still needs practice nearing the end of the cadenza. I missed three notes.”

 

“Well I didn’t hear it.”

 

“You wouldn’t.”

 

I rolled my eyes and opened my newspaper back up. “Do try not to fawn over the compliment, Holmes. It’s unbecoming.” He chuckled, and as I skimmed the articles, he bent forward and kissed my crown. I smiled over the edge of the paper as he went to put his violin away. “So! What is on our schedule, hm?” To my dismay, he went back to his sighing, and my smile faded. “Come, you were in such a chipper mood just now.”

 

“I’m afraid my delight was fleeting, my friend.”

 

“So it would seem.” I scanned the paper. “Why don’t we see what might be of interest to you…?” I trailed off, mumbling to myself. Holmes, tightening his house robe, flopped onto the cushions of the sofa and put his feet up on the armrest. “Oh. Drowning in the Thames.”

 

“Drunk. Fell over, hit his head.”

 

“I see. What about this? A string of burglaries—”

 

“All unrelated. Merely unfortunate proximity to one another. Crime is rampant these days, it’s not uncommon.”

 

I flipped a page. “Ah! Here is something. A murder on an Egyptian archaeological dig! Do you have a conclusion to that, Holmes?”

 

Holmes lifted his head. “What does the report say?”

 

“Erm…” I returned to the news story. “It says it was self defense.”

 

“Then that is what you must believe.”

 

“Oh? No wild theories or magnificent deductions?”

 

He laid his head back down. “Oh Watson. You ask me to draw conclusions based off of a pittance found in the paper. I am no psychic.”

 

“But you just concluded the other two.”

 

“Yes, in a city I know, with players I’ve seen a million times over. Both answers are reasonable given the patterns of London’s criminal class and common drunkards. Further, the drowned victim was found last Saturday, and the burglaries have been reported throughout the month. Considering that Lestrade has called on us for neither, I can safely assume I am correct.  But you ask me to make assumptions on a case that is miles away with no variables I may extrapolate from? Tsk tsk tsk. You know me better than that. My methods, dearest, can only work if I have enough ink with which to pen the truth. Data, data, data. I cannot—”

 

“You cannot make bricks without clay.” I smiled as Holmes’ face popped up a second time, bewildered. “Yes, I know.”

 

“Have I really become so predictable to you?”

 

“Only in some ways.” I returned to the paper and lit up. “Ah-ha!” I stood and thrust the paper into Holmes’ hands. “A young woman’s necklace was swiped from her possession. While she was wearing it. Now how do we feel about that bit of clay, hm?”

 

“Oh.” He sat up, that spark in his eye returning to him. “Now that is a keen bit of pick-pocketing, isn’t it?”

 

“Who knows? Perhaps the young lady might waltz in through our door at any minute?” The bell downstairs tolled, and Holmes and I swapped looks of pleasant surprise. In a mad dash, Holmes and I rushed to tidy our parlor as Mrs. Hudson walked our client up the steps. Although the two of us were, in fact, in a domestic arrangement and deeply in love, there were more ways than one in which we still behaved like bachelors. Sadly, our cluttered home fell squarely into that category. By the time the door opened, Holmes had abandoned his house jacket, and I had managed to push much of the unsightly mess underneath the breakfast table, and hid it well with the cloth.

 

“A client for you, Mr. Holmes,” Mrs. Hudson announced. She stepped inside and held the door for a young lady that trailed behind her. At a glance, I could gather that she was barely twenty, with large eyes hidden behind flimsy spectacles. She was, perhaps, rather plain and modest, but her cheeks flushed in that way that showcased the delicate loveliness of her sex. Her clothing was well made, but hardly extravagant. In fact, the one piece of decoration on her whole person was that of a simple gold pendant.

 

“Pardon the intrusion,” she said, clutching her handkerchief. “I hope I have not come at an inopportune time, but I’m afraid my affair is an urgent one.”

 

“Not at all, dear lady,” said Holmes. He gestured to the sofa. “Please, rest yourself. Mrs. Hudson?”

 

“I shall bring the tea up promptly.” With that, our landlady excused herself, and Holmes and I took our appropriate seats.

 

“Now then,” Holmes began, one long leg over the other. “I must assume by your distress that you have come as a final course of action, is that correct?”

 

“It is.”

 

“May we have the lady’s name?”

 

“My name is Gretchen Nettle, and I’ve recently come to London to answer a job advertisement.”

 

“Typing?” Holmes asked.

 

“Why yes,” Miss Nettle breathed. “How—?”

 

“Your fingertips are weathered from only one of two ways; either you are a pianist or a typist. Considering that you slouch as you sit, I cannot assume you are a musician.” Miss Nettle flushed with embarrassment and straightened herself up. I cleared my throat. Holmes took it as a clear sign of chastisement, and he continued. “Where did you live prior to accepting this position?”

 

“Luton. My mother and father own an estate in New Town.”

 

“A comfortable life then. One must wonder why their daughter sought employment?”

 

“Oh, I am not in want for much,” said Miss Nettle. “Only… Well you see, Mr. Holmes, I have lived my whole life in Luton. Now that I am of age, I would care to experience a bit of independence. At least briefly.”

 

“What makes you say that?” I asked. “The brevity, I mean.”

 

“Because she is engaged,” said Holmes.

 

Miss Nettle brightened. “Now that must have been a guess.”

 

“On the contrary. You wear only one piece of jewelry, loudly and with pride. As you are a typist, it is not uncommon for hands to be devoid of rings, but that necklace is clearly a gift. Considering your age and the fact that your parents were amenable to the idea of a position in the city, you must be spoken for with enough confidence that a father may be more lenient to you striking out without a chaperone. This is even more evident with the added information that you have been rather sheltered in your family’s estate for the majority of your life. Ergo, whomever your groom is, he must be respectable enough to have earned your father’s trust.”

Miss Nettle laughed, though it was soft and nervous. “Is there anything about me you do not know?”

 

“Plenty,” said Holmes. “Most importantly, I am still without any real guess as to why you are sitting in my parlor today.”

 

Mrs. Hudson stepped in, tea tray in hand. “Here we are, dear.” She poured Miss Nettle a cup and put the set on the table. “I’ve also brought up a plate of biscuits should you fancy a nibble.”

 

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” I said. “That should be all for now.” Mrs. Hudson pursed at my dismissal, but nodded all the same. As she closed the door behind her, I leaned forward, my notepad in hand. “Forgive me, but I am a doctor, Miss Nettle. Are there any injuries you have incurred to put you under such duress? Has someone hurt you?”

 

“No. But… but I fear that someone may try.” Miss Nettle took her teacup and clutched it with both hands, her ankles tight together. “You see, Mr. Holmes… doctor… I am being followed.”

 

“A harrowing situation indeed,” said Holmes. “Do you know by whom?”

 

“I do not,” said Miss Nettle.

 

“Very well.” Holmes removed a pipe and lit it, folding his legs upon the cushion. “Take us to the beginning of your plight, and spare us no detail.”

 

Miss Nettle nodded. “It began two weeks ago,” she said. “I had only started employment at the beginning of last month. I work for a legal office in Shadwell, and had found lodgings in a boarding house in Blackheath. Just beside Greenwich Park. The walk is long, but not so terrible, and with it being warmer in the evenings, I would sometimes stroll on my way home. Perhaps pick up dinner or treat myself to a cafè or a trip to a bookstore. When I moved to London, my parents made me promise to only take cabs on long trips, but I found it so very financially impractical, especially when I can walk the distance.”

 

“From Shadwell to Blackheath?” I clarified. “Goodness me, Miss Nettle, that’s nearly two hours worth of walking.”

 

“Yes,” she agreed, “but it is so lovely walking in London. Luton is wonderful, of course, but there is always something to see walking home in the city. So many curiosities to find.”

 

“You are braver than most to venture alone as a young lady,” said Holmes.

 

“It is only because I can do so in the daylight hours,” Miss Nettle insisted. “I am sure that once the days grow shorter, I shall resort to cabs once again.”

 

“I should think. Please, continue with your story.”

 

“Yes. As I said, I care to walk when I can. And for the first two weeks, I was relatively unbothered. I’d even made a few friends on my route. Then, one afternoon, I was asked to stay an hour later than normal.”

 

“What day was this?” asked Holmes.

 

“Wednesday, last. There was a document that needed to be finished by the end of the day, and so I was asked to stay until it was done. I obliged, certainly, but it did cut down my daylight walking time by an hour. Nevertheless, I started on foot. I reasoned that I could find a cab to Blackheath on my way there should it get too late. I was walking across the Tower Bridge when I felt as though I was being watched. A gentleman had stopped behind me for a cigarette. He was far enough away to obscure his details, but I recall that he took care to keep his hat tilted, so that I might not see his face. Well at first, I thought that perhaps I was being hysterical. But as I passed into Bermondsy, I could still feel his eyes on me. I checked discreetly to see if he was still following me, and found him not far behind. After that, I waved for a cab to take me home. At the time, I was hoping that it was a singular occurrence. But ever since, I have seen him here and there throughout the weeks. I began taking cabs to and from work so as to perhaps deter him, but he remained persistent. Only just yesterday, I saw him again, but not during my commute home. I saw him outside the window of my office. Waiting for me.” She took an uneasy sip of tea and set the cup aside. “I told my employer that I was not feeling well, and would need the next few days to myself. I have asked my neighbor to escort me to see you today. He is waiting outside, on the slim chance that the man had followed me here.”

 

“Watson, invite the neighbor inside. I would like to have a word with him.”

 

“Of course.” I left my chair and went to the door, where I found Mrs. Hudson huddled beside the crack, listening in. She bolted upright and fluffed her apron, appearing to look innocent. I ignored her transgression in favor of a request. “Could you invite the gentleman downstairs to come up, please?”

 

“Right away, Dr. Watson.”

 

I returned to my seat and took up my pen. “When was the last sighting of this mysterious man? Yesterday?”

 

“Neither I nor Mr. Travers have seen any sign of him.”

 

“Your neighbor?”

 

“Yes.”

 

A moment later, the door opened, and in walked a man of about twenty five. He was average in height, with the air of a bachelor, albeit hardly a gentleman. His hands were calloused, no doubt from years of work. He removed his hat in the presence of Miss Nettle. “You called for me, miss?”

 

“Mr. Travers, I presume,” said Holmes.

 

Mr. Travers turned to Holmes with a nod. “That’s right.”

 

“You are Miss Nettle’s neighbor?”

 

“Down the street, at least. I’m a cabby by trade.”

 

“So you are. Fortunate that Miss Nettle has a driver she may trust in this difficult time.” Holmes puffed his pipe, hand on his knee. “What can you tell me about this shadow of hers?”

 

“Not much. Can’t say I’ve seen him, myself. But I believe Miss Gretchen, honest to God. The city ain’t safe for a gentlelady like her, I keep saying.”

 

A smile flickered on Holmes’ face. “You are a man of considerate principal, Mr. Travers.”

 

“Thank you, sir.”

 

Jotting the last of my notes, I looked up to our client. “Miss Nettle. May I ask what you think this man may want? Has he perhaps seen your purse or…?”

 

Miss Nettle shivered, and gripped her handkerchief tighter. “What do most unscrupulous men want with unmarried ladies, Dr. Watson?” she whispered.

 

“Ah, forgive me. I did not mean to upset you.”

 

Miss Nettle shook her head. “It’s alright. I understand.”

 

“I keep saying to Miss Gretchen she needs herself a hat pin,” Mr. Travers nodded. “One of them long ones. Give your man a good poke and he won’t think twice about it, will he?” That, at least, got a small laugh out of Miss Nettle, who was by now dabbing her eyes with her handkerchief.

 

Holmes unfurled his legs like a spider and leapt to his feet. With his pipe in hand, he began to pace the parlor. “Who else knows of this unfortunate turn of events? Your parents?”

 

“Yes. I wrote to them not long ago. They sent me a telegram urging me to return home. But I’d hate to leave so soon. Other than this horrible business, I have so loved my time in the city.”

 

“And where is your fiancé in all of this?”

 

“Abroad. Ronald left earlier in the year for his education. I’ve yet to write him about the incident. I fear that my distress may force him to abandon his tenure in favor of returning home far too soon. I simply couldn’t live with myself if I made him do such a thing.”

 

“His full name?”

 

“Mr. Ronald Lewis.”

 

“What of Mr. Lewis’ family?”

 

“He has none, I’m afraid. My dear Ronald was an orphan. But that didn’t stop him from pursuing an education in anthropology. He’s a brilliant man.”

 

“When are you to be married?”

 

“In the spring. When he returns home.”

 

“And his latest letter to you? From where was its postage marked?”

 

“I believe he is currently in the Sudan province.”

 

Holmes tapped his lips with the end of his pipe, his footsteps slowed as he considered the facts. “Does your Mr. Lewis have any associates you know of still at home? Colleagues? Friends? Enemies, perhaps?”

 

“Enemies?” Miss Nettle gasped. “Oh certainly not, Mr. Holmes.”

 

“Forgive me, but I must ask every question, no matter how absurd.” Holmes took another puff of his pipe. “What of you?”

 

“Me?”

 

“You have told me you live in Blackheath and work in Shadwell. What of your social calendar? Do you have friends? Events, clubs?”

 

“Well… there was a garden party I had been invited to for this weekend, but I had already decided I shan't be going. It’s far too dangerous now.”

 

Holmes toyed with a grin, his teeth bared on the wood of his pipe. “I dare say you shall, Miss Nettle.”

 

“I beg your pardon?”

 

Holmes swept in and sat beside Miss Nettle. He took her hand in a gentlemanly fashion. “You must accept the invitation. Make a public appearance with no indication that you are wise to your pursuer. If he sees that you have gone about your life as usual, he may feel emboldened to come out from the shadows.”

 

“Now wait just a moment there, Mr. Holmes.” Mr. Travers stepped forward, his mustache bristled. “Are you suggesting Miss Gretchen put herself in harm's way to draw out the villain?”

 

“Precisely, Mr. Travers.”

 

“Absolutely not. I beg your pardon, Miss Gretchen, but I made a promise to let no harm befall you. I will not stand for such a plan of action.”

 

“Really, Holmes, is there no other way?” I asked. “It seems like a dangerous thing, dangling the poor girl like a piece of bait.”

 

“Unfortunately for both of you, it is not your duty nor your place to speak on behalf of Miss Gretchen Nettle.” Holmes’ voice was decided and firm, and shut down the objections from both myself and Mr. Travers. Holmes turned back to Miss Nettle. With his pipe aside, he held her hands with both of his. “I am asking that you trust me, my dear lady. What I require of you demands fortitude and bravery in the face of danger. I would not ask something so tumultuous if I did not think it absolutely necessary. May I burden you with this request?”

 

Miss Nettle floundered, and for a moment, I doubted my friend’s jugement. But after a moment of deliberation, her brows knitted together, and she nodded. “I am at your disposal, Mr. Holmes.”

 

“Excellent! You are a testament to your sex.” Holmes stood. “Mr. Travers? See to it that Miss Nettle arrives home safely. If you can, stay close at hand. If you happen to see our mysterious fellow, do not approach or even acknowledge his presence. Things are precarious, gentlemen. Any indication that our man may be cornered could result in him fleeing the scene, and I am inclined to believe that he will not stop until he is safely behind bars. We must make him believe that Miss Nettle’s guard is down. We may have only one opportunity.”

 

Though Mr. Travers was not pleased at the development, he nodded. “Very good then, Mr. Holmes. Only on the condition that I be the one to drive Miss Nettle to the party.”

 

“I have no objection,” said Holmes. “So long as you remain unobstructive.”

 

Miss Nettle stood and dried her eyes. “It is in Kensington Gardens. This Saturday at three. I shall arrive promptly at a quarter past two.”

 

“Very good, Miss Nettle. Dr. Watson and I shall be in attendance. It is important that you do not acknowledge us except as polite strangers.”

 

“I shall try my best.”

 

“You shall succeed, I have no doubt.” Holmes gestured to the door, and Mr. Travers escorted Miss Nettle back down the stairs. He watched, satisfied, and then turned to me. “I do hope you have nothing else planned, dear fellow.”

 

“Of course not. But Holmes, I must continue to voice my objection. What if the girl gets hurt?”

 

“Then we shall have failed in our duties to protect her.”

 

“Can you take this so lightly?

 

“Oh, I take this very seriously indeed.” Holmes went to the window and peered out. I followed suit, and we watched as Mr. Travers drove Miss Nettle away from Baker Street. “This event presents itself as a unique opportunity to corner our rat before he escapes. Should we fail to act, her torment may never end.” He turned to me. “What do you make of her unfortunate situation, doctor?”

 

I frowned. “There’s far too much we don’t know, I dare say.”

 

“But surely you must have an idea?”

 

I smiled in response. “Are you suggesting I make bricks without clay, my dear Holmes?”

A look of surprise came over Holmes’ face, followed by a satisfied grin. “Aha! Well played, Dr. Watson. Well played.”