When I first answered the advertisement for a live-in arrangement at 221B Baker
Street, I did not anticipate the sheer amount of adventure ready to disrupt the doldrums of an
early retirement. I had, after all, seen my fair share of excitement during my tour of Afghanistan.
Could I be blamed for predicting the opposite upon returning to London? Second, I was not
counting on my expertise as an Assistant Surgeon to be utilized beyond warfare. As I was
discharged for medical leave, I had no plans to continue my practice. Fate had other
preparations for me, it seemed. And lastly, and I believe most importantly, I could never have
imagined that I had found my dearest companion in the world’s greatest detective.
You see, before our story continues, I must make one detail abundantly clear. I am now, and have always been, deeply in love with one Mr. Sherlock Holmes.
I am uncertain as to when my affections began, though I had always shared an affinity for the man, even back in my early days on Baker Street. Stamford, my old affiliate from Barts, made him out to be a rather mysterious fellow indeed. A chemist with no background of study? The fact alone that he busied himself with experimentation to no apparent end was intriguing of its own merit. That day at the Criterion Bar, my old friend had cornered me to catch up, and I told him of my woeful attempt to find new lodgings after weeks in a rented room I could no longer afford. He informed me of a Mr. Sherlock Holmes who had recently shared the same sentiment with him. Stamford had described Mr. Holmes as “a little queer” in his ideas of science. It was a title that piqued my interest, I shall not deny it.
“He is not a man that it is easy to draw out,” Stamford told me, “though he can be communicative enough when the fancy seizes him.”
“I should like to meet him,” I replied. And meet him I did. Holmes offered me the lion’s share of our rooms together straight away. Before I could unpack my toiletries, Holmes and I were drawn out for our first case. A case I titled “A Study in Scarlet,” and the very first of my publications. Whether or not this collection of more private affairs between myself and Mr. Holmes will reach the public discourse, I cannot say. While the modern world marches ever onward toward progress, I cannot in good faith believe that my relationship with Sherlock will be looked upon favorably in my time. Perhaps after years have passed, and he and I have had our life in full, will our love story finally breathe fresh air without shame.
As our early days compiled into weeks and months, I found myself comfortable in Sherlock’s presence in a way I had not previously with anyone, man or woman. The cases were thrilling, of course, and my association with Holmes would not be what it was without these chapters of our lives. But it was the more quiet evenings and slow mornings that draw my fondest memories. Days when there would be nothing scheduled, and he and I could bask in our private togetherness, laughing and discussing topics of the day.
For months, I wrestled with myself. Could I tell him? Ever? He was the world’s most brilliant mind. Surely if I did not, he would figure it out eventually? Or perhaps he already had, and thought it best not to mention it. We were, after all, two bachelors in polite society. While Holmes had made it clear that he was not in want of a wife, I knew that I would be expected to wed eventually. How would it look, I pondered, if an unwed man took on the livelihood of a spinster with an odd fellow such as Holmes at his side at all hours?
I had learned of homosexuality during my time in the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers; soldiers meant to fight and die together often formed bonds both platonic and romantic in nature. A theme that had persisted in history well beyond modern England, dating as far back as the Spartans. So it was not that I was ignorant. In fact, I dare say that in those early weeks with Sherlock, I became hyper-aware. Our familiarity with each other was all well and good in private, but in public? In public, I was wretched.
Holmes had always teased me about my nonobservance. All the little clues that I would miss on our cases, I would grant him, but it was he who did not notice things when it mattered. He took no note of the way my heart fluttered every time he spoke my name. Nor did he think to curb the light in his eyes whenever I said or did something that impressed him. I will admit, there were times I would go out of my way to try and match him wit for wit, just to see those dark eyes brighten. I could never keep up, of course, but Holmes never berated me on such grounds. Once or twice, I said or did things that truly marveled him, after which I was promptly showered with compliments. I should like to scorn him for making me feel like such a school boy, but I digress.
It was a dreary morning in November when I had decided: tonight, I would tell Sherlock Holmes how I felt.
I had decided it quite suddenly, bundled in my dressing gown as I watched the kettle boil. It had been gnawing away at my mind for months now, as I had moved in that summer. The bitter cold had settled in early autumn, and both Holmes and I had resolved to spend a quiet Christmas warmed by our fire. As I prepared my tea, I walked myself through the plan. For yes, there must be a plan. One did not confess their affections to Sherlock Holmes without forethought. Holmes was not a man who valued sloppy acts of passion. If I was to present my case in a way that was orderly and precise, I would have a better chance of... well, what, exactly?
Did I expect him to love me back? It was a question I didn’t dare answer. More than anything, my decision to lay myself bare before the master detective was mostly for my own satisfaction. For the weeks leading up to that morning were hellish. My sleep had suffered, as had my appetite. Even now, faced with the decision that I would actively end my torture, I could feel my stomach squirm. My breakfast would consist of nothing but a hot drink, lest any more solid meal find my digestion disagreeable. And it was in this sorry state that I concluded the following: I would find no further peace unless I availed myself of this secret.
“Good morning, Watson.” Holmes’ voice rattled me, and I jumped. His tone was spirited, and he tried not to smile at my excitement. “Goodness. I didn’t mean to startle you.” He was already dressed for the day. Sherlock had always been a svelte man; tall and nimble with piercing eyes and a long face. While he was not particular for popular fashions, he did have a sense of dress that was sharp. His trousers hugged at his hips beneath his smoking jacket, and his slippers were of a fine leather and sheep’s wool. “I see that I was not the only one who couldn’t sleep.”
I tightened the knot on my dressing gown. “What makes you say that? Let me speculate: a lack of wrinkles on my backside?”
Sherlock’s eyes twinkled in that way I cherished. “More like an abundance of them,” he said. “I notice that when you are fully rested, your dressing gown suffers one or two distinct creases on your right. Clearly the side you favor. Today you are a mess of wrinkles, my good man. Additionally, before breakfast, you make a habit of washing your face and combing your hair. While you have run a brush through it, I smell no oil and see a distinct lack of wax in your mustache. This absence of your morning ritual means only one of two things: that you are distraught, or very tired. Though considering that these ailments often go hand in hand, I cannot rule out the possibility that you are both.”
“Perhaps I am simply insomniac?”
“Had you the energy, you would have bothered me the night before. Perhaps for a rousing discussion of politics or to rifle through my private library.”
“What makes you think I would bother you?”
“Because I too had spent the night awake. A fact you could not have ignored because I had taken up the violin sometime around 10pm. I see no reason why you would have hidden away in your room when patterns dictate that our sleepless nights are often spent together.”
“Perhaps I did not feel like company?”
“Hence my conclusion: you are distressed.”
I couldn’t deny the logic, though I made a show of begrudging acceptance. I could not allow Holmes to sniff me out so thoroughly before I even got the chance to make my intentions known, and so I attempted to obfuscate. “Has it occurred to you that perhaps my bed is just uncomfortable?”
Holmes paused. “Do you need a new bed?”
“No.”
“Was it uncomfortable for just the night then?”
“Yes. Just for the night.”
“Ah. The case of the curious fleeting discomfort. I shall have to devote ample time to this mystery.”
My kettle whistled, and I poured myself my tea. “You are insufferable at times,” I chuckled.
“Am I?” Holmes rested his hip against the counter, and I saw him smile out of the corner of my eye. “How fortunate I am that I have someone to suffer me, Dr. Watson.”
We took our tea in the parlor. Rain had threatened off and on over the course of the morning, but it bothered us very little. After all, we had no plans to go out, and my proposed confession, I had decided, must wait until the evening. It would be easier to say what I needed and then immediately escape to my bedroom. Come noon, Mrs. Hudson had graced us with luncheon sandwiches. My stomach was finally ready for something other than tea.
“Plans for the day, gentlemen?” our landlady asked us.
“None come to mind,” said Holmes. “Had the weather been permitting, I should have liked Dr. Watson to join me on a constitutional.” He eyed the window. “It had been plenty dry yesterday, but I was hoping for clearer skies. I suppose our walk in the park must wait for a sunnier day.”
“There will be plenty of sunny days ahead,” I told him.
“There will be,” he agreed.
A ring of the doorbell interrupted our conversation. Mrs. Hudson fluttered downstairs to receive our caller, and I stood to take our used plates to the kitchen. “You know,” I said, “you never mentioned why you were up last night.”
“I’m sorry?”
I set the dishes in the sink to be done later, and wiped off my hands. “You said that you had been playing your violin at 10pm. You usually don’t play unless you’re at a loss, my friend.”
Holmes laughed from his chair. Opening his tin of tobacco, he stuffed his favorite pipe and lit the bowl with a match stick. “Astute observation, doctor. Perhaps my bed, too, was uncomfortable.”
Footsteps plodded up towards our flat, and Mrs. Hudson returned, this time with a stranger in tow. Both Sherlock and I straightened at the sight of a new client. “A lady to see you, Mr. Holmes,” she said. I looked the woman over. She was older, though not by much, and dressed modestly in brown pinstripes. Her hair was hastily bunned behind a pale face, adorned with small, wire frame spectacles. Her boots were muddied from the rain, and her face was gaunt.
“Forgive the intrusion, Mr. Holmes,” she said, her voice shaking. “But I was told you were the best. I fear the best is what I need in this dreadful hour. I am Ms. Pennington, and I’m in desperate need of your help.”
Holmes approached her swiftly. I could see the calculations behind his eyes. “Please.” He gestured to the settee, and the woman took her seat. “May I ask, has this something to do with your library?”
Ms. Pennington’s eyes widened. “My library?”
“Might I see your fingers, madam?” Ms. Pennington held up her hand, and Holmes took it in his, kindly. “Ink,” he confirmed. “On the tips. You’re a woman who works extensively with the printed word, and I cannot imagine someone of your age peddling news pamphlets, if I may say.” He let her hand go. “Additionally, your clothes are well made, but unfashionable. Forgive the judgment, that is not a slight against your taste, my dear. But your style of jacket, it’s been out of date for the past few years. Your skirt was once wide enough to accommodate a cage or a bustle, but I can see here where it’s been mended to stay with the times.” He gestured to a seam, and I noticed the way the pinstripes didn’t precisely match up, despite their symmetry everywhere else. “So? A practical woman who no doubt has inherited her wardrobe, clearly unmarried, must have busied herself with some business to do with print. A librarian is not out of the question, and in fact, when considering the evidence, I’d say it’s the only acceptable answer. Wouldn’t you?”
Ms. Pennington gaped, and I noted her expression as one most people wore when meeting Sherlock Holmes for the first time. “I... yes. I am... Goodness me, Mr. Holmes. I was told you were good but—”
“Please, there is no need for flattery. Clearly something has happened to upset you, Ms. Pennington. So how may I be of help?”
Ms. Pennington wrung her ink- stained fingers. As was my habit, I retrieved my pad to take notes. “Before I begin, I must pose you a question. And I am sure that you will think me very silly when I ask this of you, but it must be asked.”
“Then please, ask it.”
“Do you believe in ghosts, Mr. Holmes?”
There was a palpable tension in the room. Holmes and I exchanged glances. Rather than chastising the poor woman, Holmes urged her forward with kindness. “Might I know why this question must be posed?”
“I did not believe in them myself,” Ms. Pennington continued. “My sister Camille has
invested deeply into spiritualism, but I for one always considered it rubbish. Seances and
communing with the dead... Had you asked me a year ago, I would have told you straight away
that it was nothing more than superstitious nonsense! That was before I took up employment at
the Redfield Library. I was told by my sister on multiple occasions that the building was haunted.
As I was now the sole librarian, I had no colleagues with which to confirm these stories, but I
never took them seriously. But I began to notice things. Books out of place. Missing pens.
Shifted chairs. At the beginning, I was sure that I had simply been forgetting things. Then I
started to get the feeling of being watched. It would always be early in the morning, as I would
open. I could not shake the sensation that there were eyes in the books. I had thought perhaps
that this paranoia was of a medical nature, but my physician has since found nothing wrong
with me. I continued my work at the library, noticing more and more things out of place. Finally,
I needed to prove things to myself.”
From her pocket, Ms. Pennington pulled two photographs, folded over to fit. “I borrowed a camera from a friend of mine and took a photograph.” She unfolded them. She handed the first to me, and I observed a picture of a neat and orderly library, taken from the view behind the front desk. “That was taken as I closed down. And this...” She handed me the second. “...was the next morning.” Holmes looked over my shoulder.
At first glance, the two pictures seemed identical. But the longer I looked, the more I began to notice little details that stood out from the film. A chair moved distinctly to its left. A cluster of pens disturbed from behind the desk. A book, having been left sloppily on a shelf. All very minute details, but after living six months with Sherlock Holmes, I found them in due time.
“And you’re sure no one has disturbed your library?” I asked.
“No one,” Ms. Pennington insisted. “I was determined to lock up tight for the evening, and to touch nothing on my way out. And who would break into a library, besides? There’s nothing of value.”
“I must disagree,” said Holmes, fondly. “There is nothing more valuable than accessible knowledge.”
Ms. Pennington huffed. “Yes, very good, but there is nothing to steal. Why would a thief break into my library just to shuffle up my catalog and knock over my pens?”
“With all due respect,” I began, “we are sympathetic to your conundrum, but we are not spiritualists. Your sister, perhaps she is who you should go to?” Ms. Pennington clenched, and fear sprang into her eyes.
“I am afraid Miss Camille Pennington will be of no use to our dear librarian, Watson,” said Holmes. His eyes had not left Ms. Pennington for a time, and I could see the gears in his head whirl. “Has there been a tragedy? Is that why you are here?”
Ms. Pennington’s gaze cast downward, and I could see a glitter of tears that she desperately kept at bay. “Yes,” she said. “Mr. Hobb came in this morning to clean. When I found him, he was...” Her voice warbled. Before I could act, Holmes had already offered the lady his handkerchief. She dabbed her eyes. “The police have closed off the library to the public for the day. I am beside myself. They say they don’t know how he died, and all I can imagine is that... that specter is to blame...”
Holmes paced in the parlor as Ms. Pennington gathered herself. “When does Mr. Hobb come in? And how often?” He gnawed at the end of his smoking pipe.
“Once every Monday morning for the week. We’re closed Sunday. Library doors open at eight in the morning, but he’s usually finished by 7:30.”
“How would you describe Mr. Hobb? His physicality? His age?”
“He is not so old. He’d only just had his 45th birthday last month.”
“What kind of man was he? Jovial? Melancholic?”
“He was... He was kind. Always greeted me in the morning when I came in to open. Quiet, though. Not a fan of crowds or bright spaces. Why he often liked working so early in the day.”
“Educated?”
“Not very. He liked the library well enough, but he was from a life of harsh poverty. He told me once that he barely went to school. Could hardly sign his name, poor thing.”
“You said the police didn’t know what killed him.”
“Yes. There wasn’t any blood. He didn’t look... beaten.” She shivered at the word. “He was just... He was on the floor. Gone.”
I took this as my chance for questions. “What else can you tell us about the body? Forgive us for asking something so bleak, but any information about the body could benefit us.”
Ms. Pennington furrowed her brow. “He was on his back. There was something in his hand. A note, I think. I couldn’t bring myself to take it.”
“A note?” said Holmes.
“Yes. Or at least, a piece of paper. Perhaps ripped from a book?”
“Very well, Ms. Pennington,” Holmes continued. “Anything else?”
“There was... bile.”
“Bile?” I confirmed.
“Yes. Around his mouth. Like he’d been sick. Or... or poisoned or...”
I rose from my seat, closing my notebook. “Ms. Pennington, would you care for a tea? For your nerves.”
“Oh. Yes, thank you.”
“Very good. Holmes?” I gestured to the kitchen, and Sherlock and I disappeared through the door. I started the kettle and spoke lowly. “I need to see the body.”
“I agree. Perhaps Lestrade will be amenable to our company? Especially if he’s in no condition to deduce the cause of death himself.”
“What are you thinking?”
“I cannot state a conclusion without the evidence. I will need to see the scene of the crime myself.”
“Are you sure there was a crime?”
“As I said, I cannot be conclusive so soon.”
“Yes, of course.” We both peeked through the crack of the kitchen door. Ms. Pennington was wiping her face with Sherlock’s kerchief. “Poor dear. She must be racked with guilt.”
Holmes quirked his head to one side. “What makes you say that?”
“Well, just look,” I said. “She thought fondly of Mr. Hobb, I’ve no doubt. She must blame herself for not coming in earlier. She might have prevented it.”
“Might she? How do you surmise that? Unless she was directly involved with Mr. Hobb’s death, I see no reason why she should be so distraught.”
“Guilt is not always a logical thing, Sherlock. Often we feel the weight of things we had no hand in.”
“Oh?”
“You have well earned pride in your skills of deduction. But your expertise lies in the realm of probability and reason. And a man’s mind is so much easier to deduce than his heart.”
Something in Sherlock’s face softened, and a smile touched the corners of his lips. “I suppose you are right.” The kettle whistled, and Holmes prepared Ms. Pennington’s tea. “And this, my dear Watson, is why I have you to guide me through such matters. Now come. We have a ghost to find.”
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