The Adventure of the Tired Captain A Sherlock Holmes Case (17 page)

It has been almost three years since I have last seen Mr. Sherlock Holmes and the events of the early summer of 1891 have slowly receded into the background. A trip to the Continent and to America where I was to meet my future wife who was on her own holiday was a sure if slow acting tonic.

Of Sherlock Holmes, I knew nothing.

Upon returning to England my new wife and I moved into my old house in Paddington and I began the onerous task of rebuilding my practice. I found myself at times passing along Baker Street but it was only on the third or fourth time traveling along that familiar road that I allowed my gaze to wander to 221.

The curtains were drawn and it may have been my imagination but the whole building wore an aura of neglect. Mrs. Hudson was standing on the front step with a broom in her hand, she looked tired and worn. I suddenly had an urge to stop and I had the cabby pull over. A strange mixture of emotions fought within me, and I didn’t know what I should do if suddenly I met Holmes however it was now too late to turn back.

“Hello, Mrs. Hudson,” I said quietly as I came up behind her.

She gave a start and turned around and for a minute she just stood there. Suddenly there were tears in her eyes and she rushed forwards.

“Oh, Doctor Watson,” she cried and buried her head in my shoulder. “It is very good to see you,” she said between sobs. “Come inside for some tea.”

“I really shouldn’t,” I said.

“It will be all right Doctor, Mr. Holmes is not here.”

“Is he out on a case then?”

“I really couldn’t say. It was only three months ago that he reappeared upon my doorstep and he has mostly remained in his rooms since then. He looks unwell Doctor, terribly unwell. He is not the same man.”

We spent a pleasant hour chatting of old times and of my new wife when the sound of the front door opening reached my ears. Footsteps started up the stairs, paused briefly and then continued.

“That will be him,” said Mrs. Hudson simply.

“I must go,” I said getting up from the table.

“Will you not help him, Doctor?”

“No Mrs. Hudson, I can not.”

“You are a doctor and his friend,” she said, “if you won’t help him I despair of his life. Please, Doctor.”

I stared down at the floor. I remembered taking some type of oath when I became a physician and her words held some truth.

“Very well, Mrs. Hudson, I will do what I can.”

I left her cozy
kitchen and stood at the bottom of the seventeen steps which led to Holmes’ apartment. With trepidation I slowly ascended, hesitated a moment then knocked at the door. There was no answer, I knocked again.

“Come in,” came the quiet reply.

Even though the gas was turned down I could see that our old rooms were in the same state of disarray as before and a wave of nostalgia swept over me.

“Ah, so it was you in with the good Mrs. Hudson,” came a voice from the chair by the fireplace. “I thought as much. Come take your old chair by the fire.”

“I have not come to stay, Holmes. I have come only on Mrs. Hudson’s bidding.”

“You have remarried I see.”

“How did you know that. It happened but recently while I was in America and I am sure that even such a happy event as my marriage did not make headlines here.”

“You are again wearing a wedding ring.”

“Oh yes, how simple.”

“Quite simple, Watson,” he replied and turned back to stare at the fire which even on such a warm evening was burning fiercely.

There was an awkward silence and Holmes poured me a whisky from a bottle which was sitting on the small table beside him.

“Mrs. Hudson said that you were ill.”

“I have never felt better, Watson. Mrs. Hudson can be quite meddlesome.”

I sat on the arm of the sofa and looked around the familiar surroundings. It was as if time had stood still. The furniture, the commonplace books and reference books, his microscope and even the Persian slipper where he kept his tobacc
o were still in the same place. “I see that not much has changed since I have last been here.”

“No. My brother and Mrs. Hudson have maintained our old lodgings while I have been away.”

“Away! Where?”

“Perhaps you have heard of a certain Norwegian by the name of Sigerson. For a brief time an account of his adven
tures appeared in the papers.”

“No, I do not know the name.”

“No matter,” he shrugged.

The silence seemed like a wall between us.

“So what have you been doing,” I asked finally.

“As I have said, I spent some time traveling.”

“To where?”

“To Asia
, specifically to India and Tibet. Their holy men have a wonderful way of curing one of the ills which plague the human mind and soul. They instructed me in their ways. You may be interested to know that they even weaned me from the use of that byproduct of the poppy plant which so concerned you in the old days.”

“I am glad to hear it. As a physician I can tell you that the effects can hardly have been beneficial.”

“I also had come to that conclusion although such a realization may have come too late.”

“Better late than never,
” I got up to leave. “Well if you have no need of my services I should go, my wife will be waiting for me. You will be all right?”

“I am never better than when I am involved in a case Watson.”

“Right back in the saddle again, Holmes?”

“Yes the police have called me in on the case involving young Ronald Adair. Perhaps you are familiar with it.”

“Yes indeed, Lestrade has even consulted me in a medical capacity concerning the young man. He never mentioned that you were involved.”

“It was my wish that no one knows of my involvement. Perhaps we shall cross paths.”

“Perhaps,” I said.

“Good night
, Watson,” he said turning back to the fire.

I closed the door behind me. “Good night
, Holmes.”

EPILOGUE

It is a matter of record that Holmes and Watson did collaborate in the matter of Ronald Adair and several subsequent cases and thanks to Holmes
investigations Colonel Sebastian Moran was arrested for the murder of Adair. No record survives of his sentence.

One of the last great pandemics of the plague began in China in 1894 and spread both to Africa and America.