acdholmesfest | Fic for spacefall The Case of the Purloined Apparel, PG

Hear, for the first time, the voice of the great detective himself, in this restored recording, just released by the British Library Sound Archives!

Title: The Case of the Purloined Apparel
Gift for:

spacefall
Author: [redacted]
Media: podfic 25:47:00 .mp3
Rating: PG
Warnings: dubious technological history, American amphibians in England, potential crack ahead. You were warned.
Pairing, characters: Holmes/Watson,
Summary: damaged wax cylinders recovered from a Sussex farmhouse reveal a remarkable but unsolved case, in Holmes' own voice!
Note: Totally inspired by this Drawing by Spacefall

Click to play Audio

Partial Transcript:
Herein is a transcript of a remarkable bit of lost Holmesian lore, from an unlabeled box of wax cylinders found while remodeling a Sussex farmhouse. Remarkably, the contractor knew what they were and sent them to the local antiquities dealer who sent them to the British Library Sound Archive. Thanks to the Library sound archivists, eventually the audio was salvaged from the cylinders.
The wax cylinders bore extensive damage, and it took some time to locate the proper playback equipment. What a surprise it must have been to the archivist who first coaxed the sound from these! Apparently Holmes acquired a portable recorder and made this incredibly personal recording sometime in June 1912. He then hid them away in the cellar where they remained undisturbed for many decades.
It is the only known recording of his actual voice. Here is an edited transcript as best can be reassembled from the fragments. A recording may soon be available. But be forewarned, what you hear may shock you.

…warm evening in June after a fine supper of spring lamb and peas from our garden when Watson tells me to get my walking stick, we are going out. Now, in my dotage, I have become quite night-blind, and I protest, since I the feeling of impairment, and wish no social encounters, but rather look forward to a new issue of Morbidity and Microbiology that has just arrived. But he is most insistent that we go for an evening stroll…

[missing content]

The good Doctor is correct, the temperature is quite comfortable and there is no wind. It is a beautiful evening. And despite my bony constitution and tendency toward chill, it is quite pleasant.

Due to my near total night blindness I must hold his arm. In the village I can detect dim orbs of glow, and a silhouette or two. We stroll through the village and I am actually enjoying myself quite a bit, enjoying the deceit as it were, walking arm in arm with my favorite gentleman. I can imagine them muttering:

“There he goes, poor old Holmes, can’t see a thing, poor old blighter. Can’t get around with out his Doctor.”

Well, I will not wobble. I have my Watson on my left, and my walking stick on my right, and my mental map, which is undimmed. Through the town we go nice as you please. And we continue on, out the Sutton road, and I admit, I am a bit intrigued. Where are we going?

We turn onto a lane that I have not traveled before and thus we leave my mental map, and I find that I am a bit less relaxed, a bit more attentive to sounds, smells, and the sensation of the ground beneath my feet.

Having left the town, where I could at least detect a glow, I am now completely in the dark, and thus completely dependant on my companion. I grip his arm a little tighter, and I can feel his smile even in the dark. Out here, there is no reason not to hold one another, except of course that I am blinder than the proverbial bat.

I detect the lane is becoming less traveled; it narrows and the surface roughens. And ere long the good doctor guides me to slow my stride and turn left onto what is clearly a footpath, not a carriageway.

I can feel the change from the hedgerow with its short shrubbery to the taller trees that loom but make a taller space. The sounds now are of a deeper wood – the fluttering of roosting birds, murmurings of night creatures and creaking of great tree limbs, the scent of mature forest with its mouldering moss and aromatic conifer --the place smells wonderful.

This is quite extraordinary – I don’t think I have ever walked unsighted in a landscape like this, not even as an experiment years ago. I am enjoying what its doing to my senses, to my minds eye. The path beneath my feet is no longer stony, but a cushion beneath my steps. The moisture of the forest feels sweet on my skin, I hug Watson close as the path narrows; no more reason not to hold each other close, now. Besides, the way narrows.

He slows apace, and I feel an opening is before us, the night sounds an almost deafening shrill chorus, the moisture in the air… we have come to a body of water… a lake?

I hear a plink, a ripple, and realize it is a pond, and the sounds I hear are a chorus of rana pippins arrayed around the pond. Chirrup, chirrup, trillurp, trillurp, and then one great loud basso note of the bullfrog and I laugh aloud, and all the small frogs go silent. I am chastened for my human blunder. Alas, I have stopped the music.

Watson presses a small kiss to my cheek. I can feel his smile. His mustache [indecipherable] mouth to mine, and feels me smiling back, and then we are giggling like schoolboys.

He guides me sideways, slowly. Puts my hands at his belt, on his hips, and I follow with small steps along what must be the waters edge. He stops, takes both my hands and maneuvers me until I find myself sitting on a log, quite comfortable. The frogs are beginning to sing again, but only on the far side of the pond, apparently our rustles and giggles are enough to put them off, they will have none of it. I wait and adjust myself to the gloom.

[Sigh] I keep thinking that if I sit in the dark long enough, my sight will return. And my mind tries to supply the data for me. My mind always tries to supply the data. It doesn’t really happen, though. What I do is create the image in the mind’s eye, and so that is what I get. So I feel the pond before me, and I feel Watson standing to my left, and I feel the shimmer of the mirror before me, I hear a soft plink, and the rustle of the forest behind me. I feel the tall oaks, the forest denizens behind me; I feel my bones perched on the log, feet in the mulch.

Then, I hear John Watson unfasten his clothing. My libido takes an interest. I think, why, that randy devil! And I wait for him to make his move. I suspect I will soon feel his hands upon my face, guiding me to the prize.

But -- that’s not what happens. I continue to hear the sounds of undressing, and then I hear one boot, and then the other, drop, and I hear what must be his footsteps splash into the shallow water, and I hear him call:

“Well, come on, Holmes! Are you coming in?”

And there I sit, a bump on a log quite literally, while the good Doctor, no doubt, as naked as God made him, is standing in -- oh, I do hope there is moonlight! That’s the way I am painting it in my minds eye! He is standing there in the all together, in his beautiful pale and furry nakedness, his lovely old man wrinkles, his sweet little cock, [quietly--Well, it is small when it’s not hard, but when it is, he is quite sufficient, I will tell you --

Everything about my Dr Watson is beautiful to me; you must know this by now. I’m sure you know this by now. Even reading his chaste writings, you can tell by my behavior that he is most precious to me. But I digress.

I am, [ha!] most amused, I am sure that my eyebrows have risen, my hairline has receded, and my grin is threatening to emerge, whereupon no doubt the vivid moonlight shining off of my remaining teeth will alert the authorities. And I blurt out:

“Watson! What are you doing!”?

[indecipherable or deemed unfit for public]

We emerge from the water at a stony place, not too muddy, and the log seems quite familiar, it must be the same place, my walking stick is there. There’s no doubt that it’s the same place we entered the water. Groping about, I can’t seem to locate my clothing.

And Watson, who is sighted, I hear him cursing under his breath. He strikes a match and swears aloud.

“What is it my dear? What…”

“It’s impossible, Holmes, but our clothes are gone!”

I’m still rather disoriented from the most extraordinary sexual experience, and there we are, in my imaginary moonlight, gleaming wet, both of us, naked. And I begin to laugh.

Really laugh. Like I so seldom allow myself to do. It just strikes me that this is a righteous cause for hysteria, completely and utterly preposterous. We came all this way, to be out here in the trackless wilderness, to be in the company of no one but frogs, on my Dear Doctor’s adorable romantic whim, and someone or something has made off with our clothing?

This, THIS is a mystery worthy of the esteemed Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson! I am roiled with mirth, and dear, dear John is in a fury, cursing and stomping, and oh, how I wish I could see him, for he is so adorable when he’s mad.

Finally, whatever chemistry in the blood that is making me so very delirious -- it must have something to do with the sex -- is wearing off, I’m beginning to regain my accustomed sobriety.

And I grow calm and listen. I listen to Watson, moving on from the storm of his anger, quieting down, and he comes to sit beside me, and this is good, he is nice and warm. The frogs begin to take up their music again, starting on the far side of the pond, first one then a section, and I’m thinking, I wish I had my pipe then. It was in my pocket.

He will not allow me to smoke it any longer, but I chew on it to help me think, and so as long as I have imaginary moonlight, I might as well chew my imaginary pipe stem if it will help the gears turn out a solution to our rapidly less-amusing situation.

Who, or what -- and it pretty much has to be a who, doesn’t it? If an animal cam along, it might muss with our things, maybe spear something with an antler and make off with it, but it really seems unlikely that a creature would carefully gather up all of our things and make off with them! And cart them away, no, this is highly unlikely, hardly the simplest explanation.

So, what human agent could have followed us or have been here when we arrived? Or could have taken an interest in two elderly gentlemen foolishly enjoying them selves in a pond?

The good Doctor sits next to me; I can feel his dejection, the worry rolls off him in waves. He stands again and I can tell he is worrying about me now, and soon I feel his hands, he is brushing the water from my skin, and smoothing my hair, and so I gently push him away,

“Watson, stop it. I’m fine, really. Just stop it.”

“Holmes you’re shivering. It’s not fine. This is absolutely not fine. What are we supposed to do now?”

“We can keep each other warm until daybreak, and then we can survey our situation more clearly, whereupon we could find our way to some kindly farmstead and acquire some sort of covering. If not discover our own clothing en route.

“Perhaps there’s a kindly farmers wife, or a clothesline, or some grain sacks. There is always a solution. Besides, we can always keep one another warm, on such a pleasant night.”

I hear a little huff, for he knows I’m right. Now, I can tell he is still exasperated. He’s not really using his rational mind. He’s moved from shock, to fury, to concern for me, and he’s back to getting agitated. I can just feel it, I’ve lived with him a good many years and can feel the gears turning, and as much as I was about to predict, what does Watson come up with:

“Do you think it could be the fairies?”

I stifle my giggle, because I’m positive he is at least half serious. Fortunately I hold my tongue.

“Oh, I know you don’t believe in fairies Holmes what was I thinking?”

He sounds as if he’s near to tears. What can I do to cheer my dear Watson? I pull him down next to me and put my arm around him and tell him:

“Keep me warm, John. I need you to keep me warm.”

And so we wrap our arms around one another. And we listen. Across the pond the frogs are singing, and to our right the frogs are resuming their songs, but two our left, they are still silent. I wish I had paid more attention when I was in the water, and mapped the shape of the shoreline more accurately.

Of course I wasn’t paying attention to much of anything besides my skin, and that I breathe air and not water, earlier. But now, I am listening very closely and I can hear the waters edge all the way around to my right, and I can estimate the distance, the location of the shoreline, all the way around to what must be the northeast. I’m traveling my mind map along the shoreline, all the way around to where the frogs grow quiet. There are a few, but then they are l=silent. Then coming nearer to us a few brave amphibian voices. I whisper to Watson:

“John. You’ve been here before, yes?”

“Yes… I have b…

I can feel the question mark hovering over his head.

“Shh... I’m listening to the frogs. It’s important, is the pond circular, or is it long?”

“No, Holmes, it’s quite round,” he says, whispering now.

“So, is the shoreline to the left, as near as the shoreline to our right?”

“Oh!” it’s dawning on him. “The frogs! Somebody is there, or the frogs would be singing!”

So now we know we are not alone, and our friends the amphibians will reveal the culprit! Now, we must become very still.

A great deal of time passes. I fear that the nocturnal creatures may complete their nighttime romance, but they continue to celebrate, and as the voices fill in until all the creatures have resumed their sounding, leaving a clearly quiet patch on the left side of the pond.

A blank spot, I can draw the circle, and Watson with his eyesight and superior knowledge of the territory, he knows too.

Oh, I wish Watson had brought his pistol, but then, no, it would have been in his clothing. But then as if he had heard me thinking, he bends over and gropes beneath the log between my feet and withdraws his handgun. Oh, my brilliant doctor, I shall never doubt him again!

Now all that remains is to ambush and detail our sneak thief and reclaim our apparel.

For whatever nefarious purpose has someone done such a thing?

It’s still illegal for two gentlemen to cavort in this manner. Although it seems highly unlikely that this is how one might go about sending us off to Newgate.

[indecipherable]
Alas, there is the end of the last fragment of recording released. Would that we know the answer to this mystery!
We do know that there is no record of an arrest or citation for either theft neither of personal articles nor for indecency during this period in the district records, and that Holmes and Watson continued to live peaceably in the vicinity of East Dean until at least 1919 when all records of them are lost.