Fic for dreamtimegirl: The Curious Case of the Phantom Figure Skater

[methylviolet10b]

Title: The Curious Case Of The Phantom Skater
Recipient: dreamtimegirl
Author: autumnatmidnite
Rating: PG
Characters: Holmes/Watson, OMC
Word Count: 8,873
Warnings: None
Summary: Wherein Holmes solves a case from his armchair, takes Watson ice skating (sort of), and much ado is made over a suspicious newspaper advertisement.

In recounting those cases in which I was privileged to assist my friend, Mr Sherlock Holmes, I find that innumerable were the instances wherein those singular problems laid our before him seemed at the outset to be of so abstruse and complicated a nature, that to those of us lacklustre stars orbiting his resplendent sun, its solution appeared an insoluble thing. Yet with that familiar twinkle in his eyes as he reclined in his chair by the fire, palms together and the tips of his fingers touching his lips, it was evident to me that before our client had even completed their remarkable statement, Holmes had either solved the puzzle outright or required one or two missing pieces to satisfy himself that all the facts were in his possession, and that his inferences were indeed sound.

Others, while offering less of a challenge to his formidable brain, presented the outré features which he so loved - and I dare say made for absorbing fodder in those incoherent memoirs in which I have endeavoured to please my dearest friend (a task more insurmountable than the most perplexing enigma to ever try Holmes’ considerable faculties) and to rightfully exalt his name.

And then there were cases, sporadic as they may have been, that became inextricably entwined in our personal lives. I made an effort to omit the details of these accounts from the notes of any narrative intended for publication, yet when benign enough, neither Holmes nor myself minded their inclusion once minor aspects had been duly altered.

While the conundrums brought before my friend did all of them deviate in no small measure off the beaten track - despite Holmes’ frequent protestations that the London criminal was a pedestrian and unimaginative sort of fellow - there was one in particular which was notable for encompassing each of these aforementioned features. The scandalous conclusion may have set the press on our heels until well into the New Year, though I confess myself grateful, and believe for once Holmes wholeheartedly shared my sentiments, that the full extent of our involvement remained obscured by the often distasteful rumours circulating through the channels of high society in which our client was involved.

Exciting an adventure I fancy it to be, this nonetheless remains one of our exploits that shall never make it into the pages of The Strand, for its denouement would surely scandalize a respectable nation more so than had I confessed within these pages of having taken a man’s life in cold blood.

Of a certainty, to do aught but keep locked in the darkest recesses of my memory the singular circumstances surrounding Sir Willoughby Harrington’s electric light bulbs would not only be imprudent, but taking a formidable risk should these few sheets of foolscap be consigned to anything but the fire. Being the sentimental fool Holmes so often accuses me of, I nonetheless feel compelled to commit to paper that case which inadvertently graced me with more riches than even the Agra treasure contained.

It was in the early days of our association, on the evening of 23rd December in ‘82 to be precise, that Willoughby Harrington first made his dramatic appearance in our sitting room.

Over the past sennight, the unrelenting frost which seized London since the end of the previous month had to a fair extent abated, the chill now more a tolerable reminder of the season rather than the raw cold that had permeated the thickest winter accoutrements and left our rooms drafty despite the blazing fire crackling in the grate. The softly falling snow coated the streets with pristine flakes that glistened like diamonds in the lamplight, painting for an all too transitory time a picturesquely romantic scene outside our window. Oblivious to this idyllic setting, my companion preoccupied himself with the agony columns. At intervals, I would hear Holmes expressing his profound disgust with their lack of sensational content by way of a dismal groan or rather cynical commentary emanating from the settee.

I had long since given up the effort of cheering my companion, who was rapidly descending into a black mood with the lack of interesting conundrums brought about by the bitter conditions of late, and had been for the past three days morose and uncommunicative. Even my best attempts to draw him out by reading aloud all those articles I perceived to be sufficiently dramatic or queer enough to pique his interest were met with a sneer. Thus, I took to occupying myself with the daunting task of clearing Holmes’ clutter from the mantel to replace it with the lovely evergreen candle wreath and various other seasonal adornments I acquired during a trip to the shops earlier that morning to find a suitable Christmas present for Holmes.

It proved a fruitless venture, not to mention one that would undoubtedly wring dry my already deflated pocketbook, though it was the least I could do to atone for his having covered my share of the rent several months prior. I had lost a considerable amount of my pension at the racetrack, on a horse called ‘White Squall’, who for me brought naught but a dark cloud. My already anaemic pension having been bled dry from this ill fated undertaking, by summer‘s end, I was in imminent peril of losing my lodgings.

Of course, Holmes was able to deduce straight away the cause of my misery, and although cases were scarce that year - and not simply those which failed to capture his interest, for in those days he had amassed but a miniscule reputation, and had not the luxury of turning down even the most pedestrian of problems - his finances were apparently in a far better position than my own, for on two occasions he was able to pay both his and my half of the rent.

Despite my friend’s generosity, my pockets remained quite moth-eaten. By the second week of December, it was readily apparent that my sorely mismanaged wound pension would not suffice. Thus, under the pretense of taking healthy exercise, I set off on a daily search for some means of employment. Yet what work was there for a surgeon with a palsy in his hand when the weather turned damp or chill? The damaged bone and sinew had not invalided me out of Afghanistan for nothing.

Not being the sort to give into flights of fancy, I was painfully aware that unless I came into a windfall of good fortune, my time at Baker Street was quickly coming to a close.

“Upon my word, Watson! You cannot mean to hang that dreadful thing in so conspicuous a position.” My reverie was interrupted by Holmes, who had, after days of languor finally seen fit to bestir himself from the same recumbent position he occupied on the settee only to come up behind me, his dark hair brushing my cheek with a feather touch as he peered over my shoulder, fingers absently curling about my shoulders. Heaven help me, but I stirred in my trousers at the contact. For no little time now, I was vaguely aware of a deeper attachment I harbored for Holmes, one that often defied the mandates of propriety and the boundaries of mere friendship. As to the precise nature of those sentiments, I was not even the slightest bit mindful of them until my body’s reaction to his close proximity became impossible to ignore, for my romantic yearnings had previously been reserved for the fair sex, and had never experienced love without physical attraction. Though if I was forthright with myself, I displayed symptoms of the latter from the day I set eyes on my dearest friend.

“Here,” said he, snatching the holly wreath I was on the verge of adorning our bow window with, “over the bookcase should do.”

“But it can hardly be seen behind your volume of Catullus,” I protested.

“Precisely.” With a self-satisfied air about him, Holmes proceeded to the mantel to stuff his pipe with noxious shag.

The great crux of it has always been that the more vexing Sherlock Holmes becomes, the fonder I grow of him.

“The skating rink ‘Phantom’ struck again last night,” I remarked while ignoring how his nose wrinkled in distaste when I relocated the wreath to its intended location. Though not a matter that fell within the boundaries of an actual crime, the ’Phantom’ - an unimaginative moniker the newspapers had bequeathed upon the obviously disturbed individual - did come within Holmes’ relish for all things bizarre. And with such a dearth of cases, I hoped to pique his interest in the singular incidents wherein some madman had, on every Friday night for three weeks, taken to hurling ice skates at unsuspecting women as he shouted obscenities fit to make a sailor blush.

Regardless of the public scene he inevitably caused, the ’Phantom’, who was attired in a dark cape and eye mask, managed to not only slink in unnoticed, but also to make his egress in much the same fashion. Under the noses of several dozen men, women and children, who all of them swore he was simply there one moment, but had vanished into thin air the next. Hence the title given to this man whom many believed to be some disquiet spectre.

“Hardly worth my time. Even Gregson,” he rolled his eyes heavenward at the mere mention of the professional, “could solve it if he bothered to track down the right scent. No, my dear Watson, it is of no use. Unless there should come along some great criminal mastermind perpetrating misdeeds of substance, whose unraveling requires considerable brainwork, then I foresee my mind being cursed to stagnate in this present mire of vapid cases and even more tiresome miscreants.”

“Surely it’s not so bad as all that,” I consoled my friend, who appeared genuinely affronted that with the season of peace on earth and goodwill towards men came a lull in unlawful activities. “For instance, you did say that client Tuesday last presented us with a most remarkable set of events worthy of your efforts.”

Holmes sniffed. “I said they would have been, had I not deduced in the few seconds it took to read the missive that their daughter’s ransom note was penned by a dashing young stevedore, her whereabouts were in the vicinity of Ratcliffe Highway, the epistle was a fraudulent one, and that not only was the manner in which she was supposedly spirited away fairly dubious, so too was her continued maidenhood.”

I was forced to concede his point, for I have a recollection of the girl’s offended father brandishing an impressive knife upon hearing this unhappy news, and it was only with my reassurances that Holmes was suffering from residual delusions of the recent inhalation of a particularly toxic chemical analysis that we emerged from the misunderstanding with all appendages firmly attached.

Having come to the end of his diatribe, Holmes cast himself into his chair in the manner of one who is utterly disconsolate, whilst I, who knew him well enough to realize making any further attempts to extricate him from this black mood would be to no avail, carried on with the business of brightening up our rooms. Certainly, I had my work cut out for me, for the miasma emanating from that infernal pipe along with my own disheartening thoughts of leaving what had long since transcended from a mere affordable means of remaining in decent lodgings to becoming my home. It was not in the least that my pride might be affected by the inevitable downgrade, but of leaving behind my friend, of enduring his disgust with myself and my one inexorable vice that had left me in so low a position to begin with.

As I contemplated the specifics of how I would break the news that my poor spending habits and affinity for the races let me in the position where I felt obligated to cease burdening my friend with a fellow lodger incapable of pulling his own weight, there came a great clamour from outside. I drew back the drapes to see a man dashing through the light ebb and flow of traffic, blood flowing freely down his face, crying out in unintelligible groans borne of weariness and pain as he violently shoved aside any who attempted to offer assistance. To my horror, he abruptly halted midway through the street, though his gaze now darted to and fro with frantic desperation.

“Come to consult us, I fancy,” said Holmes. “Unless I am much mistaken,” he responded to my incredulously raised eyebrow rather than any spoken word, “those are undoubtedly the symptoms.

I was on the verge of making some skeptical remark when the raving man’s eyes alighted upon our door. Holmes nodded, clasped his pipe between his teeth in satisfaction, and had already made it halfway to our sitting room door when the man, who was winding his way through those ambling along the kerb, suddenly collapsed into a heap.

Before I had even made any conscious decision to do as much, my feet were pounding down our stairs, and I had rushed into the street, nearly being clipped by a passing hansom for my trouble; although with a burst of strength was able to pull the poor fellow onto the pavement without either of us made any worse for wear. To my astonishment, Holmes had joined me, and together we carried him into the sitting room of 221B.

“Halloa - that wound is too clean to be accidental nor could he have inflicted this damage by his own hand. It is attempted murder, I say!” Much to my dismay, Holmes rubbed his hands together in delight. “How very gratifying!”

My own humble diagnosis was that of nervous exhaustion. Which was confirmed upon our impromptu guest’s waking - as it was evident that despite how his hair and face were drenched in mostly dried blood, the gash itself was a superficial one that took but a few stitches to properly close - whereupon he began to moan and tear at his hair as does one who has come to his wit’s end. He was a young, dashing fellow, with flaxen hair and a fresh complexion, whom I should not have taken to be older than two-and-twenty, if he was indeed so advanced in his years. He was but a boy, and I could not help but pity him for whatever plight weighed so heavily on his mind, for not only were there dark rings beneath his eyes which bespoke of some constant misery, the hair falling over his brow and that closest to his temples were streaked with grey.

I rose to pour him a brandy while Holmes introduced himself.

“Then you are the very man I have been searching for!” he cried in relief.

“Indeed?” Holmes flashed me an impish smile. “Then pray, elucidate as to what it is you believe I might be able to assist you with that Mr Chandler could not?”

Our client nearly leapt off the settee, so great was his astonishment. “What can you possibly know of it?” he accused my friend while I made to help him back down and handed him a dram of spirits before he worked himself into an apoplectic fit.

“Do settle down,“ said my companion, enumerating the points which led him to the deduction with his long fingers. “You’ve a pawn-ticket just visible in your waistcoat pocket, though I dare say by the state of your pocket sized prayer book, you have not pawned any item, and the fresh sludge lining the hem of your trouser legs is quite distinctive to the muck which accumulates at Oxford Street in such weather. It could not have been a relic from an earlier trip, for you will observe how the stub is free of blood while your clothing did not escape so unscathed. Furthermore, there is but one pawn broker in that area, a certain Mr Chandler of dubious virtues, whom I am sorry to say I am acquainted with.”

“Everything is as you say,” said he, in breathless awe. “I have come here from Mr Chandler’s - it was he who recommended I lay my account before you.”

With an impatient wave of his hand, Holmes urged him to continue, while I, simply grateful my companion deemed this a worthy enough distraction, pulled up our basket chair and withdrew a tattered old note-book from my pocket. It was a habit I had taken to of late, scribbling down a record of any cases that promised to have features of interest; and one which had incurred much chiding from my fellow lodger, who could not foresee what purpose such a pastime would serve.

“My name, sirs, is Willoughby Harrington. I come from a once proud family of squires who, through poor investments and the reckless ways of the past two generations, found ourselves to be nobility in name alone. Our fortunes were squandered, so it came to be that upon the death of my father five years ago, my brother and I were forced to sell our country home in Oxfordshire, where our people have resided since the time of George III. There was some little inheritance, which amounted to mother’s jewels and father’s… inventions.”

“What sort of inventions, Mr Harrington? Pray, omit nothing which may be of use from your very interesting narrative,” said Holmes, seemingly not affected in the least by this strange pronouncement.

“My father, who always had a scientific turn and was something of an amateur inventor, shutting himself away like some recluse in his workshop for hours or days on end, was in possession of all manner of contrivances. Many were simple clockwork gears while others were complicated, cumbersome pieces of machinery. As to their original purpose, since all his notes were lost, I could not even begin to venture a guess.

“It pains me to say as much, but my brother was the worst sort of wastrel. Father was never over fond of him, if I may be forthright - oh, he did love Ambrose, do not doubt that, but he saw in him the idle ways of my uncle, which only worsened as Father’s end drew nearer. On his deathbed, he pleaded with me to make good use of the little I should be bequeathed, though he could not find it in his heart to cut his eldest son out of the Will entirely.

“The night before he died, Father implored me to make sensible use of what had become of our once prosperous family’s meagre legacy, and to promise I would look after my wayward brother. His request made hardly any sense, for it was to be that I, the responsible one who was more a man than Ambrose despite his being several years my senior, was given all his tinkerings and gadgets, while the modest collection of diamonds along with our mother’s heathen gold and ruby adorned Eye of Horus pendant - that I had no great wish to lay eyes upon again, anyhow - was passed on to my devil-may-care brother! Only, I wonder if Father had not lost his wits entirely, or sold the jewels without our knowledge, for to this day, not one single diamond was ever found.

“You can imagine, Mr Holmes, that after having been displaced from both home and rightful inheritance, I came to London a morose and broken man. But I am not one to be discouraged by adversity, and soon afterwards, fell in with a troupe of actors, who helped me gain employment on the stage. I made for a wretched thespian, but in matters of finance, I excelled. Thus it was that within the year, I was given a position as assistant theatre manager. For all the world it seemed as though things were looking up… that is until three weeks ago.

“I remember distinctly it was on the 3rd of the month - for that was the opening night of our new rendition of The Scottish Play  when the first incident occurred.

“As I have stated, the exact nature of Father’s inventions were obscure to me, yet if nothing else, I have ever been a resourceful sort. There were numerous small devices that relied upon electricity, but one such apparatus seemed to make use of Mr Edison’s light bulbs in the most remarkable way. It was no more than a metal plated contraption roughly the size of a large bread box, fixed with all descriptions of gears, levers and gauges, with nine of these electric light bulbs affixed to the top. When one filled a specially made tube draining into the machine itself with a sufficient quantity of water, and cranked up the side lever, the bulbs would light and the most harmonic, though subdued, melody emanated from the thing! You can imagine how I leapt at the opportunity to use it for stage lighting and ambiance, and it worked admirably for the first three acts of the play. Then, at that most pivotal scene where the curtain rises upon the witches circling the cauldron and chanting their spells, the background lights were flickering to the point of distraction.

“The device was situated in a small alcove off to the side of the stage, and when I rushed over to check it, found the man charged with cranking the lever had been knocked senseless, and two of the light bulbs were gone.”

“Ah. You interest me considerably, Mr Harrington,” said Holmes from behind a cloud of noxious smoke. Though his features remained austere as ever, his eyes glimmered with excitement, and in that instant I knew he had hit upon some fact which to him had unlocked this mystery; while to me the conundrum remained vague and meaningless.

My heart swelled with pride. It was all I could do to remain fixed in my chair, resisting with every ounce of self restraint the urge to hurl that abominable pipe into the grate and kiss the insufferable man senseless. Determined not to expose with the merest twitch of my countenance the workings of my heart, I quickly banished the thought and returned to my note taking. For to do as much was to open myself to ridicule over being prone to the softer emotions, or god forbid, incite his revulsion at my unnatural advances.

As it was, I should swear that my perceptive friend must have seen through my negligible attempt at impassivity, though if Holmes did read my innermost thoughts, he mercifully turned a blind eye to that which was writ upon its pages.

“I take it, Mr Harrington, that your theatre passed an uneventful week until that next Friday?”

“Exactly so. There was no trace of the man who tampered with the device and beat Saunderson about the head - that is, the man cranking the lever - nor was there any indication it was anything more than a childish prank. We determined to carry on as usual, and as you say, nothing untoward occurred until the next Friday, again during Macbeth. It was the same story. Flickering lights, this time at the start of Act II, which led to the discovery of a senseless man and two more stolen light bulbs.

“Macbeth was moved to Sunday night starting the 17th December. I suspected this prankster harboured some grudge against the play -” here Holmes interrupted Harrington’s narration with a derisive snort, “so I was utterly taken aback when five days later, yesterday night in fact, that our friend of the night struck again.” Holmes leant forward in his chair, fingers impatiently tapping against the armrests, while I confess my pen had ceased its scrapings as I waited with baited breath to hear the remainder of our client’s tale.

“I may have been surprised to see him, you understand, though I was not unprepared. Since the second theft, I took to cranking the lever myself, and carried on my person a small pistol. Even with these precautions, I never saw the fiend coming, not even his shadow on the wall did I spy until his very breath was at my nape. That is the last I can recall, for the brute struck me about the head, and when I began to regain my senses, could make out no more than a hand unscrewing the bulbs from their sockets, shaking them only to either cast them aside while others he secreted into his cloak.

“You may mark me as foolish, but the situation was becoming intolerable, and the official police only seemed amused by the theatre’s plight. So it was that with a determination to put a stop to this thievery once and for all, I lay still until the villain stalked off, then proceeded to follow him out into the alley. From there he hailed a hansom, and I followed close behind in a cab of my own, until he got off at the Embankment. He was heading up Bridge Street when I called out to him, and… well… oh dear…”

So great was Harrington’s agitation that he wrung his hands, his breathing becoming more irregular as he struggled for words that would not come.

“Take your time, Mr Harrington. Then tell us what it was that happened when your brother turned around. In the meantime,” he gestured towards me, “Dr Watson here has an admirable tonic that should calm your nerves considerably.”

At this unexpected comment, which forced a gasp even out of me, the poor devil started anew. I chided Holmes for his candour with a disapproving glance en route to my medical bag, though received only a shrug in reply. However, after administering a very mild sedative of my own devising, one that lacked any soporific effects, I soon had Harrington calm enough to recommence the telling of his account.

“You seem to know more than I do of this tangled business, but I may as well conclude it. As you have guessed -” this incited a wince from my friend, “the thief was indeed none other than my own flesh and blood, and being that my disposition is a sensitive one under the best of circumstances, I regret to say I fainted dead away at the sight. There I remained until Big Ben struck the hour, and I have been wandering ever since, searching for Ambrose in every den of ill repute he is likely as not to be found in. There was no trace of my brother, yet my inquiries were not in vain.

“Mr Chandler of the pawn shop on Oxford Street runs another establishment in his back rooms, one which I heard through Ambrose’s acquaintances that he frequented.” There was a moment’s hesitation before Holmes assured Harrington that he was indeed aware, and would be the soul of discretion as to whatever obviously illegal activities were going on.

“As it turned out, my brother had been to the pawn shop the night before, to sell a most peculiar item that he, in the strongest of terms, claimed he would be back for after Christmas. Though the miserable old lout refused to make known to me what exactly had been pawned, he frequently remarked upon its strangeness. I cannot imagine what Ambrose has got up to, but as you have observed, I was able to procure this ticket,” said he, handing the item over to Holmes, who examined it with due consideration before pocketing it, “which he must have dropped in his haste to leave. Mr Chandler rather boorishly recommended your services to me, and here I am.”

For nigh on ten minutes, Holmes remained as though in a trance, the only sign my companion had not descended into slumber the constant languid puffing of that pipe. The silence was deucedly awkward, for I dared not interrupt my companion from his brown study, and meanwhile, our client had taken to the most irksome habit of nervous fiddling with the loose threads of our settee.

“What precisely is it you would have me do for you, Mr Harrington?” Holmes, who had quite abruptly leapt to his feet, inquired so severely as to make the man in question flinch. “We know your brother is responsible for the crimes, which, save for the attacks upon those manning the lever, are petty, and in all likelihood he will trouble you no more.”

“It… well, in my heart I suspect my brother means to ruin me by sabotaging my theatre, but also I should care to learn why Ambrose has resorted to such drastic measures. Surely, he must realize that no matter how hard up he may be, I would help him without his having to do something so… curious.”

“You want Holmes to track down your brother and advise him against continuing with whatever plans he has for ruining you?” I offered, to which our client nodded in agreement.

“I believe I may be able to do a bit more than that,” said Holmes, cryptically, as he brusquely escorted Harrington out the door with instructions to report back to Baker Street tomorrow morning at nine, at which time he promised the matter would be resolved. All the while, our client ignored his terse manner, oblivious to everything but his profound relief, wringing my companions hand and smiling as he was led unceremoniously out the door.

Stunned at Holmes’ bold assurances, for I could see not the slightest clue that might shed light on the matter, much less anything that would inspire such confidence in his ability to resolve it so quickly, I fear I stood by stupidly as he donned his Ulster and hat.

“What are you going to do?” I managed, finally.

“Take that healthy exercise you so unwaveringly pester me about.”

“Shall I -”

“Not necessary, Doctor.”

With that, Holmes took his leave, and despite how I made a valiant effort to busy my mind, his absence surely drained the warmth from our rooms though the fire burnt radiant behind the grate.

My curiosity as to this case was overwhelming, but more so was the misery that threatened to encroach whenever I had the opportunity to dwell on that inevitable departure from my home, from the comfortable domesticity I shared with my dearest friend. Not desiring to be alone with my not overly pleasant thoughts, and it being far too early to retire, I absently picked up and skimmed through the newspaper Holmes had carelessly flung aside earlier in the evening. Unable to interest myself in the seemingly trivial headlines after being privy to one of my companion’s more bizarre cases, I was contemplating whether or not the night was too young for a nightcap or two when an advertisement circled in red ink caught my eye.

It was a to let notice for a “cozy garret room” on the Edgware Road, whose featured amenities were the lack of a leaking roof except in those instances of heavy precipitations and the use of a shared water closet on the first floor. Scrawled underneath, in my companion’s sharp hand, there was writ a reminder for him to “inquire”.

Scarcely could I believe the implications of this terse message, yet what else was there to believe other than Holmes had finally become aware of how free I had been with my pension? Instead of waiting for me to default on my half of the rent, as I must inevitably do, he must have decided it a more practical thing to send me packing, and to ensure I left in proper haste, must have seen fit to take the measure of finding me new lodgings. It was no less than a well deserved send-off, though not wholly devoid of an element of cruelty.

Then again, what else should I expect from a man who, in the throes of cocaine induced lassitude, could oft be heard citing Darwin’s claim that “a scientific man ought to have no wishes, no affections - a mere heart of stone”. He aspired, for all appearances, to become that reasoning machine for “observing facts and grinding out conclusions“. And yet, there were instances wherein I believed all his assurances to the contrary were so much smoke and mirrors, that my friend possessed a heart that in fact surpassed the size of his brain. This turn of events was an irreparable hole torn into the fabric of so optimistic a theory.

More than a little hurt, I endeavoured to set aside my troubles with a yellow-backed novel, but it was no use. Holmes rejection gnawed at me like a septic wound. If naught else, I determined to keep the remnants of my pride, and while our life in Baker Street meant the world to me, there was nothing for it but to take my leave before I was tossed directly onto the streets or in some god forsaken hovel out of misguided pity.

Steadfast in the decision to avoid the disgrace of being cast out, I was heading up to my room with the intention of packing my scant belongings when the bursting open of the front door heralded Holmes’ arrival. In a flurry of excitement he ascended the stairs, face flushed from the cold, and a brown parcel tucked under his arm, which he thrust at me with the instructions to don my warmest accoutrements before another instant was wasted.

And what choice have I ever had but to follow obediently wherever Sherlock Holmes might lead?

“This is intolerable, Holmes!”

Quite understandably, I fancy, my mood had soured after three hours of dallying about in the cold, my fingers numb through gloves and a wounded leg protesting the blasted contraptions I allowed my companion to affix onto my feet against my better judgment. Sliding on a particularly slick patch of ice on the frozen lake in St James Park, I silently cursed whatever deranged devil invented the ice skate, and the equally guilty fellow who saw fit to sell two pairs to Holmes.

With the enthusiasm of a schoolboy, he had torn through the packaging once we were ensconced in a cab, and with his usual reticence, had simply insisted my wearing the loathsome things was necessary for the successful completion of Mr Harrington’s case. Though what possible connection there could be between this leisurely winter pastime and a series of most curious thefts, I was unable to discern.

Ignoring me splendidly, Holmes’ hawk like gaze never wavered from a flaxen haired fellow off towards the far end of the lake, who was apparently having a worse time gathering his bearings than I. Even after my companion had linked his arm through mine - for after an awkward incident involving an overly amorous young woman intent on winning Holmes’ affections, he insisted upon “hunting in couples” to avoid any more such advances - I confess to a certain failure in remaining entirely vertical.

In sympathy, I winced when the poor chap tumbled ingloriously upon his face, with no comrade by his side to assist him back on his feet. Even if said comrade insisted on keeping a tally of one’s flops onto the ice. Well, I should not have that advantage much longer, I thought in misery, when Holmes’ grip on my arm tightened in repressed agitation.

“What is it?”

“My dear fellow,” said he, guiding me with damnably effortless glides for someone who never before set foot in a skating rink, “if ever a more perfect representation of hereditary traits surfacing within a single generation did exist, I have yet to see evidence of it.”

It was only when we skirted the lake’s edge just centimeters from the prostrate figure, who, instead of making the effort to right himself, chiseled away at a patch of ice, where several hieroglyphic like symbols had been intentionally scratched into the surface, that my slower brain registered Holmes’ meaning. Save for the moustache and side whiskers, he was the perfect mirror image of Willoughby Harrington. His brother, then, as even I could readily deduce, but as to what on earth the object of his hacking away might be, I was as in the dark as ever.

As we approached, Holmes released his hold on my arm and addressed him directly, but Ambrose Harrington remained consumed by his task with what can only be described as a manic energy.

“Do give it up Mr Harrington,” said my companion, who was unperturbed by this mad display playing out before us. “It is of no use, I say. We know all about your father’s diamonds.”

At Holmes’ words, he stopped abruptly, a pronounced change darkening his features. In his eyes I recognised a rage whose intensity called to mind that of the murderous Ghazis as they hacked to pieces comrades in my regiment. Perhaps it was that experience which alerted me to the danger while Holmes advanced forward, oblivious to the precarious line he walked. Or it may very well have been some innate tendency I seem to be possessed of, that where Sherlock Holmes is concerned my desire to protect the reckless fellow governs nigh on every impulsive decision I make. Before my brain could but register the movement, I leapt in front of him the very instant Ambrose Harrington sprang forward, ice pick at the ready.

What ensued happened so swiftly and without coherent thought it is a haze in my mind. I do have some recollection of hitting the ice, grappling for the weapon whilst simultaneously trying to dislodge the hand clasped about my throat. As the first groans and creaks of displeasure resounded beneath our struggling forms, it occurred to me that this was not the most congenial of settings to conduct one’s disagreements.

I aware of wetness lapping at my back in the moments before the mist cleared from my vision. But the only concern I was able to muster came at the sight of my friend wrestling with the crazed Ambrose Harrington, and though his skates were cast aside, that small advantage was not enough to prevent him from losing his footing and falling into a not insignificant fissure. Before I could move, I saw Holmes’ dark head surface almost immediately, yet to my unspeakable horror, the devil pushed him back under.

He was raving like a Bedlamite by the time I tackled him, shrieking all the while even after hitting the frigid water, that he had been wronged by his own miserable kin, and damn us all to hell for the treachery perpetrated upon him. My medical instincts urged me not to leave him to his fate, so when I saw Holmes heft himself onto the frozen riverbank, I acted as any doctor would, attempting to drag the flailing man to safety by his collar. There came at me a right hook which would have been a simple thing to block if my shoulder were not throbbing so, if the cold had not numbed me, and if fatigue were not already settling in.

After the pain of impact, I can remember no more until several minutes had elapsed. I was recumbent on the snow, drenched to my smallclothes. A crowd of onlookers peered down at me, a police constable making a worthy, though altogether futile, attempt to disperse them. Holmes, however, seemed to be nowhere in sight. Feebly, I called out for my friend, only to be hushed like some child who has spoken out of turn. I looked up, towards the source of the voice, and my eyes widened almost comically when I realized it was Holmes, and that my head was cradled in his lap.

“That was a remarkably foolish thing to do.” Long, delicate fingers brushed my face, and though it may have been only an overwrought imagination, I fancied his hands were not entirely steady. “Have you any idea what might have come from pulling such a stunt!”

“I do not see why it should put you out so,” said I, the droplets of water streaming down my face somewhat negating the sufficiently nettled glare I attempted to convey. “You would be rid of me anyhow.”

The hand stroking my cheek went suddenly still. “I believe that plunge has rattled your brain and made you delusional,” said he, calm as you please. Was he not going to acknowledge his intentions of sending me away? Surely those rooms could not have been meant for him, who for all he detested luxury and gaudy aesthetics, was unlikely to take such a decline in his living arrangements because of a few slow months.

“Admit it,” I cried, angry over his denial and even angrier that I had neither the energy nor the will to move from this overly intimate position, “I saw the advert for those digs on the Edgware Road. Do not believe for a single instant I am so obtuse that I am unaware as to what you are up to.”

“Do enlighten me, dear fellow.”

“You mean to send me away,” said I, turning my face to the side.

There was a momentary pause, in which it seemed Holmes held his very breath, until I felt his body quiver with that silent laughter so peculiar to him.

“Oh, my Watson,” said he, chuckling all the while. “I despair for your powers of deduction. Those accommodations were meant for both of us.”

“Both of us? How can that be?”

Heaving a sigh of discontent at having to explain his motives to us lesser mortals, he finally condescended to answer. “Come, before Constable Wickes gets the wrong idea,” he gestured to our rather unorthodox position. “I shall make everything clear once we are back in Baker Street.”

Three cups of hot cocoa and one fretful landlady later, I was bedecked with every lap rug in the house and had sufficiently thawed to demand Holmes cease beating about the bush with offering his promised explanations. While my fellow lodger had come home in the same sorry state as had I, Mrs Hudson deemed our condition as being wholly attributable to one of his less acute exploits, and therefore it was that before responding, his expression turned pained at the unsweetened version of the drink the formidable woman had thrust at him.

“While Willoughby Harrington’s case seemed a trifling instance of sibling rivalry at the outset - ”

“The advert, Holmes.”

“I am coming to that, Doctor,” he sniffed, taking another sip of his bitter cocoa. “What roused my interest was the allotment of the brother’s respective inheritances. The father, who was loath to cut his elder son off entirely and who begged the younger to ensure the other’s mindful spending gives to the responsible one an assortment of seemingly worthless gadgets, while the diamonds and gold were appropriated to the son who in part caused the family’s downfall? I rather think not.

“The next point to strike me as exceeding curious was Harrington’s statement that when switched on, his father’s invention gave off a subtle melody, which led me to question what precisely caused the delicate emission of sound. Surely, as it was not designed in the style of an electro-magnetic phonograph or anything like it, the components themselves and not the construction was responsible for this.

“When he mentioned his affiliation with the theatre, I began to formulate a theory as to the identity of our unusual pilferer, one which was confirmed by the dates of the thefts, which corresponded perfectly with the nocturnal outings made by this ‘Phantom’ fellow. From the singular style of dress and his talent for diversion while entering and making egress from the rink as would a practiced actor during a costume change, I had suspected theatre connections from the onset.

“The final link in my chain was provided by the purloined objects themselves. Why should he go to such lengths to take light bulbs, when he could have the purse of the man who operated the lever? It was no great challenge to infer the value itself lay within the bulbs, and if so, how had he come by the knowledge that they were valuable at all, when Willoughby Harrington himself was unaware of their worth?”

“You concluded it must be the brother, then?” I interjected, awed by his flawless thread of reasoning.

“Just so. And what could be secreted into a translucent glass light bulb which might be worth so great an effort to steal, while covering the crime by replacing the old bulbs with new ones?”

“Good heavens! You cannot mean the diamonds?”

“We shall make a detective of you yet, my boy. It is my belief the father removed the insulation in the electrical contact before splitting the smallest of the jewels inside. This faint chiming of the diamonds against the metal may have, in some part, accounted for the sound when the machine vibrated upon the table.”

“So,” I mused, stretching my bad leg out by the fire, “you knew ‘The Phantom’ was Ambrose Harrington, but how came you to conclude he would return to St James Park to-night?”

“Once his brother had unmasked him, as it were, the game was decidedly up. He must, at the first available opportunity, claim his plunder and disappear before the true extent of his deeds was discovered. Consider, Watson, that if he was indeed ‘The Phantom’, that there was method in his madness, and this was our greatest clue. The hurling of the skates was but a mere diversion, his true aim being that of hiding his stash. My not inconsiderable experience has taught me that the best hiding places are those in plain sight. The ice on St James lake has grown dense in this deuced cold spell, and it was an elementary task to chisel out a tiny burrow for the gems in a secluded, unused corner, marking the spot with the same tool used to create the aperture.”

“What of the pawn shop? Could he not have passed off the diamonds through that channel?”

“Ah, that was a ruse. Pawning that item was a clever precaution he took in the event his brother realised what the light bulbs contained, or, in the unlikely scenario that the blunderers at Scotland Yard quit tripping over their own tails and put their nose firmly to the ground. That was evident based upon the fact he dropped the ticket, which suggested to my mind that he never did intend to return for it.”

“Well, it certainly seems a shame that the younger Harrington should be deprived of his inheritance because of the careless and deceitful ways of his brother.”

“Oh, I should not say that,” said Holmes with a mischievous twinkle, as he procured from the pocket of his dressing gown a handkerchief, which he slowly unwrapped to reveal an allotment of diminutive diamonds, brilliant in their purity. While I wrestled with the elder Harrington, Holmes had spied the jewels sparkling brighter than ice, and managed to save almost the entirety of the bonny little stones.

When they were again safely tucked away, I broached the topic of the advert. I do not believe it an exaggeration to say that Holmes fairly squirmed in his chair. Following an offer to refill my cup, an insistence that I looked done in and would be the better for calling it a night, and an offer to play, at three of a morning, my favourite tunes upon his violin, none of which did I meet with any great enthusiasm, he finally gave up his dallying around the issue.

“It was becoming more obvious by the day - your attempts at dissimulation really are abysmal, my dear fellow - that your financial woes were only worsening. I had not the money to loan you, so the only logical means by which to remedy the problem was to find lodgings more suitable to our limited pocketbooks.”

“Hence you devised a plan to rid yourself of me in order to find a better choice in prospective fellow lodgers. I see.”

“But you do not observe!” He rose to stuff his pipe, though upon finding the Persian slipper was empty, thrust said item onto the mantel and ran a hand through his hair in what I should have taken for an attack of nerves in any other man. “For some months it has been plain to me,” he began, tentatively, “that is to say, I have had occasion to notice… well, there are undeniably instances where one finds the presence of a trusted associate to be favourable to the outcomes of these trifling little puzzles.” This rambling declaration he finished off with a firm nod, as does one who is sufficiently proud of having just, in the boldest of terms, stated his point and found his own argument to be the final word on the topic.

“Holmes, you are prevaricating.”

Huffing out a most petulant sigh, he persisted, words falling from his mouth as though if he did not spit them out quickly enough, he might not speak them at all. “I do not require a replacement for all those positions which you fill, for I am of a mind that it is the more convenient option for us both that if you found yourself no longer able to afford our rooms here, we would throw in our lot together somewhere more suitable.”

“I do not understand,” I lied, for I began to see the light. “You would give up Baker Street for a man whose head is turned by a pretty race horse?”

“It is of no consequence,” said he, “for it appears, that particular problem is solved.” In reply to my incredulous laugh, he extended to me our client’s unused pawn-ticket.

“What is this?”

“Ah. If I am not much mistaken, the item submitted to Mr Chandler is not entirely without value. Harrington’s mother’s ‘heathen’ Eye of Horus pendant, if you will recall, is something he no longer wishes to clasp eyes upon. For the return of the diamonds, I dare say he will deem the trade a fair one.”

“And what if he does not?”

“Consider the prayer book, Watson,” said he, with a trace of annoyance that I had not connected one to the other. “Have you ever seen a devout man wearing the charms and talismans of the ancients? No, it is a safe assumption that Willoughby Harrington will stay true to his word and shan’t be able to put enough distance between himself and the mother’s pagan trinkets.”

“Then we do not either of us have to abandon Baker Street?” Sore and fatigued as I was, there was far too much distance betwixt myself and my friend. I heaved my weight off the chair and took his arm, felt him shiver at the contact.

“You scintillate, as always.”

Deliberately, I allowed my grip to drift downwards, until his hand was clasped in my own. His entire body was trembling now, with fear or anticipation - I knew not which - and he would not meet my gaze.

“That is a very noble gesture.”

“I should be severely put out if forced to search for another partner, as you are quite sufficient for my humble needs. Do not look at me so, Watson. You have been most helpful in such work as we have been doing, and if you will agree to the terms, I find that having a helpmate would not go amiss.”

“What are the terms?” I whispered, drawing him in closer.

“You do not mind the smell of strong tobacco, I hope?”

“Nor the taste,” I breathed into his mouth, our lips brushing, the air charged with more currents than an electric storm, for surely that barest of touches lit every nerve afire.

“I… generally have chemicals about,” said he, with the most satisfying hitch in his voice. “Would that annoy you?”

“By no means.” Closing the miniscule gap between us, I pressed my lips to his in a chaste kiss. When he did not back away, even strained into the contact, I parted his lips with my tongue and drank of him deeply until we were both disheveled and panting.

Reluctantly, I pulled away to see Holmes’ face flushed, his eyes closed. That look of pleasure which marked his features was too swiftly replaced with his usual austere bearing, but rivaled those few instances where I had seen him enrapt in a beloved piece of music. If that was all I was destined to be allotted of any open display of affection, then that fleeting glance of his heart could sustain me for the remainder of my days.

“I propose we take this discussion upstairs, to spare the long-suffering Mrs Hudson from hearing anything… untoward.”

Holmes hardened against my hip at the very prospect. “Before we continue what promises to be a most instructive conversation,” the corner of his mouth tugged upwards, “may I suggest we lock your chequebook in my desk drawer as a precaution, in the event you ever decide to stray from me with one of those pretty race horses of yours.”

I kissed him again, with such an urgent need I wondered if our landlady’s sensibilities might not after all be spared. “I should never do that. Not when I have you at last.”