The December wind tore with force down Bakers Street. As the years progressed on me, my old wound pains me even more. Not to mention the normal ware on the human body with age. As the snow piled up on the sides of the buildings out our windows, it struck me as to the calmness that snow always brings. If only for the briefest of moments; the world seems clean and at peace with itself when it is snowing.
Holmes was sitting in his arm chair. He had not uttered a word in days. I am sure he is thinking about Mr. Parker’s daughter. He seemed to be not in the room. Elsewhere I know not.
I turned my attention back out the window. There was not a soul brave enough to venture out in this deplorable weather. I found no use in it either. Determined to update our indexes, I pulled one from the bookcase and began my task. It seemed that I know sooner had turned the page before a heart stopping scream tore through the silence. I was sure the shrillness of it could be heard all the way to Scotland Yard.
“Mr. Holmes! Doctor!” Was that Mrs. Hudson?
Holmes stared at me for a blank moment. Both unsure that it was real; silence had enveloped us as soon as the shrilling had subsided.
“Mr. Holmes! Doctor! Come quickly!”
Holmes and I jumped to our feet, running toward the now panting screams. We found Mrs. Hudson at the back door, white as the snow on the ground.
“Mrs. Hudson,” I asked. “Whatever is the matter?” Before I could gather my wits about me, Holmes was on his knees beside of a protuberance of soiled gray material. Soiled by dirt and presumably blood; for scattered all over it were crimson splotches and layers of grime.
Holmes was ashen, more so than usual and shaking as he guided his hands over the very large piece of material.
“Holmes,” I whispered. With a shot of strength I called again, louder, “Holmes.”
I thought I heard him say, “Ara.” But his voice was cracked chaos. He could have said anything.
Holmes picked up the bundle of rags like it was a fragile child. “Mrs. Hudson, ring Vernet. Tell him I have an emergency for him the likes he has never seen. Watson, come with me.” I followed Holmes back to our shared parlor. He placed the rags by the fireplace, “come.” I followed him into a small room off to the right of the parlor that was seldom used. It was full of books and papers. With the speed of mad men, we emptied the room of its contents. To my surprise, a small bed was buried under the mountain of material that now laid waste to our parlor. Once more he picked up the rags. As he laid it with the greatest care, on the bed, the notion struck me that this was a person. A human being! No, I must be wrong.
I will never know how Vernet made it to Bakers Street in such a timely fashion. It seemed as no time had passed before he was standing by the fireplace. “Watson, my good man, what is the emergency?”
“I do not understand the full measure of what we are facing.” I answered. Holmes had disappeared.
Besides being a brilliant doctor, Vernet was also a talented artist like most of his family.
Holmes came through the door from the stairs. His complexion was still ashen. “Thank you for coming on such short notice.” The two men shuck hands. I thought Holmes would burst into tears instead of speak. The look on his face was one of horror and pain. He visibly steadied himself before he spoke. “Gentlemen, Mrs. Hudson and I are at the ready for anything you will need. The task you are about to undertake is the most important that you have ever, or will ever do. You have to be meticulous. Log everything. Measure everything. Vernet, make a visual record of everything.”
I started to walk toward the little room, Holmes grabbed my arm. He was squeezing me with force. His eyes were closed. His chest moved rapidly. As he began to speak, his lips quivered. “Watson, if you love me, I beg you.” He let go of me, sinking to his knees.
Vernet and I walked into the cold room. The mass of material had not moved. I released a long sigh.
“I guess it is my job to take dictation and draw.” I had forgotten Vernet was even in the room.
Holmes words and actions had chilled my blood. Vernet left the room, coming back soon with a chair. Leaving once more, he brought a small table, placing on it plain paper and different writing or drawing instruments. I was unsure.
With Vernet getting ready for the task ahead, I thought it proper to get my bag. Holmes had moved to his chair. I knelt in front of him. “Holmes?” After several moments of torturous silence, I left him alone.
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