Sherlock Holmes: No Place Like Home

My good friend Mr Sherlock Holmes rarely faltered in his quest to bring criminals to justice. But perhaps only once did I ever see him shaken, or certainly unnerved, to the extent that his legendary powers of deduction could not seem to function properly. He often said to me that his sharp mind was similar to a machine of some sort, and that comparison seems appropriate as I consider one of his few lapses of judgment. It was as if a vital component had been taken away, causing the contraption to cease functioning as it should. Though I have never before felt the desire to recount any of Sherlock Holmes’ aforementioned failings, I feel that now is the time for this particular story to be told.

The situation began when Holmes and I were summoned to a small town in Scotland by a young man, who was concerned that his family inheritance was to be stolen by his dying father’s beautiful yet cunning mistress. The case was a simple one, with my friend being the only person who could understand the importance of a seemingly insignificant brooch that the woman wore upon her lapel at all times, and the matter was solved swiftly.

        

We therefore found ourselves with plenty of time on our hands, which I suggested we spent enjoying the scenic views that Scotland had to offer. But as we were about to set off one morning, Holmes had a funny turn and had to lie down on the bed. I could not reason what the problem was, and he seemed unable to leave the inn at which we were staying. It was only when I conceded that we should travel back to London immediately that his disposition brightened somewhat, and we set off as soon as possible.

A hansom cab took us from the station through the foggy streets as we made our way to Baker Street. Holmes still seemed uneasy, however, which worried me. I had never before seen him like this. It was rare for him to surrender to illness. The only time I have ever seen him significantly afflicted with a common cold, he refused to rest and instead took on three new cases, solving them in as many hours. He never let anything slow him down or impede his ability to think, so his sudden strange turn left me gravely concerned for my friend’s health.

         

We soon arrived back at 221B, though everything was not as we had left it a few days earlier. Mrs Hudson stood in the doorway of our home, watching a team of builders rearranging our furniture and covering our possessions in preparation for renovation work. Seeing this, Sherlock Holmes dropped to his knees and a look of despair fell across his face.

         

“What have you done, Mrs Hudson?” he asked.

         

“You two are back sooner than I expected,” she replied, wondering why Holmes seemed so physically pained. I was curious as well. “I thought you were away all week, working on that case in Scotland?”

         

“Holmes’ wellbeing took a turn for the worse,” I said, “and we decided to return to London as soon as possible.”

         

“Well, I wasn’t to know, was I?” Mrs Hudson said. “Now that you and Mr Holmes have been living here for a while, I thought I should try to improve the house, make it a nicer place for you.”

         

Holmes held his head in his hands, as if despairing at something. He wailed like a child.

“Is that a problem?” continued Mrs Hudson. “It was supposed to be a surprise for you.”

         

In one swift movement Holmes leapt to his feet and looked our landlady right in the eye. His face was unnervingly close to hers, and I felt the urge to intervene. However, I had discovered it was best to let Holmes carry out his actions in full, and his motivations would often reveal themselves eventually. I was keen to find out why he was so upset. I, too, was concerned where we might live while this work was being carried out, but finding lodgings for a day or two would not be impossible, and given Holmes’ growing reputation many would do whatever they could to help in his hour of need.

         

“I don’t like surprises, Mrs Hudson,” said Holmes, “and I don’t like people touching my belongings.”

         

“Don’t worry,” she replied, “I told them to be incredibly careful.”

         

A loud smash was heard from the flat, taking us all by surprise. The workman at fault looked around nervously, and offered a weak apology. Shards of broken glass that had previously been a valuable antique vase were scattered at his feet. When the man noticed the look of anger on Holmes’ face, he apologised again. It didn’t seem to have the desired calming effect on him.

         

Holmes strode up to him, and seeing his fists curl up at his side, I thought he was going to swing for the builder. Instead, his anger seemed to dissipate somewhat, and he addressed the man in a plain, civil tone of voice.

         

“Would you please,” he said, with a forced smile, “pass me my Persian slipper?” Noticing the look of confusion on the man’s face, he continued, “It is where I keep my tobacco, and I feel that I may need it today more than ever before.”

         

After emptying the contents of the slipper and handing it back to the bemused worker, Holmes strode out of Baker Street, and I followed close behind, bidding farewell to Mrs Hudson as I went. My friend had stopped at the edge of the street and was looking around desperately.

         

“Are you looking for a cab?” I asked.

         

Holmes simply shook his head. Something had clearly caught his eye, and he waved across the street, calling someone over. A few moments later one of the Baker Street Irregulars stood before us, waiting eagerly for the latest task.

         

“My boy,” said Holmes, “you must remain at Baker Street and oversee the work that is being carried out by these ham-fisted builders. The very second that it is completed and my home is once again mine, you should send a message to me, do you understand?”

         

The young scamp nodded and stood guard outside 221B. Holmes began to stroll down the street, with me at his side. He wasted no time in lighting up his pipe and puffing away on his beloved shag tobacco, but it seemed that not even that could lighten his mood.

         

We walked for a while in silence. I could think of nothing to say without worrying I might upset him further, seeing as I did not truly know the reason for his dark mood. Clearly the intervention at Baker Street had unsettled him, though I failed to see exactly how. I assumed that when he was ready to tell me he would do so, and I decided not to press him further until that moment came.

         

“Do you hear that, Watson?” he said after we had been wandering for a significant length of time. I shook my head, and he went on, “We are being followed. We have been for some time. A new client, perhaps? No, don’t turn around! Keep walking, as if we are not aware of his presence.”

         

“What can you deduce, Holmes?”

         

“Following us is, I believe, a man of around fifty years of age. A country-dweller if I’m not mistaken, he is dressed in a tatty old suit, though it is his best one, and he carries a walking stick. That should be enough to find him in the crowd, do you not think?”

         

Holmes abruptly came to a stop. I did the same, as did the person who was apparently following us. This was clearly the case, as there was no one else in the street, but the follower was not as Holmes had suspected.

         

It was a woman, not a man, and even I could reason that she was a resident of London. She possessed no walking stick, nor anything of the like. She was young and beautiful, but she wore a worried expression on her face, as if a heavy burden rested upon her shoulders.

         

Holmes was too shaken to say anything at all after his error, it seemed, as he was rarely wrong on this scale, so I spoke for him.

         

“Can we help you, madam?” I asked.

         

“Mr Holmes,” said the woman, offering out her hand to both of us in turn, “and Dr Watson, it is my pleasure to meet you both. My name is Lady Montague, and I am in dire need of assistance. Your services have been recommended to me, and I believe you to be the only people in all of the world who can help me.”

         

“No,” said Holmes simply. I looked at him in total surprise. A new case would have been just the thing to get him back to his normal self, but it seemed that he did not feel the same way.

         

“Excuse me?” asked the lady in confusion.       

         

“I’m afraid I have rather too much on my mind at the moment to be of any great use to you,” Holmes replied, still puffing on his pipe and reeling from his recent miscalculation. “Perhaps you could return to us at a later date, when normality has resumed? I would be more than happy to help you then. However, until that time, I think I may even be more of a hindrance to your case.”

         

“It is a matter of great urgency, Mr Holmes. I cannot afford to wait any longer than I have done already. Please, you must come with me to my home, where I can explain everything. I do not know who else to turn to.”

         

Lady Montague seemed genuinely concerned with her mysterious predicament, though Holmes remained unmoved. He did not usually allow himself to become emotionally involved in any of his cases, which I understood and had even grown to admire, though he had never before turned such a worried client away so abruptly.

         

“One moment,” I said to our client, excusing us as I pulled Holmes to one side. “You cannot decline to help this woman,” I pleaded. “She needs us.”

         

“And I need my home,” he replied.

         

“I don’t understand, Holmes.”

         

“Nor do I expect you to, Watson. It is complicated. In truth, even I cannot fathom it. However, I have no choice but to refuse Lady Montague’s request.”

         

“Whatever you might feel about your own abilities,” I said, “you should at least try. Only after that can you truly allow yourself to be beaten. Do not give up before then, Holmes.”

         

He thought after this for a moment, until he eventually conceded. “Very well,” he said. “Let us journey with you, my lady, and see if we can solve this little problem of yours.”

         

We called a hansom that carried us a fair distance across London to Lady Montague’s home. When we arrived the client told us to make ourselves comfortable while she fetched the tea. The moment gave Holmes and I a chance to talk, and let me finally press him on what had him so concerned.

         

“Why,” I said, “has the thought of Baker Street undergoing maintenance got you so worried, Holmes?”

         

“I cannot work,” he replied, “knowing that my beloved home is being assaulted by some common, unskilled workers. It is as if my mind will not do as I wish it to, while it is distracted.”

         

“Please, be reasonable, Holmes. I am certain that Mrs Hudson made all the necessary checks before employing those men, and they looked to me to be very competent. I am sure it will all be fine.”

         

“Are you, Watson? Can you really know that? We might return home when the work is completed to find Baker Street completely unrecognisable, and our bond with our home might be severed completely. If that were to be the case I do not think that I could cope.”

         

“My friend,” I replied, “I had no idea that you were so attached to the property.”

         

“My best work has occurred since we arrived there,” said Holmes, “and I cannot help but identify a connection. Something about the place gives me the necessary drive to tackle and solve my cases. Even when we are away I think of it. It is not unheard of that people should form connections with their homes, Watson. This is not just about Baker Street and me. And the thought of it being twisted and changed while I am shut out and powerless to help seems to have affected me deeply, and left me saddened. I hope that I can solve this case without my home in my heart, though I do not hold out much hope.”

         

At that moment Lady Montague returned with three cups of tea, which she passed around. We drank in silence for a few moments before the facts of the latest case were explained to us.

         

She believed that various criminal gangs, all of which wanted to kill her for some reason, were pursuing her. She did not know why, and all she had to guide her was a telegram that she had received earlier that day. Its message was coded, it seemed, and as such any answers it may have held were hidden within the string of letters and numbers in a seemingly random order.

         

“A cypher?” asked Holmes.

         

Lady Montague nodded. “You must solve it, Mr Holmes. My life depends upon it.”

         

Holmes and I had listened intently, taking in every detail as we always did. My friend asked no other questions during the explanation, which was odd, as he often wanted his clients to elaborate or clarify certain details. When Lady Montague had concluded, silence descended upon the room, as Holmes seemingly had nothing to say about the matter.

         

Our client handed Holmes the telegram, and he simply stared at it for a long while. When he looked up, his face was blank. His eyes were darting around, as if he were frantically trying to think of something. We waited for him to speak, though he never did.

         

I felt for Holmes as he searched for answers yet could not find them. He opened and closed his mouth but made not sound. He had been right. Without Baker Street, without his home that was being defiled by someone else without a thought for his feelings, he could not function properly. The thought upset me, too.

         

Just then a small figure appeared in the doorway, taking us all by surprise. It was another of Holmes’ Irregulars.  

         

Holmes leapt to his feet, anticipating the news. “Is it done? Can we return?” he asked, before the boy even managed to speak a single word.

         

He simply nodded, and Holmes bounded out of the house like an excitable child. Lady Montague and I followed behind, and just managed to board the hansom cab before Holmes could depart without us.

         

The driver did as he was told and made his way to Baker Street as quickly as possible. When we arrived Mrs Hudson was waiting at the door to greet us, though Holmes pushed straight past her and ran inside.

         

“I told the workmen to leave,” she said to me, as we passed each other. “I thought about how much it was upsetting him, and decided it wasn’t worth all this bother. If you two want to live here, with the mess and the clutter and all those holes in the wall, then who am I to change that?”

         

“It is perfect as it is,” I said, as we headed into 221B.

         

Holmes was already in his chair, with the fire roaring beside him and a refreshed pipe in his mouth. He smiled as he studied the cypher once again, back in the place that he knew and loved. Everything seemed different with him, and so much better.

         

“The solution is simple,” he said. “Now that I am home I can see the true message as clear as I see you before me, my lady.”

         

He scribbled the translation of the code onto the telegram, beneath the original message, and handed it to Lady Montague. Holmes was grinning like an excitable child, and I was pleased to see that he was back to his old self now that his home was no longer under threat.

         

“So the case is solved?” I asked.

        

“No, my dear Watson. It is only just beginning!”