Shortly after the case of the Blind Duchess, a peculiar lethargy had settled down upon 221B Baker Street. It was not idleness in the ordinary sense, for Holmes was incapable of true idleness, but rather the oppressive absence of intellectual resistance. The criminal classes, whether by reform or exhaustion, had afforded London an uncharacteristic season of dull respectability. Even Inspector Lestrade had ceased his habitual interruptions, as he had nothing of real substance to place before the brilliant detective.

  Holmes stood at the main window that morning, his violin untouched upon the chair, and his chemical apparatus abandoned upon the side table. The newspapers lay dissected, cross-referenced, and easily dismissed.

  “Nothing,” Sherlock finally muttered. “Petty theft, domestic quarrels, and a forged signature so inept that the knave might as well have signed his own name beneath it.”

  “You could consider taking a holiday,” Watson nervously suggested.

  Holmes turned as though his friend had just proposed arson.

  “Vacation, Watson,” Sherlock replied, “Is merely stagnation with scenery.”

  With that said, Holmes resumed his vigil by the window.

  By noon, a modest queue had begun to form below. With word having spread that Master Sherlock Holmes was open to entertaining private consultations, the response was about as notable as Watson had assumed it might be. Mrs. Hudson managed the staircase with admirable efficiency, ushering hopeful clients upward one at a time.

  The first potential client to be heard was a florid gentleman who was brave enough to venture to them in a waistcoat of aggressive patterning.

  “My neighbour,” the man declared, “has moved my garden gnome precisely six inches to the left every Thursday for three consecutive weeks!”

  Holmes did not invite him to sit.

  “Have you considered,” Sherlock eventually inquired, “returning it to its original position?”

  “Of course!” the man responded.

  “And has it remained there?” Sherlock asked.

  “Well… yes.” The man answered.

  “Then I shall advise you,” Sherlock continued, his tone rather sharp. “To secure it with adhesive or indifference. Either will suffice.”

  With that the oddly decorated man left in visible confusion.

  The second case concerned a missing Pomeranian of nervous disposition. Holmes inquired whether the dog had a habit of hiding beneath upholstered furniture during thunderstorms. It did. Holmes suggested the client search beneath the divan. He was correct.

  The third involved suspicions of infidelity supported entirely by the observation that a husband had recently taken to wearing pomade.

  Holmes pinched the bridge of his nose.

  “Pomade,” Sherlock repeated flatly, “is not prima facie evidence of adultery.”

  By mid-afternoon, Watson had begun to perceive the rhythm of Holmes’ refusals. He did not merely dismiss the cases but instead dismantled them with surgical brevity. Each inquiry brought before him was resolved in mere moments, often before the client had even finished speaking. None required deduction beyond the commonplace, and it was that detail that appeared to frustrate Holmes the most. When the last supplicant had been escorted out of the building, Master Holmes remained standing in the centre of the room, his hands clasped behind him.

  “Well,” Watson ventured, “at least business is brisk.”

  Holmes shot a hard glare in Watson’s general direction.

  “Brisk mediocrity is not business,” Sherlock chided back, “It is merely clerical work.”

  “Come now, Holmes!” Watson called out, “You cannot expect every mystery to rival the most elaborate conspiracies.”

  “What I expect,” Sherlock replied sharply, “is a problem worthy of sustained analysis, with a structure of concealment. A mind that has laboured to obscure its intentions. Today’s parade consisted of inconveniences masquerading as intrigue.”

  “Cases like the Blind Duchess are few and far between, my friend,” Watson informed him, “And we should take use these mediocre cases to pass the time while we await the next great case to grace our abode.”

  Holmes knew he was right but refused to satisfy him with a response. Instead, he strode to the mantel and seized his pipe, then set it down again without lighting it.

  “Do you know what troubles me most, Watson?” Sherlock continued. “That these cases can be solved by any competent fool with patience and a pulse.”

  “You mean by Lestrade?” Watson called out, even snickering to his own joke.

  Holmes looked back at him but did not laugh. Watson could have swore there was a small upward turn on the corner of his mouth, and that was likely as close as a reaction he should expect from his jab at the inspector. Watson leaned back in his chair and continued to observe Holmes carefully. His restlessness was unmistakable; the quick pacing, the abrupt gestures, and the energy seeking resistance combined with the disappointment of finding none.

  “I get it,” Watson finally called out, “You want opposition.”

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  “What I desire is a puzzle,” Sherlock corrected. “A genuine one. Something that cannot be unravelled in the span of a teacup cooling.”

  Holmes stopped before the fireplace, staring into its empty grate as though it had personally offended him.

  “This is not vanity,” Sherlock added after a moment. “It is a deep hunger.”

  Watson understood him then. Holmes did not crave notoriety, nor wealth, nor even danger for its own sake. He longed for complexity the way regular men required air. Without it, his mind turned inward, hell bent on consuming itself.

  “You will have your case,” Watson said, “We just need to be patient.”

  Holmes gave a faint, humourless smile.

  “I agree, my dear Watson,” Sherlock concurred, “London has not grown honest overnight, but is merely biding its time.”

  Outside, the street resumed its steady rhythm as carriages passed, many footsteps echoed, and commerce hummed with an unremarkable regularity of an unchallenged city. Holmes returned to the window and stood there motionless like a statue.

  “He’s out there, Watson,” Sherlock murmured.

  “Who is, Holmes?” Watson asked.

  “There is a mind at work, my dear Watson,” Sherlock answered, “When it surfaces, Watson, we shall know.”

  Watson could not help but feel that when the moment Holmes mentioned eventually arrived, then the quiet of Baker Street would shatter like glass.

  Yet by four that afternoon Watson’s patience had finally worn thin. Holmes’s pacing had started to become intolerable, even for him. Holmes had taken up his violin only to produce three sharp dissatisfied notes before quickly abandoning the instrument and putting back from whence it came. The air of 221B felt charged with unrealized deduction, as though the room itself was also waiting for something worthy of its occupant.

  “I shall take some air,” Watson loudly announced, reaching for his hat.

  Holmes gave a distracted nod but was already turning back toward the window.

  “Yes, yes, Watson.” Sherlock replied, “Observe humanity. If you happen to encounter anything remotely perplexing, do send it up.”

  Watson left the detective to his vigil and stepped into Baker Street, grateful for the ordinary cadence of the inner city as the cool breeze steadied on him. Holmes’s frustration had become infectious, as Watson found that even he was beginning to get irritated on his friend’s behalf. He walked away with destination, allowing the streets to absorb his restlessness.

  Holmes watched from his window as Watson disappeared into the crowd and was gone. He stood there for what felt like a very long time but was barely an hour when something had caught his attention. A rather fancy looking carriage drew sharply to a halt outside 221B. Mrs. Hudson would later describe it as “not ostentatious, but expensive in a way one notices.” A gentleman descended from the carriage first; he was tall, immaculately dressed, and his posture betrayed both breeding and strain. Once he was out, the gentleman turned at once to assist a lady from the carriage. She stepped down with composed elegance, though her eyes were fixed not upon the street but upon the doorway ahead, as if she had already resolved something irrevocable.

  Holmes watched as the two mounted the stairs without hesitation. After watching them both enter 221B through the front door, Holmes returned to his chair by the fire with a feigned indifference, looking up as Mrs. Hudson ushered them into the room.

  “Mr. Sherlock Holmes?” the gentleman asked as he strode inside.

  Holmes inclined his head slightly.

  “You have the advantage of me.” Sherlock declared. “And you are?”

  “Sir Robert,” the man replied. “This is my wife. We require your immediate service for this is a matter of life and death.”

  Holmes gestured toward the chairs opposite him, as his interest sharpening by a degree.

  “You will forgive me, Sir Robert,” Sherlock explained, “If I believe that such phrases are often exaggerated and overused.”

  “I can assure you,” Sir Robert replied, with a stern tone, “This time it is not.”

  Holmes’s eyes flicked briefly to the lady. She had not spoken, yet there was something in her composure; an intelligence held tightly in check that caused him to adjust his assessment.

  “Very well,” Sherlock said. “Whose life hangs in the balance?”

  “That would be mine, Sir,” Sir Robert answered.

  Holmes’s expression did not change, but his gaze intensified.

  “How is your life in danger?” Sherlock inquired, “How imminent is the threat?”

  “The attack has already concluded,” Sir Robert continued, “I have been poisoned.”

  “Indeed,” Sherlock said, his mind racing, “How was this confirmed?”

  “My physicians have examined me thoroughly.” Sir Robert explained, “They agree upon the conclusion but cannot identify the substance responsible. It is neither a common toxin nor any venom known to them. The symptoms are progressing steadily, and I have been informed that I shall be dead within seventy-two hours.”

  Silence followed.

  Holmes leaned back slowly, fingers steepled.

  “And the police?” Sherlock asked.

  “The police only react after the fact,” Sir Robert replied, “As far as they’re concerned, there has been no crime committed as of yet. One cannot be arrested for murder before the murder in question is complete. Especially when the victim still walks and speaks.”

  Holmes’s lips curved faintly.

  “An attempted murder, then?” Sherlock suggested.

  “Not quite,” Sir Robert corrected him. “A successful one merely delayed.”

  The lady spoke for the first time, her voice calm and resonant.

  “We have consulted three specialists.” She called out, “Each confirms the same prognosis. His pulse weakens by degrees. His extremities go numb. There is a discoloration along the veins of his left arm. Whatever was administered was done with precision.”

  Holmes rose to his feet, as he could feel his own pressure rising.

  “When were you poisoned?” Sherlock demanded.

  “About two days ago,” Sir Robert replied. “At a private dinner.”

  “And you have no suspicion?” Sherlock asked.

  Sir Robert hesitated for a moment to compose himself.

  “Several,” Sir Robert replied, “Which is only increases our difficulty. There are too many suspects to check on and so little time to do so.”

  Holmes began to pace the room. This was not in agitation, but in calculation.

  “A toxin unknown to medical authorities,” Sherlock murmured. “Administered discreetly, with a delayed lethality, and no obvious delivery mechanism. Not only that, but the victim is sufficiently aware to seek intervention before entering the terminal stage.”

  Holmes stopped abruptly before them.

  “This is no trivial domestic inconvenience,” Sherlock said softly.

  “No Sir,” Sir Robert agreed. “This is murder in progress.”

  “A murder most foul,” Sherlock concurred, with eyes gleaming.

  “Is there any other kind?” Sir Robert’s wife asked.

  “There is not,” Sherlock answered, and then he turned to face the victim of this heinous crime. “You understand, of course that if I accept this case I will have more than one objective. I will not merely identify your assailant, but I aim to also prevent your death.”

  Sir Robert gave the faintest smile.

  “That is precisely why we have come.” Sir Robert declared.

  Holmes extended his hand.

  “Then you have found your man,” Sherlock declared, “I shall take this case!”

  As Sir Robert rose to take it, Holmes added, almost casually:

  “Your full name, if you please?” Sherlock inquired.

  There was the briefest pause, so slight that only one accustomed to watching for hesitation would have noticed.

  “Sir Robert Adler.” The man replied.

  Holmes’s hand stilled mid-gesture.

  “And allow me to introduce my dear wife,” he continued evenly, “Lady Irene Adler.”

  The name settled into the room like a struck chord.

  Holmes did not outwardly react, but something behind his eyes shifted, sharpened, and awakened. For the first time that day, Holmes felt the presence of a true puzzle. Before the pause became too awkward, Holmes grabbed the Lady’s hand and made a slight bow.

  “A pleasure to meet you, Lady Adler,” Sherlock said to her.

  “I can assure you, Master Holmes” Lady Adler replied, “The pleasure is all mine.”