3.
“Tea will be fine, Mrs. Hudson. I did not see you this evening when I
arrived.” Watson lowered the evening news he was reading. He had been seated
there for the evening, and then came Sherlock into the parlor, followed by the
housekeeper. Mrs. Hudson offered some tea and scones, which were gladly
accepted by the doctor. She took the request and left the two gentlemen to
their talks.
Watson was dressed in the grey three-piece suit, and his bowler hat was
on the hat stand by the door. He had aged naturally with a slight paunch at the
waist, but his suit fitted him snugly. His hairline had receded, but his
fingers held the papers firm as if he were slicing the flesh with the scalpel
in surgery. He had grown a wad above his upper lip with the slight curl on the
ends to add to his country physician outlook. He had taken off his shoes, as in
previous habit, to wear the comfortable carpet slippers. He was seated in his
old seat with his legs crossed, facing the door.
Sherlock’s seat was by the fireplace and looked to the window, where his
hawklike eyes would scan the rooftops. Watson did wonder why they had curtains
there when they were hardly drawn except for that time when Sherlock was under
the impression that someone was going to blow his brain off with a bullet.
Since then, he had placed an upper-body mannequin there to be shot.
“Do tell me, Sherlock. I got your message and took the late afternoon
train here, and having read your weekly Demons of newspapers with the missing
sections, I presumed they were snipped off for your personal collection. Watson
saw the missing sections. Minuscule omissions that he put up with being the
friend to the sleuth despite past misgivings at work.
“I do have schedules, and tomorrow, I have got……" Sherlock had
stepped in from the bedroom and changed into his living robe and then chose to
light the pipe after he replaced the stale tobacco.
“I would not mind the smoke, but you could do it with the window
opened.” Watson expressed his view. He was not against pipe smoking; he does it
himself at times, but living in the countryside, he found the air there
breathable compared to London's smog.
Sherlock proceeded to the fireplace and tapped off the tobacco there. He
replaced the pipe onto the side table by his seat and took up the violin. He
was not an acclaimed violinist, but the shrills and screeches of the strings on
it gave him mind-paths to his thoughts. He also had the unlit lamp stand there
for his night reading.
“Oh, my dear. Surely you can play Auld Lang Syne?” Watson cut in when he
saw Sherlock raise the violin to the left shoulder. “Or a country lullaby like
A la Nanita Nana? I may think it is Christmas Eve, and I am doing the good deed
of being here like a new present.”
“Watson, I am asking you to join me one more time to…" Sherlock
lowered the violin. “Please shun the sarcastic remarks. I had my share of it
with Mycroft today.”
“Mycroft? What did you do?” Watson smiled. It was of recent weeks that
Sherlock was on a clashing attitude with Mycroft. Siblings they are, and with
many others, the love and care between them does lead to the occasional battle
of wits or, at times, rants on who is better.
“Did you or he get off the bedding on the wrong side this morning?”
Watson smiled. “I may know of you getting off yours well. You have a peculiar
habit of getting off the right side.”
“I do get off from that side for my preference to avoid staring at the
mirror placed on my left. Do you know the most ingrained appearance of ours
when we get up after a long sleep? I much preferred to be proper and refreshed
before I examined myself in the mirror.”
“Oh, bless me, Father. I did not know you are so vain in the morning.”
Watson laughed. “I do get up on the right side, for my bedding is by the wall,
and……. Why am I explaining to you this?”
“Elementary deductions on our habits, I will say.” Sherlock proceeded to
his seat. “As you prefer that seat and I here. We do not intermix our seating
positions.”
“Gracious me, I must be loony to have come here so often that you have
etched me as a regular," Watson sighed. “So, why am I here? Another spin
in adventure and perhaps to lose my life, or for worse, my patients who need my
care?”
“My dear Holmes, I am retired. I am past chasing out-of-this-world
dwellers and seeking treasures. I am contented…"“And you came when I sent
for you? You sat there for two hours till I arrived. "Sherlock cut in.
“You removed your shoes and placed them on the rack as you did when you were
staying here. You were relaxed when I came in. You showed no signs…"
“Holmes, I placed the shoes there because the rugs looked clean, and
Mrs. Hudson gets all clammy when she must pick up the ashes of your tobacco. I
was relaxed and fell asleep seated here; it is my old chair. And I came here
because I was in London to pick up supplies… for my patients too.” Watson
looked at Sherlock. “Shelly, you are getting…. Complacent if I may diagnose.”
Shelly was the nickname of Sherlock from Mycroft.
“And more to that, I came because Mrs. Hudson asked me to come up. I do
pay my share of the rent here. The……"“A convenient mode. I told Mrs.
Hudson to do it for me.” Sherlock took the credit from Mrs. Hudson. “She may be
a…" "So, she is now you, a part of the Baker’s Boys, or rather lady.”
Watson smiled.
"Boys, or rather, I will call you, darnedest of the males. Both of
you are the au pairs in this world." It was the fortunate timing of the
housekeeper, who had arrived with the tray of tea and scones. She had changed
from her formal attire of the dark suit and boots into the drab white frock and
apron with the deep pockets.
“Mrs. Hudson, you are a delightful sight.” Watson quipped up. “And thank
you for the tea.”
Watson took the tea offered and saw Sherlock had not moved from his seat
despite the cup of tea served onto his side table. It was typical behavior of
Sherlock when he was in sleuth mode.
Watson then decided on the matter, but Sherlock read his mind.
“An hour ago, the minister of the Exchequer country retreat was intruded
on, and the household with the guards was killed—all six of them in a ghastly
mode—but the personal assistant, Mindy Kewala, was not found. Perhaps kidnapped
or, at worse, killed somewhere else. They are still looking after her. Do you
know her?” Sherlock held the telegram he held.
“No, I do not know her. I may know her…" Watson fretted in his
seat. “For Pete’s sake, I do not know every other lady here in London.”
“Mindy Kewala is the niece of King Kewala of the Jahunder family, who
was from your old hunting ground and lately owned a huge business in the Dark
Continent."
“I was never there. And I am at the Afghanistan war, or rather the
Frontier War.” Watson felt the prickly pain on his wound on the leg. He was a
medical officer, but that involved excursions with the troops to the hills,
involvement in the skirmishes, and attending to the wounded before he was
wounded himself. His wound was bad, but as the surgeon, he could not treat
himself. His wound went from fatal to manifesting into a dangerous one. Since
his recovery, he has been walking with a limp.
“Sirs, Mr. Lestrade had just arrived. He asked…" Mrs. Hudson told
the two gentlemen.
“Oui, send Lestrade in. He is the shepherd for the missing sheep."
Watson mimicked the tone of the French. He saw the frown on Mrs. Hudson.
“Sorry, I have a gendarme recruit near my place. Pointy behavior with a
peculiar attitude for details.” Watson looked at Sherlock. “I am leaving now. I
am not locating any missing dame.”
“Six officers with a dozen household staff were killed in the foul
matter, and somehow Moriarty was involved.”
“And I am a physician and not a soothsayer. I would not know how to read
tea leaves or investigate glass orbs. Get real, Shelly. I am leaving. And
Moriarty does not interest me at all. He is your"
“Nemesis, my dear Watson, as indicated by my peers, but we are not. I am
his Achilles' heel to his actions.” Sherlock affirmed his privileged position.
“Or rather, Michael the angel towards that one named Lucifer the fallen."
“Biblical notations do not impress me anymore, Holmes. It does not tempt
me more than a regular appendicitis in my surgery chamber.” Watson shrugged his
shoulders. “I am..."
“Again?” Sherlock mocked the other. “One more thing, Watson. There are
other assassins involved here.”
John Watson, aka Doctor John Watson, was a trained killer with daggers,
though he had forfeited his skill to that of surgery.
“Shelly, I am not an assassin anymore. I have not tossed a dagger for
some years now. I do use them to remove bad organs. Why am I telling you all of
this?” Watson turned to remove his slippers. He was adamant about leaving then.
“Watson, do be good…" Mrs. Hudson was arranging the teapot when the
door was knocked. She smiled and proceeded to attend to the one knocking. She
admitted the one person she knew was at the door
.“Come in, Mycroft. I could smell you a mile away.” Mrs. Hudson smiled
at the one she considered her beau. The man rushed past her and into Sherlock’s
parlor. He removed his top hat and approached Sherlock.
“Shelly, we got another murder. Ah, tea being served. I would not mind
one.” Mycroft then helped himself to the tea on the side table. “The exchequer
minister was killed just now in his office chamber. He was with three guards,
but they still reached him. He was shot with an arrow. They may have got to
him, but we could not find the lady.”
“And I am leaving. Good night. The Holmes.” Watson took his coat and
walked to the door. Mycroft was still in his coat and holding the tea cup.
“What is with John? Is he still upset with you? A long vendetta there.”
Mycroft took another sip of the tea. “Lovely tea, Mrs. Hudson. Oh, I met
Lestrade downstairs. He seems to need the privy. One too many cups of tea, I
think.”
“Martha will suffice, Mycroft.” The lady smiled. “And no, I have not
served tea to the Inspector yet.”
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