The Triumph of Watson

I. THE MYSTERY

"He cried out once more, but at that moment a stone hurtling from above smote heavily on his helm, and he fell with a crash and knew no more."

There was nothing quite like reaching the climax of my favorite book while sitting in my favorite chair during a typical cloudy day in London. I was at the best part of the story when I heard the door open, then close again. The familiar footsteps of my best friend, Sherlock Holmes, crossed the room, stopped in front of me, and continued to the other side of the room. He pulled the blinds down.

I thought nothing of it—he was probably going to be in his mind palace for the next hour or so. I reached and turned on the lamp beside me so I could see to read. Sherlock's footsteps crossed the room again and he promptly turned my lamp off.

Why couldn't he just let me read? I slammed my book closed and glared up at him. "What?" I demanded.

"What do you mean by this, John?" he asked.

"Mean by what?"

"Must I explain everything to you?" he asked, turning away and bringing the tips of his fingers together under his chin. "How," he said, "did you get here?" He gestured to my chair.

"Sherlock," I said. "I've been sitting here, reading my book for at least—" I glanced at my watch— "an hour."

"Then explain," he spun around to face me, "how I was just talking to you outside."

What now? Sherlock was always getting into some sort of mysterious case. "You weren't. And if you were, it wasn't me."

"It was you. I saw you."

"No." I shook my head. "You didn't. You must have mistaken someone else for me."

"I did not," he said. He lifted his chin. "You are breathing vigorously as if you have been running, or if I may say it, you are scared, but you are trying to hide it from me and not doing a very good job." He lifted my hand by my wrist. "Your heart rate is abnormally fast. You have been running, to reach our flat ahead of me. And those water drops on your trousers. Puddles. On the street. Do not bother lying to me, John. I know it was you."

"Sherlock . . ." I laughed. "I spilled my glass of water. That's all that it is."

"Explain your abnormally fast heart rate and your breathing."

"The book, Sherlock," I said, holding it up. "It's the best part."

"I don't have time for fiction," he said, picking up my book, glancing at the title, and tossing it behind him.

"So," I said, crossing my right leg over my left. "What did the man outside say to you?"

"You tell me. What did you say?"

I decided just to play along. "Um . . . I told you about an upcoming murder, tonight, actually, that you will investigate."

He smiled. "Word for word, John."

Impossible. I'd meant that only as a joke. There was no way for me to actually . . . "Would you describe the person you were—" I cleared my throat— "speaking with?"

He started to pace back and forth. "He had exactly the same attire as you. I observed an identical stain on the underside of his left sleeve as to that one on yours."

I looked, and sure enough, there was a stain. From what, I didn't know.

"His voice was yours, his height, weight, shoe size, clothing size, cut on his right toe, everything."

"How did you know I have a cut on my right toe?"

"The peculiar way you turn your foot when you walk. You walk as though pained—slightly, but enough to vex you. The man had indentions—creases—vertical creases on the undersides of his forefingers running all the way down his palm which were no doubt from holding a book. Do you have a cold, John, or are you nervous?"

"Excuse me?"

"You cleared your throat."

I impulsively cleared my throat again. "Sorry."

Sherlock was silent for a moment. "How do you know there will be a murder tonight?" he finally asked.

"I don't."

He raised his eyebrows. "Then why did you tell me?"

I closed my eyes. "I meant that as a joke."

"On the street?"

"That wasn't me, Sherlock!"

"Then who was it?"

His sharp tone made me pause and just stare at him before answering. "I don't know. Now leave me alone."

Sherlock stormed out of the room. Far below, I heard the front door slam shut.

I sighed and crossed the room to pick up my book Sherlock had tossed onto the floor. He'd bent a few of the pages and now I'd have to find the place where I'd left off. I sat back down and soon became lost in the world of Middle-earth, fighting the Battle of the Five Armies along with Bilbo Baggins.