The Dreadful Business of the Abernetty Family

Chapter Three

Sherlock Holmes was only at the docks for three-quarters of an hour, but the cab ride took nearly that long to reach the dock and from there on to the British Museum.  As he rode, Holmes sat, slouched in the corner of the Hansom seat, eyes closed.  The sounds and smells of the city drifted out of his consciousness, and he focused on what he knew.

It was times like this Holmes felt his most vulnerable.  A strong, athletic man skilled in some martial arts, Holmes was capable in a fight, but in this state he was all but helpless.  It was one more reason he liked to have the stout, broad shouldered Watson with him to keep an eye out.  One of the greatest drawbacks to being a detective and studying crime to the degree and detail that a man such as Holmes had was that he was all too keenly aware of the dangers about him even on a busy, seemingly safe street in the heart of London.

Indeed, over his career of just under eight years, Holmes had made more than a few enemies in England's criminal classes, one especially sinister one in particular.  He had never spoken to Watson about Moriarty, not to anyone.  He had not even whispered the name; he was not even sure the man existed.  But after careful reasoning and deductive analysis, he had reduced all possibilities down to one: there must be such a man, somewhere.  And Sherlock Holmes knew he was in that man's crosshairs.

Still, he slipped into an almost trance-like state, trusting percentages and what Holmes considered London's well-meaning, if often sloppy police force.  What he knew of the case, he sifted through his mind, examining each minute clue, each fact, and each circumstance, to find what he could lock down as certainty, what he could discard as impossible, and what he could question as implausible.  Already he had an idea of what was taking place but Sherlock Holmes had pushed that into a part of his mind like a waiting room; unexamined, all but forgotten.  He had too little information to form any real theories as yet.

Almost enough, but there were a few peculiarities he needed to clear up.  He hoped Watson had found and spoken to the people necessary in the museum.  Watson's tendency to dramatize and sensationalize events in his books was regrettable in Sherlock's opinion, but the man had a keen sense of what needed to be learned and a strong memory for detail and statement. 

Sherlock smiled slightly.  Dr Watson was of course a minor thinker, like most of the world, but he had learned admirably over the years of their friendship, and was able to grasp the rudimentary concepts of deductive reasoning well enough to grasp the most obvious clues.  Out of friendship, he had omitted several clues and bits of information about their client -- friendship and a sense of drama.  The cuff of his sleeve, the small bits of fluff on his back, and the way the parsley settled on the butter all told him much, but it was not yet time to tell Watson about that.

Of all the things he did, Sherlock most delighted in surprising and amazing people.  The excitements of reasoning and coming to a final, inevitable, and accurate conclusion had faded not long after he had solved the mystery of the Musgrave Ritual.  But to use those skills to shock, to use disguises to fool others, that never lost its charm.  Sherlock mused that he would have enjoyed thievery, had his sense of honor and virtue abandoned him.  The extreme unlikelihood of ever being caught would dull the edge, Sherlock admitted to himself.  No challenge.

The Hansom Cab pulled up to the British Museum with swaying leaf springs and Holmes hopped out.  He reached into his coat for his billfold, and the cabbie stopped him.

"Lord, no, sir, there'll be no need for pay.  Its I that owe you.  You'll not recognize me, but it was my brother you saved from certain doom some years back, and I will accept no money from you.  Your money is no good with this cab, Mister Sherlock Holmes.  And many others, besides."

Sherlock nodded and thanked the man.  He wasn't sure what case it was the man had been involved in, nor was he particularly curious.  Since 1880, Sherlock had solved hundreds of cases not mentioned or documented by Watson, most without leaving his apartment.  Almost all the cases he would run into were dreadfully boring and simple; a few questions and a solution, the petitioner ushered out the door bewildered and often heartbroken.