Chapter 2
Eight Years Later: December 1886
Doctor John Watson had accepted long ago that his dear friend Sherlock Holmes was destined to remain an enigma to him. Despite living with him for several years, counting him as his only friend in the world, and knowing the reverse was certainly true for Holmes as well, there were still large parts of the man's life which he had never deigned to share.
Such was the case when the doorbell rang early one morning at the flat in which Watson had been living with his newly pregnant wife for only a few weeks.
"Watson, we have a case," was Holmes' attempt at a greeting.
"Good morning, Sherlock," Mary called from the dining room where their housemaid had just laid out breakfast.
Sherlock waved vaguely in her direction, before turning to John, eyes wide. "So, ready?" He asked.
"Can I just grab a quick bite?"
"No." Sherlock said while grabbing John's coat and man-handling out the door to where the hansom cab was waiting.
Once settled in the carriage, John waited a moment for an explanation. When one was clearly not forthcoming, John sighed, then asked.
"So, what's so important you have me halfway out the door at half seven in the morning?"
Sherlock looked at him blankly for a moment. "I already told you, we have a case."
"Any details?"
"None."
"So why are you in such a dreadful rush?"
Sherlock smiled with closed lips. Watson couldn't be certain, but there was something different in his expression, something he'd never seen before. It was almost wistful.
Whatever this case was, Watson knew there would be more going on than a mere corpse and a question of whodunit.
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Eight Years Earlier: February 1878
The truth of the matter was, the last time Sherlock Holmes had been so intrigued was over eight years ago – but then it wasn't a case that piqued his interest, it was a woman. And what intrigued him so much was that she was a woman, dressed as a young man, intently studying a crime scene.
Although he was pleased that he had deduced her gender beneath a very impressive disguise, there was so much about her which remained mysterious. So intrigued was he that he decided, for the first time in months, to forego his opium dose the next morning in order to maintain the mental acuity necessary to analyse all of the available facts.
Sherlock lay on the couch in his cramped Montague Street flat, staring at the ceiling, willing himself to recall every detail of the night before. However, without the effects of opium to calm his crowded mind, his thoughts tended towards chaotic impressions rather than clear recreations of memories.
He stood, pacing as much as he could in a room he could almost touch both walls of at the same time. If he was going to solve this puzzle, he would need to focus. Running his hands roughly through his hair, he tried to recall any and every memory stratagem he had read about – and one particular technique struck him as worth a try.
Ancient Romans would recall facts by tying them to physical locations in their memory. If he could do the same, maybe he would be able to create enough space to focus on the task at hand.
Sherlock lay back down on the couch. Closing his eyes, he pictured his parents' cottage in the Cotswolds. He imagined himself walking through each room – but instead of furniture, each room was filled with whatever random thought was cluttering up his mind.
In the boot room, he placed all of the hypothesis and theorems he had hoped to test in his doctoral work. No need for them right now. In the kitchen, the heart of the home, he stored all impressions of childhood and memories of family members departed. He couldn't help placing a special blanket for Redbeard to rest on under the table. In the lounge room, he deposited all knowledge about his recreational habits – seven percent solutions, where to acquire narcotics, and from whom, and how best to administer the dosages when he felt it was so required.
On and on he went, until it soon became clear that his parents' house wasn't large enough for such a process. Each room was overflowing. If he was going to continue to use this technique, a mind house wouldn't be large enough; He'd need a mind palace.
Once everything was stored away, he felt calm for the first time in years, more relaxed than the dreamy-weightlessness of opium provided. He wondered if this was what peacefulness felt like.
But there was one more thing he needed to do. Closing his eyes, he imagined a new space, a small room, built on to the side of the house. She was there.
He stood next to her, staring at her with much more focus than he ever could have the night before. He could see wisps of auburn hair hidden away under a pageboy's cap. He watched her wide brown eyes, surveying the crime scene. He saw her lips, muttering something indistinguishable.
As much as he studied her, she remained as much of an enigma as she had the night before.
Certainly, she had some link to Hooper – that much was evident when he saw the sign on her townhouse. But to find out more, he needed more information.
Sherlock jumped up, grabbed his coat and his cap, and headed out without so much as a goodbye to Mrs Turner his landlady.
"When will you be back, Mr Holmes?" She called after him.
"When the mystery is solved!" He called over his shoulder.
He couldn't remember a time he'd ever been so excited about the prospect of getting to know another human being.