The Case of the Missing Watson

Chapter One: Enter Lestrade of Scotland Yard

It was a dreary November when the case in question took place. Outside the wind was howling and the fallen leaves danced along with it. Upon the street, people were rushing home, the evening creeping upon them as the sun descended in the sky. I was watching the last of the stragglers turn the corner before hearing a soft sigh behind me. I turned to the source of the noise, curious as to why such a sound should be made.

Sherlock Holmes was seated in his chair, smoking his pipe and staring off into the distance. His lithe form was lax in the chair, head cocked to one side in a bored expression. Smoke curled from his pipe and weaved above him, creating a blue halo around his head. I watched him, waiting patiently for a sudden cry to escape him or another deep sigh.

The latter took place and he spoke in his factual tone, “… Watson…”

I now focused all my attention on him, “Yes?”

“Autumn is a time for little detective work.” He stated.

I finally realized why he was in such a glum mood, “I would suppose so…”

“These are the times,” he continued, “In which the cocaine bottle is not enough…” he took a long drag out of his pipe.

I felt a twinge of annoyance at his words; I truly disliked his habit of injecting his system with the drug in order to escape the dreariness of a sedentary life. Still, even with my discouragement against it, he still continues the nasty habit. With my own sigh, I sit in my chair and pull out a cigarette. I am quick to light it and stare expectantly at my friend to continue. He does not, rather, he merely pulls at his pipe some more and entering a realm of thoughts I would never be able to comprehend. The night begins to descend on Baker Street, a darkness cloaking the surrounding area. The minutes pass between us, neither bringing forth a lively conversation from the other. However, our silence is soon disturbed as the sound of wheels crunching on gravel sound from the outside. Sherlock glanced out the window, grey eyes misted over with boredom. Yet, as his eyes locked on the person exiting the cab, a sudden fire burned within them I know all too well. He is quick to set down his pipe and turn to the door.

“It seems we have a late night visitor, Watson.” He says, a faint smile playing on his lips.

I do not reply, but turn to the door as well. It is not uncommon for the great detective Sherlock Holmes to be visited at these late hours by clients wishing for his advice. I hear the thick sound of boots hitting wood and then a confident knock sounds on the door.

Holmes sits up and calls, “Come in, Lestrade.”

The door opens and in enters Lestrade of Scotland Yard. The detective gave his greeting before, under the request of Holmes, sitting on the couch and heaving a heavy sigh. Sherlock offered him a cigarette before casting an expectant look of the other known detective.

“Something on your mind, Lestrade?” Holmes asked.

Lestrade took a deep drag out of the cigarette, glancing my companion’s way, “… Yes… Mind boggling of a case I’ve got, Mr. Holmes.” He set the cigarette down and continued, “… Not much evidence with ulterior motives and the disappearance of several men…”

Sherlock leaned back into his chair, aligning the tips of his fingers with one another and closing his sparkling eyes from us, “Pray do tell.”

“… There’s been a series of missing persons here in London for the past few months… I am sure you are aware of them, seeing as the papers have been littered by them…”

Sherlock nodded, “Thirty-four so far.”

“Well, a missing person is a serious predicament, but then a pattern started to form. Each of the missing were men, no younger then twenty nor older then forty. They are of slim build, maybe a little thicker then Watson...” Lestrade turned his gaze to me and nodded with approval, “Yes… Just a little thicker…”

Sherlock too had opened his eyes and examined me. I felt myself flush as he leaned forward and let his eyes run down me and flash with a fire that I’ve never been encountered with. He did not falter in his stare; rather, it intensified as I squirmed in my seat. Lestrade continued his narrative, oblivious at the sudden air of awkwardness that had settled between my companion and me.

“… Their status in society does not matter, we’ve had noblemen to humble farm boys go missing. However, all are bachelors. The most bizarre part is that that is the only pattern to be drawn. The men have gone missing at different times on different days, never constant. We’ve gone months with no one missing, but then weeks with more than four people gone in two days… We cannot stop them, since their selection is so random…” Lestrade reached for his cigarette and took a deep drag out of it, trying his best to calm his frazzled nerves.

“No… Not random…” Holmes said pensively, directing his stare once more on me, “Controlled…”

Lestrade groaned, “And it is only made worse by the bodies we found this week…”

Holmes broke his stare and sat up, gaze turning quickly to the other detective, “Bodies?”

Lestrade nodded, “Yes. We found six of the thirty-four missing men dead. Their bodies were scattered all across London down to Kensington… I’ve been assigned the case but have no lead towards the killer or any of the other missing persons…”

“No tracks? Clothing left behind? Did they die there or was the body placed there after their death?”

Lestrade shook his head, “There were no signs of blood or a struggle, thus the bodies were placed there after their death… No footprints were found so it was not carried there…”

“A cab?” Sherlock inquired.

“… It may be possible… But, the tracks themselves are vague… Further examination must be made…”

A soft flush was now upon Sherlock’s cheeks. His eyes sparkled with interest and I knew what was to come next. With a faint smile playing on his lips he finally leaned back into his chair and allowed his thinking process to take place.

“Lestrade… If you do not mind, I would like to investigate this case.” He said.

Lestrade sat up straighter in his seat, a sudden hope infecting him, “That is a relief, Holmes! If anyone is to solve this, it is you!” he gave a sigh of relief and quickly pulled out several files, each containing information on the six dead men and the other missing men.

Sherlock took the reports and glanced over them. He then sighed and took a long, thoughtful drag from his pipe. I scribbled in my notebook, head hunched over. Lestrade leaned in eagerly, waiting for any new instructions. Slowly, Sherlock removed the pipe from his mouth and said.

“… Return to Scotland Yard, Lestrade… You can continue investigating while I do my own searches…”

Lestrade stood, “Very well then.” He gave each of us a curt nod, “I will be speaking to you soon.” He then turned and left our rooms at Baker Street.

Not until Holmes heard the distant clump of horseshoes against gravel did he suddenly stand and walk towards me. I myself did not notice his sudden presence until I caught sight of his dark shadow advancing over me and blocking what little light I was using to take notes. I glanced up, questioning whatever it was he was doing. He did not reply to my gaze. Instead, he just stared down with a burning intensity. Never had I been subjected to such increased amounts of attentions from the detective. Yes, I had fantasized about him giving my great amounts of praise and exclaiming that my presence at his side was greatly needed in the most mysterious of cases, but they were only fantasies. This behavior was completely out of the norm. Several minutes passed before his gaze suddenly broke.

“… Watson…” he said.

“Yes, Holmes?” I replied.

“Stand.”

I hesitated, puzzled by the order. Still, I did as I was told, Holmes moving out of the way so I could perform the task with ease. He motioned me to the middle of the room, the light of the fire and lamps hitting my form. Holmes then stood back, examining me with a detective’s eye. He circled around me, muttering softly under his breath and nodding at whatever was going through his mind. He then turned and began to rifle through Lestrade’s reports, pulling out the most recent ones. He then opened the door to our rooms and called out.

“Mrs. Hudson!”

Our landlady was quick to respond by hurrying up the stairs and meeting Holmes. My companion was quick to give his order.

“Do you by chance have a measuring tape, Mrs. Hudson?”

Our landlady pondered the strange question, “… I do, Mr. Holmes… But why would you…?”

Holmes waved away the question, “There’s no need for questions, Mrs. Hudson. Would you mind if I was to borrow it?”

She smiled, “Not at all.” She then proceeded back downstairs. Holmes waited for her return, and when she did, he took the tape and reentered the room.

I must have looked quiet confused by this for he chuckled and replied, “Do not worry, my dear Watson, all will be revealed soon enough.” He stepped closer and laid his hand on my waist. I jumped, giving him a sharp glare. He grinned wolfishly and replied, “Now, now, Watson. No violence.” With that, he let his hand move around my waist, the measuring tape travelling behind it.

I watched with curious eyes as he wrapped the tape around me, kneeling to get a precise measure. His hands slipped underneath my coat, brushing against the thin layer of my shirt. I could not help but suck in my stomach at his cold touch and he hissed in discontent, tugging at the tape and looking up at me with a most sever frown. I inwardly winced but gave him a questioning look. With a huff, he ducked his head and patted my stomach.

“Relax, Watson…” he said, pulling the tape around me again, “I need these measurements to be as accurate as possible... Ah, that’s a good man!” He did not look up at me at this, but continued measuring, “… Hm… Twenty-nine and a quarter inch…” he got up and wrapped the tape around my chest, “Thirty three…” he then measured my arms and legs, noting all my measurements and growing more and more excited at each one.

I cleared my throat and spoke, “Holmes, what is this all for-,”

Holmes gave me an impatient wave, hurrying off to his desk. He snatched up Lestrade’s records and flipped through them, pulling out several sheets of paper. He scribbled something down before returning to me, questions clearly surfacing to his lips.

“Watson, you are single, correct?” he asked, pen poised over his notes.

I could not help but touch the black mourning band around my arm, “Yes, but still devoted to my late Mary…”

He wrote a single word down, which I was sure, was ‘widowed’. However, he did not seem to care much for my curiosity and continued his strange interview.

“How old are you, Watson?”

I gave him an incredulous look, “Holmes, you know that-,”

“I need to make sure my information is correct, doctor.” He explained.

I huffed and replied, “Five and thirty years, why-,”

He interrupted and asked, “You would say you’re a habitual man, yes?” he read his notes quickly before staring at me impatiently for an answer.

I nodded, “Yes, I am… You know this-,”

“Please describe your day on a daily basis. Hours would be nice, as well as details, no matter how trifle they may be.”

I sighed and said, “My mornings consist of eating breakfast and sitting by the fire to read. By one o’clock I leave to take care of any business or just to stroll down the streets if the weather should suffice. On my way back, usually around three, I pick up trifle objects like a medical brochure or candy. When I return home and nothing comes up, such as your cases, it is by seven that I am out again to eat dinner at my club. I do not return till ten, but no later. I then turn in for the night.” I shrugged at the end.

Holmes wrote down an extensive paragraph of thoughts and then turned back to me, “You’re social life consists of…?”

I pondered the question before replying, “It is a healthy life. I have some friends, enough for company but not too many to give me the title of high sociable. I am usually with a friend, only alone when waiting or needing to relieve stress…” I gave him a look at this and continued, “I keep my friends close and don’t lose touch with them for extensive periods of time…” ‘Unless they fake their death for three years…’ I snarled to myself, “That is all…”

Holmes raised an eyebrow, “What of your sexual life?”

I flushed at this and growled, “Surely you do not expect me to-,”

Holmes countered, “Watson, you must answer me completely and honestly! Men’s lives can be at stake!”

I inhaled and exhaled slowly, my frenzied nerves calming but having an edgy buzz every now and then. I thought of the question, sorting through to find the most informative, but still vague answer. I did not wish to reveal my nightly routine of fantasies and lonely pleasure routines. I did not wish to speak of the person I thought of or the reason why I was not seeking another woman. I could feel Holmes watching me intently, inspecting for any false response.

I opened my mouth to then speak and he hissed in warning, “Completely and honestly, Watson…”

I snorted, “Very well then… Since the death of my late wife, I have not sought a relationship with other women. I do not plan to anytime soon… As to say, my sex life is completely barren and lonely at the moment.”

Holmes nodded, glancing back at his notes and writing once more. He then spoke, “Please let me run this by you to see if I am correct. You’re name is Dr. John H. Watson. You are a medical man who receives a good pay. You are five and thirty years with a built body of a soldier. You are a habitual man, staying at home for hours on end, strolling from one to three; but whenever the chance arises, you enjoy eating out at clubs. Your nightly pleasures reside in the time frame of seven to ten, no later. You are a social man, sticking to close friends and rarely seeking new ones. You have no true sex life…” I inwardly winced at this, “And keep your time scheduled accordingly as such.”

I sighed and nodded, “This is true.”

Holmes gave a cry of joy, “Then the investigation can commence! Watson, congratulations, you are now the bait to catch the perpetrators of these kidnappings and murders!”

I stopped and yelped, “What?!”