The Visit

by Daniel A. Antidormi

As was my habit since my retirement from the practice of medicine, I would often visit at the old rooms I had shared with Sherlock Holmes at 221b Baker Street. Holmes still retained the same rooms. Indeed, he commanded the entire first floor. This was due to the growth of his consulting detective agency. His now thriving agency was staffed by no less than four full time operatives and a secretary. Holmes still oversaw each case to its conclusion. He used his operatives to do most or all of the basic "legwork," so as not to burden himself. On rare occasions Holmes would undertake a special investigation solely on his own. He often would lament to me the lack of cunning of the current class of criminals.

Mrs. Hudson, the landlady of 221b, still had her quarters on the entrance floor on Baker Street. Stopping in and spending a few pleasant moments with her, I proceeded up the stairs toward the rooms I had shared with Holmes.

I had just raised my hand to knock on the door. But before I had a chance, I heard Holmes calling out for me to enter. I considered asking him how he knew it was me. But on second thought I was not looking forward to one of Holmes' tirades on deductive reasoning. So I went no further. The rooms I had shared with Holmes were basically unchanged. With one quite apparent exception, the room was a mess. I entered slowly and looked about the room. Holmes was reclining upon the sofa. The newspaper he had been reading slipped to the floor. He made no effort to retrieve it. Indeed, he barely stirred at all.

"Ah, Watson, be a good fellow and lend me a hand to get up, he said as he stretched out his arm. I managed to pick my way through the rubble and extend my hand toward Holmes. I felt his long fingers grasp at my wrist. I gave a pull and with some effort on both our parts Holmes managed to get seated upright. I glanced about the room in awe. Every table was filled with beakers and flasks, filled with chemicals of various colors and odors. Stacks of newspapers and magazines occupied the floor, which made it hazardous to move about. Holmes seemed in fear of discarding anything which he thought may be of some use in his numerous investigations. His added years had not altered his Bohemian lifestyle one bit. I dared not move for fear of setting off a chain reaction of newspapers collapsing down like an avalanche. I pictured tomorrow's headlines:

"Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John H. Watson killed in avalanche of rubbish. Bodies not recovered. Scotland Yard doubtful any foul play involved."

Holmes, stretching out his long legs, brought my thoughts back to the present. Still not moving from where I stood, I looked down at Holmes.

"Are you alright?" I asked.

"I fear I have become the laziest of fellows, Watson. My bones grow stiff from lack of exercise and use." Again I let my eyes glance about the room. I could not let this opportunity pass. Before I was fully aware of it, I was berating Holmes.

"Holmes you can get more than enough exercise by cleaning this mess. Before the Fire Wardens have to condemn this entire section of London." Holmes was not pleased with my scolding, as the expression on his face showed. I had only repeated to Holmes what I had been telling him for years, to clean up the chaos which now filled his rooms. Holmes' face relaxed a bit; with one eye arched, he began his rebuttal.

"Watson you must remember that everything here is in some way helpful in my profession. I would dare say that a few criminals would be free if it were not for my constantly adding to my archives. Remember, Watson, if a tree is pruned too much it will fail to bear fruit."

Then, seeming satisfied, he leaned back and allowed his arched eyebrow to relax. I, still in the same position, however, did not retreat.

"Really Holmes, there is, I realize, information you deem important. But there is no need to save an entire newspaper when in fact you are only interested in a 5-word item in the agony column. Truly, Holmes, this has gone too far. I must insist if you wish me to continue my visits at least make an attempt to clean up the room."

Holmes remained silent. He then in a moment managed to rise from the couch and pass me without anything crashing down. He reached up to the mantle where he kept his pipes. He at first began to reach for that smelly old clay pipe. Then, turning about to look over his shoulder, he looked at me. He smiled and reached for the long stem cherry wood. I now gingerly moved and took the vacant seat on the couch. Holmes reached down for the Persian slipper that held his tobacco. I saw Holmes give a little jump and replace the slipper. I could make out a slight flush appear on his face. I was soon to discover the reason why. I stared in amazement as a mouse scurried from inside the Persian slipper and raced across the floor. It disappeared amongst the many stacks of newspapers. My mouth hung open, but I soon found my voice.

"I believe, Holmes, my point is well made."

Holmes had now retrieved the slipper and was in the process of filling his pipe. I heard him clear his throat as he looked toward me.

"He usually lives in the basement, once or twice a week he pays me a visit. I allow him his freedom and he allows me my organized mess. All in all he is less annoying than the last person with whom I shared these rooms." I now felt myself becoming flush with anger.

"If my presence annoys you, then I assure you I will no longer visit you," I said loudly. Holmes was somewhat surprised by my response. His face clearly showed he had underestimated my reaction. Holmes now tried to undo the damage to my feelings.

"Poor Watson, there is no greater wound than to one's pride. For that I apologize, most humbly. You are correct; I should clean up a bit. I really must catalogue my information." Accepting Holmes' apology, I thought to offer my help, or he would give up after the first avalanche occurred. But before I allowed myself to get wrapped up in the task before us, a thought came to me.

"Holmes, why don't I go and borrow Mrs. Hudson's cat? I am sure it will soon rid you of mice." Striking a match to his pipe, then holding the pipe clenched in his mouth, he answered.

"I fear Mrs. Hudson's cat is amongst the missing, completely vanished. No great loss I think. I disliked the ugly beast always sneaking about." I can recall Holmes would "shoo" it away whenever it attempted to come into our rooms. I stayed with Holmes for most of the day, tying up bundles of newspapers after Holmes had removed whatever information he thought useful, then dragging the bundles of newspapers and magazines out to the landing. Evening was now approaching, so I thought it best to bid Holmes my farewell and set off for my home. I did not return to Baker Street for almost a week's time. Then, one day finding myself only one street away, I decided to call on Holmes again. First, as usual, a brief visit with Mrs. Hudson, then I climbed the old familiar 17 steps. I did not know what I would find behind the door. I was about to knock when I was greeted by Holmes' voice calling out for me to enter. I opened the door and, as I stepped into the room, there before my eyes were the old Baker Street rooms I so fondly remembered. Except now it was neat and clean as it was when first we shared these rooms. Every bit of trash, ashes, broken chemical flasks and vials had been carted away. Holmes' correspondence still was held in place by the same old thin bladed knife. Cigars in the coal scuttle, his violin leaning against the wall, Irene Adler's photograph hung still by the fireplace. Some things never change. I pray they never do. Holmes was seated in his favorite chair beside the fireplace. His long legs were stretched out before him. He still wore that old moth eaten mauve colored robe. I looked at Holmes and said, "Holmes I am stunned, this is magnificent."

A small grin appeared on Holmes' face and his eyes took on a twinkle. Still without attempting to rise, Holmes nodded his head in a mock bow.

"Thank you Watson, thank you. I was even able to locate Mrs. Hudson's cat."

"Why Holmes, she must be very pleased. But she did not mention it to me when I stopped in on her."

"I can understand her not tell you of my discovery. I do not believe she was as pleased as you might expect. You see old fellow, her cat was quite dead." I was about to speak, but Holmes raised his hand towards me to remain silent. He then continued.

"It seems, Watson, the cat somehow found its way in here. It must have managed to topple a stack or two of books and newspapers on itself. Strange when you think of the time and effort the ancient Egyptians spent trying to mummify and preserve their dead with herbs and spice. Mrs. Hudson's cat achieved the same results with the London Times.

"Holmes, I swear at times you can be absolutely ghoulish." My response did not make any impression on Holmes. He now placed his hands behind his head and leaned further back in his chair.

"Bah, I never liked the filthy brute, always creeping about. I barely tolerated it when it was alive. I certainly will not miss it now."

"But Holmes the cat was only going about doing what any good cat was meant to do. Catch mice." I said.

"Well Watson it mustn't have been a good cat." He answered. "For if you will look to the fire irons you will see my mouse. Who by the looks of himself seems quite secure." I turned my head in the direction of the fire irons. There, looking directly at me, was a small gray mouse. I assumed Holmes was not pulling my leg and it was the same mouse I saw a week ago.

"Your mouse?" I shouted. "Really, Holmes, this is to much. Next you will be making a bed for it. Why, you may possibly get on a first name basis with it. A mouse, indeed." Holmes leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees.

"As for its bed." He began." I am quite certain it has one far more comfortable than any I could make. And if you must know, Watson, I call him John."

I felt my mouth drop open and in an instant the blood rush to my face.

"Holmes this is an insult." I managed to stammer out.

"The mouse doesn't seem to mind." Holmes said casually.

"John?" I yelled.

"Watson, it is a most common name, is it not? Really, if you think about it you will agree that in every home there is likely to be a John somewhere."

"Well I suppose you are right, common enough." I replied. The red from my cheeks however remained for quite awhile.


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