John Adams - The Improbable Adventures of Sherlock Holmes

Bradley H. Sinor's latest short story collection, Echoes from the Darkness, which he describes as "Urban Noir Fantasy," is just out from Arctic Wolf Publishing. He has new stories forthcoming in the anthologies Shelter of Daylight, Grantville Gazette V, and Space Grunts (co-written with his wife, Sue). In all, he has published more than seventy short stories in the science fiction, fantasy, horror, and mystery fields. He is also the author of more than two hundred and fifty articles appearing in magazines, newspapers, and essay anthologies.

"There but for the grace of God go I," said John Bradford, in humble acknowledgment of the role of chance and circumstance in human affairs. We can't help thinking about how things could have been different. If you hadn't gone to that party, you wouldn't have met your spouse. If you hadn't left your house at that exact moment, you wouldn't have been in that accident. It can get pretty mind-boggling to consider how many things had to happen exactly the way they did since the beginning of the universe in order for you to have been born at all. Science fiction has a long tradition of exploring the notion of alternate worlds, especially since the many-worlds interpretation of quantum mechanics suggested that any universe that can exist does exist, somewhere. If we were to shuffle through our possible lives as we shuffle the cards of a deck, we would see lovers become strangers, strangers become lovers, children vanish and other children take their place. We would see houses, apartments, cars, pets flicker by in endless permutations. We would see good men turned vile, and wicked men become heroes. There but for the grace of God go I.

The weeks following the return of Sherlock Holmes, three years after his supposed death at the hands of Professor James Moriarty, the so-called Napoleon of Crime, were busy ones for my old friend.

There was, as might be expected, a steady stream of visitors who found their way to Baker Street, everyone from the dirtiest pickpocket to a messenger who took Holmes to a private meeting at Buckingham Palace.

I had also returned to Baker Street.

Not twenty-four hours after Colonel Sebastian Moran had been led away in chains by Inspector Lestrade, Holmes asked if I would agree to return to Baker Street. "It would be the best medicine in the world for you, Watson," he said over one of Mrs. Hudson's excellent dinners.

As I look back on that night I must admit that I was not all that difficult to convince. My darling Mary had been gone for nearly a year. Her weak heart had taken her only three days after our fifth wedding anniversary.

The end had come so swiftly that there had been nothing that all of my medical skill could have done to save her.

Even after so many months, there were moments when I caught myself turning to ask her something, or I would look up at a sound, expecting to see her stepping around a corner.

So Holmes's invitation was a most welcome one for me.

Of cases there were many: The Adventure of the Black Katana, The Quest for Pendragon's Son, and The Theft of Alharazad's Manuscript, to name just a few.

By the middle of October things had returned to as much of a semblance of normality as was anything around Sherlock Holmes.

The evening of the 13th I was alone in Baker Street. Holmes was dining with his brother, Mycroft, and I did not expect his return for many hours.

I had declined the invitation to join them. I had no doubt that I would hear the details from Holmes, especially of the "favor" that he would no doubt be asked to perform by the man whom he had once described as, at times, "being the British Government."

Beside my favorite chair that evening stood a stack of medical journals, a stack that I had to admit was far too high. This past year I had sadly neglected to keep up on the literature of my profession, and it was something that I meant to correct.

The mantle clock had just tolled ten when I heard a furious pounding on the downstairs door. Moments later the familiar footsteps of Mrs. Hudson could be heard rushing to answer the summons.

The young man behind Mrs. Hudson looked vaguely familiar, in that way that so many people resemble others. He was bundled tightly against the night's chill.

"Sir, I am sorry to disturb you, but the young man says that it's an emergency," Mrs. Hudson said.

"I am afraid that Holmes has not returned, but if there is anything that I can do-"

Before I could say more, the young man cut me off with a wave.

"Sir, it wasn't Mr. Holmes that I come to fetch, but yourself. There's been an accident."

"Accident? Where?" I said, sitting bolt up.

"Three streets over," he said. "Mr. Delvechio's warehouse. It was himself Mr. Hobbs who came falling off that old balcony. I couldn't tell if he was breathing or not."

Mrs. Hudson already had my bag ready. The fog that had rolled in at sunset was heavier than I had seen it in years, enshrouding the streets like a thick blanket. A half-dozen steps from the door and Baker Street was gone from sight.

"Colder than I thought it would be," I said, pausing to pull up the collar on my coat.

"Aye, sir."

"What's your name, son?"

"Arthur, sir. Arthur Pym. I'm the new accounting clerk for Mr. Delvechio. Only been there about a half year."

It was scarcely five minutes before Pym was leading me to a side door marked DELVECHIO AND SONS, IMPORTERS.

He had to pound for several minutes before anyone came to admit us. "We got no time for-"

The door was opened by a massive man with small square-shaped glasses hanging on the end of his nose. "Oh, it's you."

"Aye, Mr. Harris. I done brought the doctor. Watson's his name."

"Don't matter what his name is. Could've saved yourself a trip. If that fall did'na kill him he'll be dead soon, after doing a header into that pile of Italian mirrors."

Not since the battlefields of Afghanistan had I seen a body covered with that much blood. Around me were hundreds, if not thousands, of shards of glass. In each one there seemed to be another me, angled and bent and torn into a million different shapes. The unfortunate Mr. Hobbs lay in the center of this display, any hope that he might still be alive ended when I found the shard of glass embedded in his jugular.

Once the police had arrived and taken statements, confirming the story of Hobbs 's fall, I volunteered to remain until the body was removed. The constable said it would not be necessary, but that I should come to the local station house tomorrow to make a statement.

"Are you certain you don't want me to come with you, Doctor Watson?"

"Thank you, Arthur, but it is only a few blocks. Even in this mist I can find my way to 221B with no problem."

"You have a good night then, sir," said the constable as he opened the door.

I picked my way through the fog carefully. The occasional glow of a streetlamp gave a safe haven of scant few feet in the mist. I had to stop several times, unsure of my direction.

Standing there in the mist a feeling of nausea came crashing over me and I had to fight for each breath. My head seemed about to burst with wave after wave of pain. I had to struggle to keep from losing myself in the pain. For that instant I could have been anywhere: Delvechio's Warehouse, darkest Africa, or the cold wastes of the South Pole.

Then, just as quickly as it came, the feeling passed, leaving only a dull ache in the pit of my stomach in its wake. I pulled myself together and began to pick my way once again toward Baker Street.

When I finally reached that familiar door I felt as if I had just run ten miles with full military field pack, uphill. A good stiff shot of whiskey and my own bed were the best prescriptions I could think of right then.