Chapter 1 ― The Wanderings of James Moriarty (Part 1)

It was on an invigorating evening in the latter part of October that the maid brought in the mail. I was having tea with my wife Mary in our residence, which also served as my practice, on Shimogamo Boulevard. Between a bill and the latest medical association proceedings my eye fell upon a charming little envelope. It was from an admirer of the adventures of Sherlock Holmes.

I put my elbows on the table, rested my chin upon my palms, and sank into thought.

"A letter from a reader?" Mary asked.

I nodded. Already a year had passed since the cessation of the serial. Yet letters continued to pour in nearly every day from admirers.

"I suppose you're thinking of him again."

"No, not him."

"Nonsense. I know that face―it means that you are thinking of that man again."

To Mary Sherlock Holmes was always that man. For the last six months I had not heard her mention him under any other name.

"There's been another telegraph from that man."

"Is that man still lying about?"

"Are you going to visit that man again?"

There was always an inscrutable expression on her face when she said those words. It is a fact well-settled that there are few women in all of Sakyō Ward and Kamigyō Ward combined who can match my Mary's beauty, but nevertheless whenever the conversation turned to "that man" a faint shadow would came over her lovely features. This only drew out my wife's beauty even more, and I gazed at her fondly over the table as she frowned.

But it would not do to let her catch on to my perverse amusement. I feigned an immoderately exasperated look.

"He has me at my wits' end, that Holmes."

The most crucial thing was to make myself agreeable to Mary's present mood. In her estimation Sherlock Holmes was an element of danger, and the one most likely to dash our designs for the future to smithereens: a dark cloud upon the horizon; a smouldering spark of household discord; an omen of ill portent. I must admit that I also believed Mary's unwavering caution towards that threat to be not ill-founded.

"That man has not stirred from that pitiable state for a year already," said she, a furrow in her elegant brow. "Lately I have wondered whether he has any inclination to rise out of his slump at all! No, I suspect he enjoys his torpor."

"My dear, I cannot imagine that to be the case."

"This is why he is content to be such a slugabed: because you indulge him so. You must be firm with that man!"

"But Mary, you know how much we owe to him."

I placed the letter back in its envelope, stood up, and went to the window. Outside, carriages rattled up and down the dusty length of Shimogamo Boulevard. Across the road the evening sun hung low over Shimogamo Shrine. It was an out-of-the-way place to open an office, yet having been a humble army doctor relying solely upon the meagre pension provided by the service I could hardly have imagined that I would one day have the fortune of possessing an independent practice of my own.

Mary had come as a client four years ago, when Holmes and I shared lodging in the rooms at 221B, Teramachi Street. The full details of that case I have detailed in "The Sign of Four". At the end of it I proposed marriage to Miss Morstan, so it is not untrue to say that we owe our current matrimony to Holmes. Then again, it was also Holmes who nearly unmade it.

In the past year, Holmes' slump had brought a great many things nearly to ruin: my practice, my mental state, Mary's plans for the future. It is only natural that where once to Mary he had been the estimable "Mr. Holmes", he had become merely "Holmes", before plummeting in her eyes to "that man".

Mary stood and came to my side. "John," she said. "You are more than Sherlock Holmes' biographer. You can't let his slump keep you down forever."

"You are right, my dear..."

"You must look ahead, take a strides towards the future. Be brave, John."

And she planted a kiss upon my cheek.

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I was due that night to meet my colleagues from the medical association.

"Will you be meeting Mr. Thurston?"

"Yes, we'll be playing billiards at the club," I said, pausing at the door. "Go on to bed without me, I suspect we shall be out rather late."

Outside I secured a carriage on Shimogamo Boulevard. As it crossed over Aoi Bridge I saw the evening sun gleaming upon the water. Upon the evening-shaded banks people strolled to and fro, lost in thought. To the right I could see Mt. Daimonji, stained crimson by the setting sun.

At present Holmes in the throes of his slump was like a Robinson Crusoe, tossed upon the tempestuous waves of Kyoto in the present Victorian epoch. There was no doubt at all in my mind that he had quite wasted the day locked away in his quarters at 221B, Teramachi Street, lounging on his settee and lamenting the loss of his God-given talent, or else mentally dividing the world into that which is beneficial to the stomach and that which is not, letting his life pass idly by.

Not far from Kōjin Bridge I stopped at the club and left a message for Thurston before stepping back into the carriage and bidding the driver proceed down Kawaramachi Street. My destination was 221B, Teramachi Street―the lodgings and office of one Sherlock Holmes. I felt a twinge of regret about abandoning Thurston, but I was too much concerned about Holmes.

I had not seen his face since our falling out two weeks prior.

The carriage turned at last off Marutamachi Street into Teramachi Street. On both sides of the cobblestone street were shops and tobacconists and venerable confectionaries. The sight of the old street brought back memories of ten years prior, when I had lived with Sherlock Holmes. The carriage stopped before 221B, Teramachi Street. I rang the bell, and Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, ushered me into the hallway.

"How is he?" I inquired.

"Thank God you've come, Dr. Watson," said she, with an air of relief. "He's been shut up in his room for days. He won't open his curtains, and hardly touches his food. 'I'm of no use to anyone; retirement is all that is left for me,' says he."

"His usual fare."

"I'm afraid he means it this time."

"Nonsense! He doesn't mean a word of it." I sighed and ascended the seventeen steps that led up from the hall to his room, followed by Mrs. Hudson's anxious voice: "Do keep it civil, won't you?"

In the year since Holmes' precipitious downfall, my pen had lain idle, raising the ire of more than a few of the more quick-tempered admirers of these stories. Some had taken to spreading a rumour that it was I who was the cause of his slump. Their disappointment in the great Sherlock Holmes had been diverted into rage at his partner Watson, and I was thoroughly sick of being made a pin-cushion.

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In the dim light I could make out that Sherlock Holmes' quarters were as disheveled as ever. Discarded newspapers and records of crime lay strewn upon the floor; there was nowhere to tread but upon them. Amid this sea of rubbish rose up a table and chairs like an archipelago. A scent of acetic acid drifted up from a table fitted with chemical equipment, and the wall was riddled with bullet-pocks. Upon the mantelpiece sat a daruma from Mrs. Hudson, one eye left blank in anticipation of Holmes' eventual rehabilitation, forlornly gathering dust.

"Are you still with us, Holmes?" I called.

A groan emerged from within the room. "Is that you, Watson?"

I picked my way through the dim room towards the settee in front of the fireplace.

Sherlock Holmes lay upon it in a gray dressing-gown. His whiskers were long and unshaven, and his eyes blearily observed the ceiling. On the side-table was a fish-bowl containing a corpulent goldfish looking out insolently from within. Its name was Watson; Holmes had acquired the sulky-faced freshwater fish from a stall at a festival in the autumn.

Two weeks earlier, after laying a thick stream of grievances upon me Holmes had cried out, "You are not on my side at all!" Whereupon he had bestowed the name upon the goldfish and promoted it the position of his new partner. This had brought us to heated words, at the end of which Mrs. Hudson had flown in and doused us with the watery contents of a flower vase―certainly not conduct befitting two gentlemen in their thirties.

I lit a gas-lamp and settled myself down in an armchair.

"I see things have not gotten any better."

"I have had no such fortune, none at all."

"Surely you still have clients?"

"Clients! I hardly consider such shabby requests worthy of my attention."

"Surely you're not catching at straws in order to turn them away?"

Holmes fell into an irritable silence, which I took as proof that my words had been on the mark.

I continued: "In other words, you are afraid of failure. Indeed if you wish to avoid failure and the wounding of your detective's pride, there may be no better thing than to lay around doing nothing. But do you think that this prevarication can go on forever? You must take up a case, and prove your worth!"

"Do you mean to say I am being indolent?"

"Do you mean to say you are not?"

"Certainly. You see, but you do not observe." Holmes glanced up sulkily, his gaze clouded with vexation. "You miss the problem entirely. Why has Sherlock Holmes fallen into such a slump—that is the greatest mystery in the history of the world. You see, I am currently engaged with the case of myself. I hardly have time to address the mundane problems of the common folk. And certainly I can hardly count on you to offer assistance. An unworthy friend, indeed!"

"How dare you―me, unworthy?"

A year had passed since the great failure of the case of the Red-headed League. As his partner, as his friend, as his physician, I had explored countless paths by which I might rescue Sherlock Holmes from his desperate straits. I had tried everything from having him tread on cut bamboo to stimulate the nerves in his feet, to having him down herbal draughts. I prayed to Benzaiten daily, delved deep into the mountains and meditated beneath pounding waterfalls, even went to Arima Onsen for a restorative bath. Yet all of this had had no effect on Holmes' plight. The incessant toll had worn me down until one day I collapsed, prompting an incensed Mary to storm into Holmes' quarters and lodge a furious protest. Neither had I been exempt from her fury.

"I have my own life to attend to. You can't expect me to cater to your every whim!"

"Hmph! Too busy catering to your wife's, I'm sure."

"Surely it is not surprising that I cherish my wife."

"Yes, and who was it that arranged your meeting with your cherished wife? Perhaps you have forgetten that without the business of 'The Sign of Four' you would never have met Miss Morstan at all. Why, if not for me you would still be wasting away on the third floor, groaning about your lack of female companionship. It is I who lifted you from your bachelorhood. And now that you have found what you are looking for, you have no further use for me. Were our adventures together only ever a means to an end for you? By all rights you both ought to kiss my feet morning, noon, and night."

"You have had your say, and I think it is time I had mine."

"Go on then, speak your mind."

"Who is it to whom you owe your fame? If I hadn't published all those accounts in The Strand, you would still be toiling away in obscurity alone in this room. And you say your success was accomplished by your own hand? Don't give yourself airs!"

"The Strand!" Holmes sneered. "Your little collection of fairy tale amusements for the masses. Only a child would be fooled by those tawdry fantasies. I certainly never asked you to write them. In fact, as I recall it was you who begged to publish accounts of those cases―it was you who used me as a stepping stone for your own benefit. To this I raise no objection, but you are certainly in no position to demand gratitude from me. I would certainly have distinguished myself in due time, Watson or no!"

"Is that so?" I snorted. "Then how do you explain your current predicament?"

Even Holmes had no ready answer for that question.

"You must face reality, Holmes," I remonstrated. "Excuses will get you nowhere."

"Then tell me this, Watson." said he. "What do you define as reality? Is it there beneath the rump of your beloved wife? It must feel most comfortable under there. Are you content being a lowly stool beneath the heft of that hard-hearted woman? She was as docile as you please when I was solving cases, but a mere bump in the road and she shows her true colours!"

"I won't hear this slander!"

"How touching it is to see a man so dedicated to his marital servitude!"

I rose from my chair and was on the verge of seizing his collar. But all at once I was overtaken by a sense of resignation. "Enough of this," I said wearily, sitting down once more.

Mary would no doubt fly into a fury if she were to learn that I was secretly visiting Holmes. The Holmes Problem was like a keg of gunpowder that threatened to detonate beneath our marriage and rupture the tranquility of the Watson household. Yet even cognizant of that danger, here I sat, engaging in these futile debates, having made no progress over the course of the year in resolving the matter.

But here was the biggest problem of all: I could not abandon Holmes.

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Holmes got up from the settee and picked up a violin which lay discarded upon the floor. It was the Stradivarius which he had scrounged up from the flea market at Tō-ji when he was still at college. Holmes was not a skilled player by any stretch of the imagination. Long after Mary and I had been wed and moved to Shimogamo, it seemed to me that the scraping of his bow across the strings continued to echo down the Kamo River after us, like the severed head of Shuten-dōji gnashing its teeth.

"Spare me the wailings of your violin," said I.

"No man may deny me the right of pursuing my artistic interests."

Holmes commenced one of his exasperating solos, while I sighed and stared glumly into the fireplace.

After some time, I heard a pounding noise issue from the ceiling.

"What's that?" I wondered, looking up. The room on the third floor had previously been my own, but to my knowledge it now lay empty. "Is there someone living up there now?"

But Holmes only continued to draw his bow back and forth, with a look of great irritation. With each impassioned arpeggio the stamping on the ceiling grew louder and louder. At last I heard an upstairs door slam shut, and furious steps descending the stairs. The door flew open, and an old man wielding a cane barged into the room.

"Cease this abominable racket at once!"

"I'm afraid I can't hear you!" shouted Holmes, his bow raking across the strings. "I'm in the middle of a performance!"

"Cease that racket, I say! Put that violin down, you fool!"

The old man was cloaked entirely in black, his bony frame stooped and wizened. His prominent forehead was pallid, his eyes sunken. His thin lips were pressed into a scowl, and the he slowly shook his head as he glared at Holmes like a great serpent regarding its prey. It was evident that he was no mere pensioner.

Holmes tutted and stopped his bow.

"It seems you have some business with me. Very well―I can spare five minutes, no more."

"All that I have to say has already crossed your mind."

"Then possibly my answer has crossed yours."

"You stand fast?"

"Absolutely."

From his pocket the old man drew a small black notebook.

"On the night of October 15th, you disturbed my repose. Two night later on the 17th of the month, you seriously inconvenienced me yet again. Furthermore on the 20th you woke me from my precious slumber, such that the following day I was entirely unable to apply myself to my work. Ever since I took up lodgings here my research has encountered uncountable setbacks due to your boundless interference. The situation is becoming an impossible one."

"Surely Mrs. Hudson explained it to you before you moved in?"

"Yes, she informed me of the violin. But the din was beyond anything which I could have imagined. How is it possible for a violin to produce such a hideous screeching! Your incompetence is unfathomable."

"If you cannot bear it, there is certainly nothing barring you from finding other accommodations."

"That is not possible, for I have already paid six months' rent in advance."

The old man placed the notebook back in his pocket and glared venomously at Holmes. "Mrs. Hudson tells me that you are a detective of some repute. A contemptible profession, I might add, chasing fruitlessly after criminals all the day long!"

"You might say something similar about physicists," observed Holmes. "Chasing fruitlessly after Mother Nature, or something like it."

The old man quivered all over with rage, and he drew his stick up into the air. At once Holmes raised the Stradivarius up to protect himself. The scene which presented itself reminded me of the famous duel on Ganryū-jima.

"The physicist," snarled the old man, his venomous snake's gaze fixed upon Holmes, "is he who plumbs the deepest mysteries of the universe. I availed myself of these lodgings in order to shut out the noise of the hoi polloi, and bring my grand theory to its final culmination. It is a theory which would unlock the very secrets of the cosmos, and bring humanity to a new phase. And yet I find myself stymied by scraping and screeching of that damned violin. It is not my progress alone whom you hinder: it is the progress of all humanity. Have you no shame?"

His raving at an end, the old man lowered his cane.

"I will be merciful today. But I warn you that if you raise my ire again, I will not be so again." And with that he turned on his heel and swept out of the room like a black wind.

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"Moriarty?" I inquired in astonishment. "The Professor James Moriarty?"

Holmes and I were having supper at the round table by the window. After bringing the food in Mrs. Hudson lingered for some idle chatter. She was more than eager to tell me about the man who had moved into the third floor, who turned out to be a far more interesting person than I had anticipated.

Professor James Moriarty was an esteemed researcher of applied physics whose name was often heard in connection with grand projects such as the Great Exhibition and the Moonrocket Project. Several years earlier he had published the bestselling self-help book "The Binomial Theorem of the Soul".

"He's among the most outstanding men of the age! What is he doing here?"

"He told me he wanted some peace and quiet to focus on his research, so he did. Even quit his college lab, if you can believe it. He's as queer as our own Holmes, or queerer. He hardly leaves his room during the day, only setting out at nightfall and not coming back 'til the first blush of dawn. What can he possibly be doing all night? Hardly anyone comes to visit him; I've only ever had one person ask after him, a young chap by the name of Cartwright."

"You certainly attract the most eccentric lodgers, Mrs. Hudson."

"And aren't I blessed for it!" said she, giving Holmes a dirty look out of the corner of her eye. "I distinctly recall asking you to tone down your violin performances, Mr. Holmes."

"I think a little neighbourly forbearance is in order," said Holmes, polishing off his curried fowl and pie. "If he doesn't like it, he can leave. You have his advance payment in hand, Mrs. Hudson? Then in any event you suffer no loss."

"That may be so, but haven't you any sympathy for the poor man?"

"Pooh, pooh. Save your pity for someone who deserves it!"

It was no accident that Holmes was tormenting the professor so. Early in the summer, Holmes had declared that he was enlisting the aid of the mystical methods of "The Binomial Theorem of the Soul" in order to finally turn around his long slump. The words had hardly left his mouth than dark clouds rolled in overhead and thunder rumbled through the sky. It was a sign, he said, that he must synchronize himself with the heavens to recall his long-lost talent, and at once he rushed up to the roof of 221B Teramachi Street, threw off his clothes, and contorted his body in a wild dance stark-naked in the midst of the pouring rain.

However it was not his long-lost talent which that obscene cavorting summoned, but the local constables.

It was only through the intervention of Inspector Lestrade of Shinchō Yard that Holmes avoided being carted off to a cell, but the incident cost Holmes his last remaining thread of dignity. It will not come as a surprise that Holmes angrily hurled his copy of "The Binomial Theorem of the Soul" into the fireplace.

"You should never have let that room to another tenant," said he.

"Then you would be willing to repay me the lost income?"

"Naturally."

"And when exactly would you have the money for me?"

"Someday...after this accursed slump is over and done with..."

"A likely tale! And I suppose you think I can pay the grocer with fairy dust!" Mrs. Hudson rolled her eyes in disgust. "I've said it before and I'll say it again: you ought consult Madame Richborough. I've no doubt you'd profit from her advice."

"Who is Madame Richborough?"

"Why, you mean to say you haven't heard of her?"

"She's a charlatan who styles herself a spirit medium", said Holmes derisively. "A mere swindler who's taken the current fad of spiritualism to new heights. She's roused up enough money from her faithful to build herself a pretty new mansion near Nanzenji. Suffice it to say, dear Mrs. Hudson, I do not believe a word of this spiritualist claptrap. I'll be quite frank with you, if it has come to relying on nonsense like crystal balls and spiritual transmissions and ectoplasm, I should be quite content to sit here starve instead!"

It was precisely then that the doorbell rang. Mrs. Hudson scowled and got up. "Very well, Mr. Holmes. If you are so loath to consult Madam Richborough, then consult the good doctor to find a way out of your stagnation. But I warn you, if you fall into arrears I shall have you take that Stradivarius to the pawnbroker's on the spot!"

As Mrs. Hudson fumed her way down the stairs, Holmes sat in stony silence, working upon a mouthful of pie.

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The visitor at the door turned out to be a caller for Professor Moriarty.

We heard footsteps thumping up to the third floor, and then Mrs. Hudson came sweeping gleefully into the room. "It's Mr. Cartwright," she whispered. "The one I've seen visit the professor before."

"What sort of person is he?" I inquired.

"He's a young scholar, a protege of the professor," replied Mrs. Hudson. She placed her ear to the door, straining to hear any noise issuing from the upper floor. I joined her at the door, while Holmes yawned, crossed the room, and sat eased himself into his favourite armchair by the fireplace.

"People have a right to privacy," he remarked as he lit his pipe.

"I am only being a responsible landlady," replied Mrs. Hudson.

I stepped beside her and placed my ear to the door. It was impossible to make out what was being said upstairs, but it was evident that Professor Moriarty had not invited the young man inside. After a spirited exchange, we heard the door shut with a thump, and the visitor's footsteps coming back down the stairs.

Mrs. Hudson swung the door open. "Mr. Cartwright, would you be so good as to join us for a moment?"

Mr. Cartwright was a young man of not much more than twenty, thin and dressed in a a grey overcoat. His hair was a pale chestnut, and he had gold-rimmed spectacles. His unsuccessful interview must have shaken him, for his face wore a somber expression.

"How pale your face is! There must be something weighing upon your mind. Talking about it will certainly set your mind at ease." With repeated persuasions Mrs. Hudson cajoled the young man in. He certainly did seem to be troubled, for he entered the room irresolutely and set himself down upon the settee with a dazed look.

"Let me introduce Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and Dr. Watson."

The young man jumped up with a look of astonishment. "You are Sherlock Holmes? The well-known detective?"

"Yes, the very same," said Holmes in a self-deprecating voice. But he showed no inclination of continuing the conversation, so it fell to me to engage our visitor.

"You are an acquaintance of Professor Moriarty, then?"

"Just so. My name is Walter Cartwright, and I am a researcher at a university laboratory in the field of applied physics. Professor Moriarty was my advisor in my school days."

"Why has such an esteemed researcher shut himself up in a boarding house such as this? He seems to be suffering from some affliction of the mind, and his habits are quite incomprehensible. As his neighbour Holmes is of course considerably concerned. Could we trouble you to shed any light upon the matter?"

"Well, I..." Cartwright hesitated. "I'm afraid it would not be my place to speak of matters which the professor prefers to remain private..."

"It is for the professor's sake that I ask. I assure you that Holmes is perfectly accustomed to matters of client privacy, and will keep anything you divulge strictly confidential."

"That's right," chimed in Mrs. Hudson. "You may find their aid to be useful."

After some tergiversation, Mr. Cartwright sighed. "I'm afraid I hardly know any more than you do," he admitted. "I have always known Professor Moriarty to be a most outstanding researcher and mentor. He taught me a great deal as a student, and in the spring of last year I was honoured to become a fully-fledged researcher in the applied physics laboratory and gain experience under his tutelage. But in the fall he stopped coming to the laboratory. Not long afterward he suddenly resigned his place."

"What was his reason?"

"I haven't the slightest idea. The only explanation he left was that it was for personal reasons."

Thereafter Mr. Cartwright knew nothing of Professor Moriarty's whereabouts, and it was through sheer chance that he was reunited with the professor only the previous week.

That night he had gone to Pontochō with some fellow researchers from the laboratory. Later in the evening they were on their way home when Cartwright spotted a shadowy figure sitting at the end of Sanjō Bridge. The figure was intently scribbling in a small, black leather-bound notebook, heedless of the fact that it was blocking foot traffic. It looked up briefly, and Cartwright could not help but let out a shout.

"Professor! What are you doing here!?"

But upon hearing his voice Professor Moriarty immediately snapped shut the notebook and fled the scene. Cartwright left his fellows behind and pursued him, tracking him all the way to 221B Teramachi Street. But the professor refused to let him into the room.

"I am pursuing the most important research of all," he said through the crack in the doorway. "I have no desire to be interrupted by fools. Leave me alone!"

"Perhaps I could help you!" Cartwright pleaded.

"And what help could you possibly offer me?" sneered the professor.

Cartwright was stunned. The professor had always been willing to lend an ear to his protégés. Unable to let things lie, he had visited the professor again today, only to be rebuffed in much the same manner.

"I don't understand what's happened to him," he lamented. "It's as if something has possessed him!"

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"You have explained the situation very admirably. Allow us to look into the matter," I said.

"I pray that you will," said Cartwright, before exiting the room with dispirited footsteps.

Mrs. Hudson cleared the dishes away, but before she left the room she shot me a meaningful glance, as if to say, "You must put Holmes to work!" No doubt that had been her aim in eagerly ushering the dispirited Cartwright inside. The good landlady was clearly not one to be underestimated. Seeing me nod discreetly, she swept from the room with an air of satisfaction.

Sherlock Holmes was hugging his knees to his chest upon the armchair. "I'll thank you not to accept requests on my behalf."

"Oh, put away your complaints and humour me, Holmes," I chided him, sitting down upon the settee and leaning towards him. "What do you make of it?"

"I make nothing of it at all. The good professor said it himself. He wishes to shut himself off from the noise of the rabble and focus on his research: that is all there is to it. He wishes for no interference, so let us leave him to his work. What more need be said?"

"But clearly there is something abnormal in his behaviour."

"Is there?"

"Without cause he quits his prestigious seat and shuts himself up here, of all places, refusing even to admit his most treasured pupil into his room. What kind of research would drive him to this? And Mrs. Hudson tells me that he leaves his room every night at dusk and does not return until dawn. What is an old man be doing prowling about town all night?"

"Surely you don't mean to suggest he's scouring the alleyways to cut the throat of some unsuspecting damsel."

The prospect did not seem an impossible one, and I glanced up furtively at the ceiling. Not a sound could be heard from the third floor. The image that sprang to my mind was of a desolate room, the professor seated at a room, hunched over a desk working on his sordid research. Flames flickered in the hearth, their light reflected in the mad gleam in his eyes, playing over the mad grin on his lips.

"I suggest we follow the professor tonight, and ascertain what it is he is up to."

"Utter foolishness!" Holmes scoffed. "You have taken the matter up yourself, you may pursue it yourself."

"Very well, sir. I suppose I shall." I stood and glowered down at Holmes. "You disgrace yourself! Was it not you, Holmes, who once professed that the even most insipid facade may conceal the most heinous crime? Once you would have plunged head-on into the case. What you lack is the the desire to find cases which are of interest to you. Work, man! Whatever case it may be, you must work!"

During my impassioned tirade Holmes was silent. He pressed himself back into his armchair, his mouth pressed into a frown, sulking like a child.

"Alright, Watson," he sighed at last. "I'll come. I trust that will satisfy you?"