Of all the things which drive me to bouts of disgruntled exasperation for which the only remedy seems to be a morning at the Royal London Rifle Club, Sherlock Holmes is the foremost. Women are a close second. It happened to be both on this particular occasion.

The latter I blamed myself for, truth be told. A little over a year and a half ago, I entered into a relationship with my psychiatrist, Dr. Sara Walker. We got along rather well at first, but as time went on I discovered that psychiatrists are notoriously bad at (if not altogether incapable of) disengaging the analytical part of their brains. After about the seventeenth time hearing the words, “Let me tell you what’s happening here, John,” I suggested a break. Of course, one cannot simply suggest such things to the opposite sex, and so the break became a split. I still wasn’t entirely sure how I felt about it.

The former was the fault of my companion, though I somehow found myself worrying about whether or not I had done something wrong. I had not heard from Holmes for two months, that is, since July when he took a temporary interlude from his retirement and came to London to assist Inspector Lestrade with an unusual case of identity theft. The case was singular in the fact that the victim was an infamous crime lord that had been dead for nearly three years, killed in a massive shootout at his high-rise estate in South London. Bobby “Bulletproof” Cray had been spotted on several occasions after his death, roaming about the city, terrorizing his enemies and settling old scores. 

Holmes discovered that Bobby Cray had been adopted and separated at birth from a twin, Richard Fraser, who ended up in Glasgow. Ricky had also taken to a life of small-time crime and, upon learning about Bobby and his death, leapt at the chance to take his career to greater heights, not to mention help his estranged, deceased brother live up to his rather ironic moniker. He also saw an opportunity to profit from the ruse by frightening Bobby’s debtors into coughing up what they owed. Much to Holmes’s disdain (and my amusement), I had titled my account of the affair “The Case of the Zombie Mobster.” I still don’t think he has forgiven me.

I received a handful of texts after Holmes left London, then suddenly and without explanation my companion went incommunicado. My calls went straight to voicemail. Texts were met with stony silence. I considered making the trip down to Houndsford on several occasions to make sure he was alright, but every time I envisioned entering the cottage and finding him alive and well, completely oblivious to the distress his lack of communication was causing me, I only grew angrier. So, like a moody, jilted lover, I resolved not to initiate contact until he did so first. Instead, I took my pistol and an absurd amount of ammunition and made my way to the rifle club in order to vent my frustrations with a few well-placed bullets in their indoor shooting range.

This, however, was proving difficult as my near-crippled right hand had lost much of its strength after a previous case in which I’d had a run-in with a man by the name of Dr. Alvarius West. West was a nefariously brilliant madman who had managed to render his body poisonous to the touch, and had the ability to direct a person’s will due to the effects of the venom he produced. I hadn’t been quite the same since that horrid business. My dreams were often dark and disturbing, and I felt a new and strange sensitivity to what I can only describe as the supernatural undercurrent beneath the wicked goings-on in London and the world at large.

I had mentioned this to Holmes only once before, while recovering in the hospital after blowing up our rooms at Baker Street. (I had been under the influence of West’s venom and only just survived, thanks to my partner.) But the things I’d seen while West held me captive had me questioning everything I thought I knew about the presence of evil in the world and its operation through the schemes of men. Holmes’s answer for everything always came back to the realms of science and logic. I, on the other hand, was beginning to wonder if there wasn’t something else at work in London’s criminal underbelly, something beyond what Holmes’s rigid methods and science-devout perspective could explain. My mind rebelled at such thoughts, yet I seemed unable to shake them. They followed me wherever I went. Even now as I steadied my breathing, centered my sights, gripped my pistol and squeezed the trigger, I felt them there, hovering over me like a dark cloud.

BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!

After barely working my way through a quarter of the ammo, I had to stop. My hand ached and throbbed tremendously, and my aim was positively dreadful. The little blaze-orange dots indicating where I’d hit the paper perpetrator were just about everywhere … except for where I’d been aiming. I ripped down the target, crumpled it up and hurled it into the wastebasket. I cleared my gun, stowed it away in its case, swept up the spent brass and left, feeling, if anything, more frustrated than when I’d arrived. 

Upon returning to my flat on Dean Street, I discovered a veritable host of vans parked out front advertising such companies as Cyclone Clean-Up, Prince & Sons Plumbing Co., and Superpower Electrical. My landlord, Mr. Fitzgerald, stood outside, looking red-faced and rather exasperated. He was surrounded by a knot of distressed-looking tenants in coats, hats, and gloves, all of whom seemed to be haranguing the poor man with questions and pointing frantically up at the building. As I got closer, I could hear their conversation.

“They said it’s going to take about a month, folks. I’m sorry,” he said as a chorus of groans and protests rose up from the tenants. “I’ll waive your rent, and I’m available to help make arrangements. There are several empty apartments in the building at the moment if any of you are interested in doubling up for a while.”

Another bout of grumbling ensued, and a woman I recognized from my floor pushed through the throng, a wet and very resentful-looking cat in her arms. 

“What about my furniture?” she demanded. The cat added a distressed “mroww” for good measure.

“Personal property is not the responsibility of the landlord,” Mr. Fitzgerald replied. “It’s clearly stated in your rental agreement … as is my pet policy,” he muttered under his breath. “That’s why I encourage all of my tenants to purchase renter’s insurance.”

“Well, I don’t have renter’s insurance!” another man who lived a few doors down from me exclaimed. “Are you telling me I’m going to have to buy all new furniture?”

As I stood there, listening to the back and forth exchange, it dawned on me that many of the people in the crowd lived on my floor, and that all of them looked as if they’d just taken a hasty shower … in their clothes.

“Excuse me,” I said, edging my way into the ill-tempered company. “What’s happened?” My question had been directed to Mr. Fitzgerald, but the woman with the drenched cat answered instead.

“All the pipes on our floor and the floor above have gone and burst, and our flats are flooded! The water was up to my knees!”

“He’s saying it’s going to take a month to renovate!” another man chimed in.

“The pipes are too old to repair. Plumber says they need to be replaced,” Mr. Fitzgerald explained to me apologetically.“There’s nothing I can do. Building codes and all that.”

At that moment, a burly man in a pair of sodden coveralls came over.

“Alright everyone, we’ve managed to stop the major leaks for the time being. You may return to your flats and pack whatever you need, but I’m going to have to ask that you keep it to a minimum. We want you back out within ten minutes. Safety precautions,” he said. The crowd gave a collective grumble, then reluctantly started to disperse.

“I really am sorry, Dr. Watson,” Mr. Fitzgerald said quietly once the others had gone back inside.

“It’s not your fault,” I said with a sigh. “These things happen.”

“Do you have somewhere to stay?” he asked.

My mind went immediately to Holmes, then almost as quickly rejected the thought. 

No, I told myself. I’m not going to give him the satisfaction.

Then, for one brief, insane moment I thought of calling Sara. Instead, I smiled reassuringly at Mr. Fitzgerald and said, “I’m sure I’ll figure something out.”

As I ventured slowly into the building, I passed a group of renovators and electricians waiting their turn to cash in on the damage. I stopped at my mailbox in the atrium and retrieved a pile of bills, several magazines, and one letter in a rather dark-colored, stiff envelope that had been sealed with a daub of red wax. There was no return address. 

I eyed the envelope suspiciously as I rode the lift up to my floor. The doors opened and a dank, musty smell met my nose. The carpet squelched noisily beneath my shoes as I walked down the hall towards my flat, and I noticed there were large, brown stains on the walls where the water had run down. Taking care not to drop my mail on the soggy floor, I pulled my keys from my pocket and unlocked the door. As soon as I opened it, a gush of water escaped, covering my feet and leaving me standing in a growing puddle.

“Lovely,” I groaned, shaking off my shoes as I entered the flat. 

The place smelled like a toilet, and while the cat lady’s assessment of the water level had been greatly exaggerated, there was still a good amount of it covering the floor. I picked my way through the apartment towards the bedroom. Thankfully, most of my furniture appeared to be undamaged, but I didn’t have very much of the stuff to begin with. A small couch and coffee table in the living room; a table and chairs in the kitchen; and, of course, my bed. 

Most of the water had simply run down the walls, but in the bathroom, the sheer volume from the floor above had caused the ceiling to sag in the middle. It dripped steadily and noisily into the tub, sink, and toilet, all of which were overflowing onto the floor. The mirror had started to cloud over from the moisture, and the extra roll of paper I kept on the floor by the toilet bobbed around in the mess like a sodden ship, slowly dissolving into waterlogged bits as it drifted along.

By the time I’d grabbed my toothbrush and razor from the medicine cabinet, the cuffs of my trousers were soaking up the rotten-smelling water. I returned to the bedroom to retrieve my suitcase from the closet. My clothes were blessedly dry, and I threw the majority into the bag, along with the toothbrush, razor, my laptop, and the stack of mail. I retrieved my spare keys from on top of the dresser and put them in my coat pocket. I was just about to zip up the suitcase when curiosity got the better of me and I pulled the strange envelope from the pile and sat down on the edge of the bed to open it.

There was no imprint on the seal, just the dot of blood-red wax. It lifted off easily and I slid the letter out of the envelope. The paper within was blank except for three simple, handwritten lines and a signature in a scrawl I instantly recognized. It read:

Come immediately.

In desperate need of your assistance.

Bring pistol.

Sherlock Holmes