sherlock holmes

Holmes was sitting in the small study that he and Watson shared. He had stubble of growth on his chin that he had been growing for a week. He sat puffing his pipe. So many times today he had lit it. Still he sat smoking. The clouds of tobacco smoke wafted through the room and out of the half-open window. Baker Street. Home.

He sat and wrestled with a problem in his mind. A small matter of a stolen purse he was handling for and esteemed client. A member of the aristocracy. He sat deep in thought. He weighed every option in his mind. At times he concentrated so deeply that his thoughts seemed to tunnel off into the future for a brief second. When this happened it seemed that his thoughts bordered infinity.

Every possibility had to be considered. Every bit of data about the case had to be processed in his mind. To theorize without data was a capital mistake, as he had always pointed out to his assistant. The man’s head was filled with endless amounts of obscure data and trivia. It was also a gold mine of relevant and important facts. Thus he sat pondering all possibilities surrounding the case.

Countless possibilities he weighed up as options in his mind. None fitted the scenario. Wherein could the answer lie? He would be up all day and night with this fairly elementary problem. He would not be able to rest until he had solved the riddle. The sun traversed its course in the sky as the day progressed, and the position of the light in the room changed accordingly. But Holmes kept sitting deep in thought smoking his pipe, thinking. Was it the butler, was it the nurse? Could it have been the gardener?

Occasionally he would get up and go to the kitchen to get a cup of tea. Even then the problem he was struggling with would not leave his mind. Soon he would return to the study and sit deep in thought once more puffing away at his pipe and sipping at his tea. Darkness was falling and in due course he would have to put on the lights.

There was a long night of silence and deep meditation ahead…